Suffering

The early morning sun broke through the darkness, creeping into the small bedroom. Shining into his eyes, Appius Malleolus moaned and turned over, hiding away from the light. The room was cold, yet his body had warmed the bed up nicely. He had been dreaming as well. Playing with his mother, seeing her smile and hearing her laugh. Happier times.

A bird fluttered up to his window. It tapped on the window. He ignored the bird, trying to get back to sleep. The bird continued to tap, until at last he got out of bed. In a huff he threw the cover off his body and stormed to the window. With force he opened it, and the bird fluttered off, chirping and singing. A cold wind blew in, making his body shiver. Even in the sun it was cold. But anything would be cold when a person lived so high up. His home was nothing more than a small tower that jutted to the side of the main Capital building, like an ingrowing branch on a large tree. Below him, the many buildings that made up the city of Agavir lay still and silent, the inhabitants unstirred. He closed his window slowly, hoping it would not make a sound and wake up his father.

Nothing more than a young teenager, Malleolus, or Mal as he preferred, was fourteen years of age. His hair grew thick and wild with the colour of brown. He had no muscle to his body, just skin and bones. In past year he had grown taller than his father, but he was not excited about that. His father had always been short. Shivering in the cold, he walked over to the chair, bare feet padding on the cold stone floor. His clothes hung on the back of the chair, simple garments of grey cloth and leather. The “nicer” clothing he had were tucked away in a drawer. He had only ever worn them once, to his mother’s funeral. That was five years ago.

Covering his feet, Mal opened his door and walked down the narrow, winding stone staircase. He reached the bottom and walked over to the firepit. The remnants of last night’s fire lay cold and dead. The few logs they had were stacked in the corner, collecting dust. His father did not like using the firepit often. He always complained about the rising prices of firewood. But this was a chilly morning, and Mal hoped his father would appreciate a warm fire. After throwing a couple of logs into the firepit, he attempted to make a spark with some stones. The rest of the city had matches, but his father moaned about the prices of matches, so they used stones. His fingers were beginning to numb from the cold, and he cut himself. Cursing, he tried again, and a spark flew out, hitting the dried wood. With some care, the spark turned to smoke, and eventually into flames. Warmth filled Mal as he rubbed his hands together. The smoke drifted up the chimney above.

A door behind him creaked, and his father stepped in. He remained in his nightwear, making him appear frailer than he really was. A white beard covered his chin, linking into the grey hair on his head. He made no greeting. “Why is it so damned cold in here?” he complained.

“I think it’s going to be a cold day, father,” Mal replied.

His father gave him a look. “Of course it is a cold day, that is why it is cold. Why was the fire not lit earlier?” He shifted over to the table near the only window in the open room. There was not much to the room at all. The firepit acted as a kitchen, and the table was for work and eating. Cupboards and drawers contained dried food, cutlery and plates. A bookshelf stood behind the table, containing a variety of books. The door his father had come from was his room, and a door on the opposite side was the toilet. The only water they had came from the drains above, collecting in buckets. Thankfully it was always clean rain-water. “Where is my breakfast?”

Mal quickly set about preparing their breakfast, which consisted of dried fish and mushrooms. His father never helped, instead doing more important things like reading through his books.

Once cooked, Mal set the food down and they both ate in silence. Mal liked fish, but it was all they had had for the past two months. His father had gotten a good price but had decided not to buy anything else. The mushrooms Mal had found growing on the roof in a shaded corner.

His father grunted what sounded like a thank you and returned to his book. Mal stared out of the window, wondering what the day would bring. He watched as a seagull floated in the air, rising delicately and gracefully to new heights. “Why are you not cleaning up?” his father muttered.

Mal cleared the table, cleaning everything he had used. Still his father did not look up at him, even when Mal left to run his errands. His father had always been distant with him, and when his mother died, he seemed disinterested in the fact he was his son. He seemed to see him as nothing more than a servant.

The Capital building, known by all as Crown Tower, consisted of five tall towers high up in the sky connected to one thick tower, creating a crown. Each tower represented one of the Five gods that created the Agarian race. The central tower housed the current King, and all past kings.

Mal descended Crown Tower, bypassing the groups of servants going about the daily routines. Crown Tower consisted of over a dozen floors, each one housing different professions. The second floor housed the Tower Guards, the eighth the great library and the eleventh the kitchens. Each floor was the size and length of an entire street in the city. For those who did not live here, a person could become lost very quickly.

As he reached the lower floor, Mal left the Crown Tower and proceeded to the streets. Passing beneath the inner wall, he was met with new smells. Fresh bread, salty fish, brewed beer, and sweet cinnamon. The streets were quiet this time in the morning. Only those who had errands to run, like Mal, would be here. The winding streets of the city could take a person anywhere, and thankfully Mal knew exactly where to go. His leather sack hung limp over his shoulder as he crossed into the market district. He passed a street girl standing on the corner of a street. She wore silk garments that barely covered her chest or waist. Her hair was kept back by a bandana, her large circular earrings glinting in the morning light. She gave him a wink as he passed by.

