FIFTY: QUESTIONS
“Young love, such a precious thing,” a deep baritone voice called out as Cassius extracted himself from the noble's quarter. It rang with a hint of familiarity that tickled his brain, the connection taking a second to register. The sigh that rattled from between his lips was one of exasperation as he turned to see the philosopher Basilides walking toward him.
The man wore actual sensible clothes with good boots and had a thick walking staff in his hand, a wide smile on his face as a dozen haughty noble eyes turned to look at them. Basilides’ sly smile was full of mirth as he threw his free hand over Cassius’ shoulder and pulled him close.
“Beware these noblewomen my friend, they love their horses more than any other mount,” Basilides said loudly and a series of rough guffaws came out of unsuspecting nobles and a few eavesdropping legionnaires.
“You overstep, [Observer],” Cassius said coldly, plucking the man’s arm from his shoulder. The philosopher simply laughed, a booming thing that drew eyes to them as they walked toward the legionnaire portion of the camp.
“Then I must ask for forgiveness. My mentors often said my tongue would get into trouble. So far it has only been a reward for others,” Basilides said as he gave a lascivious smile to a pair of legionnaires standing side by side. The duo laughed but each had a faint blush to their cheeks as Cassius strode by.
“What has drawn you to me to disrupt my morning?” Cassius asked, irritated that the man was drawing more eyes toward them. It had been hard enough to stand in front of the attention yesterday when the beer had flowed, but now it was much worse.
“Disrupt? No, you do me wrong with this accusation. I have come to further ingratiate myself with you so that you will take me with you tomorrow,” Basilides said with a wide grin.
“At least you are honest with your words,” Cassius muttered, glancing back at the noble quarter. It wasn’t that Vira had lied to him, but the half-truths and multiple purposes left him wondering just what her true thoughts and motivations were.
“Words are easy to spin into the truth my friend, it is actions that are much harder to fake.”
“Why do you want to go?” Cassius asked, heading toward the quartermaster's tent to resupply himself.
“What do you know of my order?” Basilides asked.
“Nothing that I have not seen from you. Mainly that you answer questions with a question,” Cassius grumbled.
“Apt. It is our purpose to question, to push past what is common held belief and delve into what is the truth. Action and words both. It is a struggle I will admit and one that has drawn a considerable amount of criticism and hatred,” Basilides said mournfully.
“Are you sure it is not because you are irritating? It has hardly been five minutes and I wish to strike you,” Cassius said.
“Thus we showcase the difference between words and actions. You speak truth, but your actions are the real truth. No hostility in your body language, no readying to strike and inflict pain. No, Cassius, I believe that you secretly are enjoying this,” Basilides proclaimed. Cassius stopped in his tracks, turning his head to look at the philosopher, blinking once. Slowly.
“Maybe I have misread that. Regardless, you have asked me a question, so let me answer. I am looking for answers.”
“Somehow you have grown more vague in your answers than in your questions,” Cassius said, shaking his head as he continued on toward the tent. The ring of armorer’s hammers were close, a constant in any warcamp.
“My order observes, but we also search. Currently I am searching for truths, specific ones related to skills,” Basilides said. He kept the same carefree attitude, but there was now an undertone of seriousness to his voice.
“They are found in dungeons and powerful monsters. What more is there to know?” Cassius asked as they reached the armorers section. Already a line was formed around the tent and he forced himself to wait. It was not just legionnaires who clustered around, but the support personnel who made a warcamp of this size run.
“Yes, but why? Why have the gods crafted this system and what is the full breadth of it? Those are the questions that plagued me in my cell as a boy and now I search for the truth, and for that I must observe skills in their natural habitat,” Basilides said.
“You risk death to look at skills? There are plenty back in the republic,” Cassius said with a shake of his head. He’d seen enough men die to defend their home on this trip that the philosopher’s reasoning felt cheap.
“Skills that are known back home. Carefully curated like any farmer’s crop. The artificial cap upon our levels is an impediment as well. How far can a skill go when one has more power to call upon. Already I see interesting things in this camp. It is not often I see the power of a second tier warrior in use.”
“Interesting how?” Cassius asked.
“All your centurions have a skill called [Cohesion], yes?” Basilides continued his irritating habit of answering questions with questions.
“That is one of the requirements to become a centurion or a tribune. They must have the skill to enhance their centuries.”
“But, how far can a skill like that go? What is the definition of cohesion? Could they bind things together beyond your skills? A pair of wooden blocks could be combined, held together by their likeness? What if they were not from the same tree, what if it was an oak and an olive tree?”
“That is what you risk your life for? To see if a skill can combine two types of wood together?” Cassius asked, but felt his own mind slowly start thinking.
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“No, but it is an interesting question. And it is only one skill. You have [March] and use it upon yourself, but what if you grow strong enough you can expand it to others around you? Encompass an army by yourself. Only one exhausted man rather than an army of them? What of [Thrust]? Does it only work only on something you think should stab?”
“No, I have used it on my shield,” Cassius said, shaking his head as he dismissed the question. Basilides smile expanded as he nodded his head rapidly.
“These are interesting thoughts. How far can you push this? Could you use the skill upon yourself? On your hand perchance? These are the sorts of things I look for, how far can a skill be stretched and how much can it truly do. Then I must ask the next question.” Basilides stopped speaking and turned to look at Cassius, glee in his eyes as he waited for Cassius to ask.
“Why?” Cassius guessed.
