“Germanic tribe,” I said.
Cassius’s brows rose. “And part of Gaul. But few know this. Are you a historian?”
“I dig history,” I said, “but your accent helped.”
Cassius glanced at the doors. “All my people’s men served to defend our homes, our customs. Then, one day, we learned the Romans were coming. We knew we had to make a stand; otherwise, all Gauls and Celts would bow to Rome. So, my people gathered provisions and retreated to the citadel, but Caesar’s legions arrived with siege engines. They killed four thousand before we surrendered. The rest, more than fifty thousand, were sold into slavery.”
Cassius turned to watch the band, but I could tell he was ruminating. “I found a commander in the Ninth Legion,” he continued, “and convinced him I was of better use to the empire with my sword than as slave labor. I then bartered my oath of loyalty for the freedom of my parents, wife, and children, only to learn that a few days later they were all burned in our home while they slept . . . by the same commander who received that oath.”
His eyes focused again on me. “I was assigned to train gladiators for arena combat in Londinium. I drove slaves to fight and die to entertain the aristocracy.”
“You’ve been in London since the beginning? How’d you die?”
“I took the place of a slave in an unfair contest.” He held up a finger again. “One against ten.”
He and I were both guys who hated bad odds. “So, you wound up a semblance in the Strata.”
Cassius nodded. “A Shiguan thanatist gave me a powerful body, good home, then set me to work as a member of his personal guard, killing vestiges in battle against other thanatists.” He frowned and his eyes grew distant.
It was an amazing story, but something still wasn’t adding up for me. “If you were so valuable to him, how’d you wind up needing my help to reset your bindings?”
He didn’t say anything for several moments. “After centuries of killing—and twenty-seven different binders—I had had enough. I decided I would either find a thanatist to assist in some new capacity, or I would let my bindings fail and slip into the Strata as a cipher—losing all memory did not seem such a bad fate for a man like me. Either way, I could not continue to be who I had become. So, I fled.”
The loud music filled the heavy silence that fell between us.
Cassius’s story sounded familiar. Not the specifics, but the idea of being trapped between two crappy choices, needing a way out and feeling powerless to find it. I’d lived in that kind of prison for years—a life in my father’s street crew, or resented and abandoned in my parents’ home. Torn between those choices, I’d done things I wasn’t proud of until I realized one important truth. Fingering the hair ties on my left wrist, I said, “There’s a third option.”
Cassius stared at me but said nothing.
“Look.” I guess I was going to get into it after all. “I grew up in a gang family. Every day there were turf fights. People died. Friends died. My old man and my brothers pushed me to join. And I considered it, you know. Getting revenge, fighting back. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Made home life a living hell. My mom hated it, too, and eventually took off.”
“Your mother left you alone in this house of violence?” Cassius asked. I took in the music for long moment. “Next day at the library, I stood there waiting for her to roll up inthe old Dodge. She never liked me walking home through the neighborhood alone. I must have waited three hours before I remembered she was gone.” “I am sorry to hear this, Jack.”
“It was a long time ago. But I knew that, without Mom around, Dad would eventually kick me out if I didn’t join him and my brothers. I was probably headed that way, if I’m honest. I certainly lost count of the fights I had just living in those streets. So, until I get some thanaturgic catalysts and learn how to use them . . . Well, I know how to fight, use a knife, guns, what have you. But the more important thing is that before I got sucked into street life, I found metal.”
Cassius looked over at Angra, slamming out some heavy rhythms, then back at me.
“I don’t mean just the music. I mean the people, too. They took me in. Made me feel connected, strong. It started in a moldy basement, of all places.” I could smell Chuey’s wet laundry even now. “And I felt it again the very first time I stepped foot in the Iron Horse.”
“Neutral ground,” Cassius said.
“It’s more than that. The people there”—I thought a moment—“they’ve got your back.”
Cassius seemed momentarily at a loss for words. “Jack,” he finally said, “it is a beautiful thing, this community you describe. But you need to remember what has happened these last few hours. Someone shot you and your friend Henry. Clearly, it was planned. And whoever did it seems to want the Iron Horse, whose protections are receding, Henry hasn’t returned yet, and we don’t have enough swords to stand a real fight to save it. Like my people’s small citadel against the Roman army, it will be crushed. You need to accept either fighting a losing battle or be ready to capitulate . . . the way I did.”
I shook my head. “You can be who you were before, Cassius. Henry looked into the face of his shooter and told even him that,‘There’s always a choice.’ So, no way, man, there’salwaysa third option. We just need to find yours.”
Cassius half smiled—he wasn’t really buying what I was selling.
Angra’s guitarist started the first few broken chords of their hit “Rebirth.” The fans pumped their fists, chanting in time with the music. They were part of it. Something big and unstoppable. That’s what I’d wanted to do, to be—someone who could write songs that made you feel like everything would somehow be okay. Songs that would last . . .
“Your face,” said Cassius, breaking the spell. “Something gets into your face when you are listening to this music. What is it?”
“Probably the dream I’ve been chasing most my life,” I said, though it seemed to be slipping away. I was thirty-three, no band, and still washing dishes.
Cassius listened, subtly nodding his head to the music. “I may not understand your metal music, but the chanting reminds me of our war cries. Beautiful and terrifying.”
“Back in the alley you shouted ‘Bratros.’ That your war cry?” “Indeed, Jack.”