He approached a small wooden hut in the centre of the market square. Here there was more activity. Stalls were being set up and propped with the daily produce that needed to be sold. A butcher began sharpening his tools. Mal stood at the front of the hut, waiting for the seller. The old man turned and smiled. “Ah, young Mal! Right on time.” The man’s name was Canus, an herbalist of nearly fifty years. His thin head of hair clung to his skin, and his breath smelled of tobacco. But he always smiled at Mal. No doubt he was friendly by nature, but Mal preferred to think he was special. It was nice to think like that sometimes, he told himself. Even when his own father did not treat him so.

“Hello Canus. Did you have fun last night?” Yesterday he had told Mal he was going to be spending the evening with a woman. Who she was he did not know.

Canus gave him a shrug. “Quiet. Met up with that woman I told you about. Didn’t last long. Apparently her grandchild would be waking soon, and she had to be there. Take my advice, don’t bother yourself with women. Especially when you’re my age!” He laughed heartily, coughing up some phlegm. He rummaged under his makeshift counter and procured a package. It was wrapped in thick green leaves. “Sour Mint and Heart Petal. Is your father still taking them?”

“So long as he doesn’t know they are in there, he is.” The herbs were intended to help his father sleep. He was usually somewhat happier once he had a good night’s sleep. Canus smiled, waving Mal off.

Storing the herbs in his sack, Mal quickly walked through the streets back to Crown Tower. Now the streets had become livelier. Men and women strolled around, alone or in groups, going about their day. Mal squeezed past a group of richly dressed men before he was stopped by a crowd of onlookers. Peering through the crowd, he watched as warriors marched past, their armour shining in the sunlight. Once the warriors passed, the crowd dispersed and Mal moved on.

Leaving the city streets behind, he ascended the Crown Tower’s steps. Reaching the second floor, he began to climb the next set when someone called out his name. “Mal!” His heart sank when he recognised the voice and turned. In the corridor stood a boy the same age as Mal, with a group of his friends. His face smooth, his hair cut short and blonde, he stood taller than Mal, and his body showed some slight muscle. His name was Camillus, son of the Tower Guard Sergeant. He gave Mal a broad smile, but Mal knew it was fake. Camillus was a bully, and he liked to use Mal as his punch bag. Sometimes though, if he was lucky, he would use him to get things. But Mal was not quick on his feet, and always got caught. The last time his father gave him a beating with a stick. His legs still hurt when he remembered that night.

Camillus strutted over, the broad smile still etched on his face. Behind him his gang sniggered. “How are you today?” he asked, pretending to care. Mal merely shrugged. Camillus feigned a sad look. “What’s wrong Mal? Don’t tell me you’re still upset about last time?” His eyes, a piercing blue colour, looked Mal up and down. He spotted the sack. “What’s in the bag?” He reached out to grab it, but Mal pulled away.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled nervously.

Camillus tutted. “You know what happens when you keep things from me. Give it here.” He reached out again, but Mal pulled back. Now the smile faded. “I said, give it to me.” Mal made a quick glance up the stairs. They were empty, but he would be too slow. Camillus saw the look. “Try it,” he urged. “Go on. See if you can run away from me.” Mal wanted to run, but he remained rooted to the spot. Fear gripped him, and he could feel himself shaking. Camillus saw this, and his smile returned. He jumped forward, pushing Mal back and into the wall. His hand gripped Mal’s throat. “You never learn, do you? Scum like you never learn. Father always says you and your old fart of a father are of no use. And what will you amount to, huh? Nothing, that’s what.”

Behind him there was a padding of feet, and a group of girls passed by. They giggled as they saw Camillus, all except one. She stopped and said, “Let him go Cam.”

Swiftly, Camillus let go of Mal, spinning on his heels. He brushed a hand through his short hair. “Laelia. How nice to see you? I was hoping we could walk down to the well and…”

She shook her head, her long black hair lightly brushing against her shoulders. “You will have to try better than that Cam.” She beckoned her friends to follow, who were glancing at Camillus’ friends behind them. As they approached the stairs, she gave Mal a soft smile. “Good morning, Mal. I hope your father is well.” She walked off, down the stairs to the floor below, her entourage of friends following closely behind.

Camillus stared after Laelia, forgetting Mal was there. Seeing the opportunity, Mal quickly darted up the stairs, hoping Camillus would leave him alone. He did not slow his pace until he reached his home. He quickly shut the door behind him, putting the rusty lock on. His heart pounded in his chest.

“You took your time. The fire has died out. Do something about it.”