Curse of the Celts Clara O'Connor (new reading txt) 📖

forge papers and get them out of the city. Their home had a camera, so they would have discussed it somewhere they thought safe, but nowhere in the eastern stews was camera-free; the gaps in surveillance in the poorer sections of Londinium were few and far between.

They were twisting everything, making it appear as if Devyn helped Oban and Marina escape from the city to evade justice for using magic. Marina had magic? I had only been aware that it was a possibility, and I shook off the hurt that they had hidden this from me.

There was no mention of the illness that would have alerted the authorities to her status as a latent, and with it, of course, that she potentially had magic in her blood, making her a target for the sentinels to steal away as they had countless others in the stews.

It was difficult to guess at what was being shown – most likely whatever footage they had of Oban and Marina’s escape from the city which would testify to Devyn having hacked the city’s networks to get them out. Then there was the sound of horses – that must be my attempted escape the night I met Devyn in Richmond. But we hadn’t got away. Devyn had, but I hadn’t. His promise to come back for me echoed around the arena.

The roars started again as the film ended. The crowd had seen plenty. Now the praetor would be stepping forward, his outthrust thumb, held horizontally, an indication that it was time to vote to see whether the accused was deemed innocent or guilty. The seconds ticked away. It seemed endless. Was the minute always this long? Devyn’s hand took mine again as he was allowed to stand. Finally, the gong sounded. Devyn’s hood and mask would be removed now to face judgement. He would be displayed to all.

The crowd’s jeeringly triumphant reaction indicated it was thumbs down.

“Devyn Agrestis, you have been found guilty of hacking for a second time as well as aiding and abetting the escape of two Codebreakers. In light of a 99.27% conviction rate, you are sentenced to our most severe sentence for your offences: your blood will be spilt upon the sand in full payment for your crimes. Death.”

The crowd cheered its approval at the sentence. Capital punishment was rare, but when it did happen the condemned was granted a boon and a final night, returning to the sands the next night with the black-hooded executioner. I held Marcus’s hand tighter. Which one of us was next?

A hush fell and I gripped the hands on either side of me tightly. Marcus’s hand pulled away as he in turn was pushed forward.

The praetor’s stentorian tones carried across the arena.

“You are accused of crimes against the Code, of using magic within the city walls, and aiding and abetting the escape of yourself and these others who stand before me. Kneel to receive the judgement of the city.”

I didn’t need to hear the crowd’s reaction to know Marcus still refused to kneel. The mob exploded on learning that the use of magic was being tried here today, so that the praetor’s direction to the sentinels to put the accused on his knees was barely audible over the din.

The clamour of the crowd faded as the evidentiary film began to play. I could identify the sounds of the hospital and could guess at what they would be seeing: a doctor with his face obscured, standing over patients who were dying of the illness. I had seen it many times myself: Marcus holding his hand above them when no one was paying attention and the patient clearly responding. I heard gasps and murmurings from the crowd, but it was impossible to know how this was being presented. Were they editing it to make Marcus look like he was making them worse? They surely couldn’t try and blame the hundreds of ill individuals on one man? Could they? It wouldn’t make any sense; those people were already ill when they came to the hospital. The film moved on, and I could hear the sounds of the pre-wedding revels as we sailed down the Tamesis less than twenty-four hours ago. It had been a cover for our ill-fated escape attempt.

“Marcus,” a voice rang out from somewhere in the amphitheatre. “Marcus. That’s Marcus Courtenay.”

Pandemonium ensued. Marcus’s name was on everyone’s lips. His name was being chanted. He had been recognised. Of course he had. He was a well-known member of the elite, often featured in the social bursts and gossip feeds. Showing a film of a doctor and then clips of a party attended by members of the elite who were even now seated in prime spots around the amphitheatre made it inevitable that someone would connect the dots.

It was unprecedented. No one of Marcus’s stature had ever taken the sands before. The usual measures taken to conceal the accused’s identity were never going to be enough to keep justice blind in this case. In a regular case, a handful of people might recognise the events unfolding on the screens before them and be able to deduce who the obfuscated person might be. But that identity would mean little to the broader populace, even if they were named before the mask came off. Not so with Marcus. The city now knew their favoured son stood before them to be judged. The noise reached a crescendo. I couldn’t hear the film anymore and had no way of telling what they were being shown. Our capture outside the city walls, possibly

Typically, the mob would quieten now in anticipation of the public vote, but there was no lessening of the din. It was deafening; there was outrage and certainty in their cries. They knew who stood before them and proceedings had descended into chaos. The council must be having a fit.

I sensed the sentinels push past me and I could hear Marcus struggling. What was going on? I felt something hit my feet.