“Why do these skills exist and in such quantity and quality? That is what I truly wish to find out and I believe I will discover it by studying them in the wild, which is why I now work to ingratiate myself with you,” Basilides said, wrapping up his speech.
“You could have just said that from the beginning,” Cassius groaned.
“But you would not have understood. You would have the information, but not the path that was followed to obtain the knowledge. The journey matters just as much as the destination,” Basilides said wisely.
“You will need armor,” Cassius said.
“I…I can defend myself, but I am no warrior,” Basilides said. For the first time since he’d intercepted Cassius the man looked off-balance.
“It is not for you to battle, but to keep you alive when someone inevitably stabs you,” Cassius said. Basilides froze for a moment, squinting at Cassius before he laughed. It was different from the booming laughter of earlier, it was a higher pitched, ugly sound that to Cassius’ ear sounded natural.
How much of Basilides was a performance and how much of it was authentic? That question chased around in Cassius' mind as the two men stood side by side. All day he had been challenged emotionally and mentally. The Imperator, Vira, and now Basilides. All of them pushed him further and further, asking him to think past what was in front of him.
“Basilides? What makes a man special?”
“Every man is special, a unique existence that shall never be replicated,” Basilides said.
“I was not with my file long before we deployed and most of them died. But Antonius was our file leader. A veteran of nearly two decades. He had served the legion for as long as I have breathed. He was not speaking to me, but Marcus one night, and I was by them as I shared my tent with Marcus. Antonius said there are two types of people in the word, those who stab and those who get stabbed.”
“And how did Marcus reply?” Basilides asked, seemingly genuinely curious.
“Marcus said there was a third type of man. Those foolish bastards who did both. Us legionnaires I suspect is what he meant. They were drinking at the time and it was hardly more than a passing statement. They laughed it off and kept drinking.”
“A fascinating thought process, but how does it connect to what makes a man special?” Basilides asked.
“I grew up in the slums of Aurum. Do you truly understand what that means?” Cassius said. He was settled deep in the heart of [Unyielding Spirit] now, the memories nothing more than something that had happened in a play of a boy named Cassius that he had watched. Detached from the pain of it he could fully look back at it, experience it and not feel the ache inside of him. The desire to hide away food, to sleep in corners, to gather every scrap of cloth for when winter would come. The pain was hidden, but his desire for more was still there, burning fiercer than any fire.
“I have walked Aurum before, but no, I could not say I do understand it,” Basilides said.
“It makes me wonder, is suffering what makes a man special? All day I have been told I am special, lucky, blessed and when they speak these words to me they say it so convincingly I wish to believe them. How can one reconcile what I experienced as a child and now, as luck, unless suffering is the crucible one must endure to become special,” Cassius said.
“I can see where you draw the inspiration of your thoughts, but I believe them flawed. In this world there are a great many who suffer. Few become special. I believe suffering is just suffering, Cassius. It happens and those it happens to are not special or marked, they are just those who are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cursed parents or lack of them. Walking down the wrong alley or having a gate appear too close to their farm. Suffering is just suffering.”
“Then what makes a man special?” Cassius asked. They had slowly shuffled forward and were now close to the armorers and the pounding of the hammers covered their conversation, forcing the two men to lean toward each other.
“I do not know what makes a man special. I do know what it is that attracts the attention that you have attracted lately, though.”
“And what is that?”
“Power. You have gone from a nameless piece on the board to a piece worthy of being noticed,” Basilides said.
“All that matters is power then? That is my only worth, the strength of my arm and the mana inside of me?”
“Were you born to a rich and powerful merchant house? Or the noble scion who can call upon thousands of blades? The child of a wealthy blessed?”
“You know I was not,” Cassius said.
“Then what is it you were born to? What is it that you are innately gifted with that others can not match?” Basilides said. There was no hint of mirth to the man now, just a hard look that would not be amiss from beneath the helmet of a veteran legionnaire. When Cassius remained silent it was Basilides who answered his own question.
“You said it yourself. You know what pain is and I do not need you to detail your life for me to understand that you often suffered for no reason at all, aside from being poor and alone. Look at these prancing fools that you left behind this morning. They brought baths with them into a world that will kill them in an instant and eat their still warm corpse. These pompous senators who hold debates on where to shit!” Basilides had begun to darken as anger mottled his features, some hidden pain pressed by the wandering nature of their conversation.
“And your brothers and sisters here? They are happy with their twenty-five years of violence and discipline; then a quiet retirement to the countryside with some shepherd's child twenty years their junior. You have not calcified yet, not grown so acclimated to who you are. So tell me, why do the strata wish for you to be by their side? Why are they expending effort to see you grow? ” Cassius looked at the man and knew the answer. The hunger that burned inside of him since he had been in the orphanage.
Suffering may not have made him special. Cassius could agree with Basilides about that, but it had been the whetstone that he had carved his desire upon, year and years of wanting more, of being more.
“I am here for fresh arms and armor,” Cassius said, turning to look at the armorer as they made it to the front of the line. Basilides grunted and affected the same smile he’d held earlier, but Cassius now saw the heat that lurked beneath the man’s placid surface. That, more than anything, made him like Basilides. The man may have a twisted tongue and a warped mind, but that rage was something he could relate to, more than perfumed baths or questions on how to achieve multiple objectives at once.
“Two sets, my dear sir,” Basilides said, meeting Cassius’ eyes and nodding in acceptance as their deal was tacitly struck.
