“M-my husband died three months before the taxes were due. My pregnancy was difficult, and I was hardly able to care for my son,” she said, nodding to the toddler who’d again decided to see how much of his hand could fit within his mouth. “I was not able to work, and even though some of the women helped me, no one was able to lend money for the taxes. I-I had some saved, but I feared I wouldn’t be able to buy food for us if I paid, because food has been so scarce for our village and the prices are so high. And now, the fine is…I won’t be able to pay it in time because I only just began working again, and then I will be fined again, and that’ll be too much for any person of my stature to pay, and my children…I…what would I do?” Tears shone in her eyes as she stammered through the desolate question.
An ache took root in my chest as I looked from her to her children. It was an impossible situation, one that may not have happened in the times before the Domus, when food was more available and life was better.
Entering Centralis could help restore some of that, at least. We only had to get in.
Harthon studied her. “You’re released from the fine and last year’s taxes,” he announced in a bland tone, as if he hadn’t just altered the course of this family’s life. “But avoid pregnancy again unless someone can support you. You will not be released again for the same reasons.”
I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Harthon was ruthless, but he was fair. He was always fair.
The woman’s mouth gaped, and then her eyes flushed with more tears. She bowed and thanked him, repeating herself at least three times before she was escorted from the room.
The next two hours brought a series of criminals and commonfolk before us. Prison sentences were administered, neighborly disputes were decided, a few mercies were granted, and more body parts were removed in grisly fashion. In every case, Harthon remained cool and unmoved, unyielding in harsh decisions and hard even when showing mercy. It was a version of him I hadn’t yet seen, not really. I’d seen him battle and when he was angry, yes, but I’d also seen him relaxed and tender and gentle.
But this version of him didn’t scare me. He punished only those who were guilty of wrongdoing. He didn’t cut off the hands of petty thieves, but only reserved the ax for more grievous offenses. It was a necessary display of power, one that communicated strength instead of weakness, one that encouraged respect and order instead of mutiny.
If he hugged every supplicant who shared a sad story, his reign would fall to ruin.
I watched with a grimace as Harthon’s men used brooms to sweep the dense pool of blood to the sides of the hall. They’d done this every so often, in order for people to stand before us without their feetbeing swallowed by the crimson liquid.
“This will be my final ruling,” Harthon announced to the room just as the doors opened.
My hopes for another neighborly dispute or simple appeal crumbled at the sight of chains. A man accompanied the two guards who escorted the prisoner toward us, a satisfied smile on his bearded face that sent a wave of unease through me. He wore a clean tunic and trousers, his apparel not that of a Lord, but still above an average commoner.
Many of the prisoners had been accompanied by others. Sometimes, they were family members who plead for mercy on the criminal’s behalf, and other times, they were the victims of the crimes, intent on destroying any defense the prisoner might try.
No family member was ever smiling.
I studied the young man who dragged the chains with him. His face and hands were too dirty to know the color of his skin, and his slender form was swallowed by an ill-fitting tunic and trousers that were as stained as the rest of him. His hair was haphazardly shorn at his ears, flopping over his downturned face.
Please, just choose the prison sentence.
The screams hadn’t become any easier to bear.
The boy lowered his head when the party stopped before us. A bow, of sorts.
“What are you accused of?”
“Poisoning me, robbing me of all my wealth, and running.” It wasn’t the prisoner who spoke, but the bearded man. He had the sense to stem his smile, but the corners of his lips still curled, as if he couldn’t manage to hide his pleasure.
“Are you the prisoner?” Harthon asked him.
“No, Princeps, but—”
“Then do not speak unless you’re addressed.”
The man’s mouth snapped shut, and then it was my turn to hide my own pleasure.
“What are you accused of?” Harthon repeated, watching the young man, who still had yet to lift his head.
At the prompt, he slowly lifted his chin, and I blinked in surprise at what I saw. A young woman, no older than me. Though covered in grime, her cheekbones and nose were too pert and feminine, her eyebrows too delicately arched, to belong to a man.
Why was her hair cut so short?
Her spine straightened as she met Harthon’s gaze, even as her hands shook so much that they rattled the chains that draped to the floor. “I am accused of poisoning him, robbing him, and running.” The soft, melodic voice held a hint of bite, but it was nothing like the voices of the men whose blood stained the stone beneath her.
“Are you guilty of these things?”
She glanced at the ground.
