“Citizens,” Calchas addressed the silenced crowd. “Kneeling before you is none other than Marcus Courtenay. Lady Justice prefers that her judgement be delivered blind. However, this time, one of your most privileged countrymen takes the sand. You have a right to know. A right to see who has betrayed you in this way.”
Again, I could sense a scuffle in front of me. Had they unveiled Marcus? Were they making him stand? What was happening? The results of the vote were, as a rule, reflected in the sentencing. No capital offence had ever resulted in an execution where the public vote had less than a ninety per cent conviction rating. Would the city consciously vote to execute someone they knew? Was the council now cancelling the public’s right to speak in judgement?
“Marcus Courtenay is a citizen like any other and his crimes will be voted on by you, the people,” Calchas’s voice sneered over the pandemonium. “Rise then, and face the justice of the city of Londinium. We will not call you doctor as that is the title bestowed upon the brave soldiers of science who stand as our defence against the illness they fight so bravely.”
The crowd murmured at this. If Calchas’s rousing words were supposed to turn the mob against Marcus’s use of magic, then raising the flag for science which had been found wanting in its fight against the illness sweeping the city was not the way to go about it.
“Magic has always been the enemy of our great city. We refuse to resort to the weapons of that enemy, no matter how desperate the cause,” the praetor quickly reframed, recognising his mistake. “Having used these methods, this coward tried to run from the lawful and proper judgement of the people of this city. It is a right that will not be denied. Friends and neighbours, vote now. Have you seen this man use magic inside these walls and then try to escape your judgement? The answer is a simple yes or no.”
The seconds ticked by as the populace voted. There was no whispering, no anything, just a building tension as hundreds of thousands of people voted on the future of a boy they had watched grow to manhood in their newsfeeds. One who had lost his mother at a young age, who had grown into a man who chose medicine over taking his mother’s seat on the high council. One the praetor urged them to condemn, though it was not Calchas’s place to influence the crowd. Usually, the vote took place directly after the evidentiary film, before the accused was revealed. Oh no, the governor and the council would not be loving this. Calchas was not running the show with his usual aplomb.
The gong signalling the end of the vote finally sounded. There was a long pause. The crowd grew agitated. I felt the same. What was going on?
“Marcus Courtenay, you have been found guilty of breaking the Code through the use of magic, of attempting to flee the city and evade the righteous hand of the law, and of aiding others to the same end.” Calchas paused for far longer than dramatic effect required. For far longer than my heart could take. Was Marcus also to be executed? For trying to help others? The crowd began to murmur again, as anxious as I to hear the verdict. “The mercy and wisdom of the citizens of Londinium is indeed great. Marcus Courtenay, you are convicted of your crimes at a rate of 62.84%.”
The mob erupted. My knees felt like they would no longer keep me upright. The praetor would have no choice but to grant clemency; with a conviction rate that low there was no way he could inflict the ultimate penalty. Calchas liked to use these moments to praise and flatter the wisdom and mercy of the vote, to verbalise the weighting of the sentencing. I seriously doubted he would do so today. If mercy were to be granted, it was because Marcus was a much loved and admired son of the city, and the citizenry had deemed his magic, when employed to aid them, was not something they would punish him for. The hubbub of the crowd was at least partially subdued once more, presumably at some signal to which I was not privy from behind my mask.
“The sentence is fifty lashes.”
Fifty lashes. Calchas was on the very edge of what would be deemed acceptable in light of a sixty-two per cent conviction rate, one of the lowest I had ever heard of for offences of this magnitude. The first and only time I had ever attended a Mete, Devyn had been flogged. Twenty lashes. This was more than double that. Could Marcus withstand such a beating? I wasn’t sure how. I felt lightheaded, the clamour of the mob roiling through me. Perhaps Marcus would be able to heal himself. The crowd was a shrieking furious hive. Only a flogging, half the crowd cheered, but even louder were those baying for blood.
The use of magic was a significant offence and the punishment since the introduction of the Code centuries ago was singular: death by fire. Hatred and fear of magic was a central tenet of the Empire; sections of our society would be livid that he was being shown such leniency. But, given the low rate of conviction, there was no way Marcus could burn. Calchas’s hands were tied; a capital punishment could not be meted out against the expressed desire of the citizenry implicit in the result of the vote.
Praetor Calchas was saying something, but it was impossible to hear over the cacophony of sound. He had to raise his voice to be heard across the agitated crowd, the most vocal of whom cried out for Marcus to burn, furious that one granted every privilege the city could offer had
