Born a Monster

432 332 – Caesarius the Terminator

It’s amazing what people will do, just to be called by their names.

he asked.

His name was not, as it turns out, Squiggles, but Caesarius the Terminator. I know, the name probably gave him a point of Vanity every time he said it. And, seeing the piles from an entirely different perspective, he was invaluable in discovering things.

Like nails. They may have been bent, but there were flat stones to hammer them with.

I didn’t make it even close to lunch, but once you get started on a good restoration, it doesn’t take as long as some people might imagine. That said, minotaur furniture is sturdy, and thus heavy.

“One dresser.” I said, “With drawers. Restored.” I set it down where the pride was gathering for dinner.

“Not for long, if you treat it like that.” said a dark haired youth. He had a habit of keeping his eyes half lidded. If one didn’t watch the pupils, one might think him half asleep. But the eyes darted around, taking in details.

“Gregorius is right.” Hexanter said.

“Miletus.” he said. “My name is Miletus now.”

.....

Hexanter rolled her eyes. “Stepping on large rats doesn’t count as killing someone in the arena.”

“It should.” Miletus insisted. “Anyway... yeah, I can see stain marks on the left side. And the back leg still... huh. It fixed the wobble. The work isn’t perfect, but yeah, a coat of paint or a layer of varnish, and we can sell it.”

“Is it worth a meal?” she asked. “Has the calf earned his keep?”

“It’ll take work.” Miletus said, “But yeah, we can eat off what we’ll get for this.”

“So, it’s not done. Half a meal.” she decided.



And I was right about how little they were eating. It was stew, and thick. And old. By the gods, we’d be better off throwing that pot out and starting over. But I wasn’t about to start telling them that.

“Two scoops.” she said, handing me a wooden bowl. “And you clean that, afterward.”

“Where?” I asked. Clearly, I was going to have to survive on wood for a while, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use water.

“Nearest aquaduct is that way. Follow the scent of lavender until you come to the potted mint plant, then turn up the path on your right. Reverse your way to get back.”

Gods, save me from the directions natives of the Maze gave! Oh, they were accurate, most of the time. But it wasn’t always or even often directions. It was sights and colors, shapes and smells. And those changed.

The lady who scented her entry with lavender might have run out, or decided that sandalwood was a better scent. The owner of the mint might have forgotten to water it, or decided to harvest it, or just move it if some passerby helped themselves to its leaves.

None of those actually happened, though, and with a little creative climbing I was able to do my dish (and Basilius’, since he was feeling unsettled of stomach).
Much of that night was spent organizing. There were things I could fix, and things I could almost fix, and then there were things I couldn’t fix, but which would at least provide nutrition. And there was junk.

Lots of junk. Piles of junk. Junk that had to be hauled... quite a distance, and by a complicated path. Which, since my meals depended on fixing things, meant that the biggest piles began building up by the exit nearest the actual junk yard.

Caesarius was of great help in this process, at least until I built him a lair. One small and secure, yet heavy enough that Decima alone could not lift it. Multiple entries and exits, none of them small enough for her to crawl through.

“It’s Horrible!” she complained. “He goes in there, and I can never get him back out!”

“It is what he asked for.” I said. “And he assures me there is adequate space inside, and that it is comfortable. And quiet, when you aren’t kicking the walls.”

“Oh, just leave the poor thing alone.” Gregorius (not Miletus Gregorius, but another one) said. “He comes out to eat, doesn’t he?”

“Not often enough.” she said, nibbling on her wrist. “It’s like he doesn’t like me any more.”

Not all truths need to be spoken. In one sense, I was saved by the arrival of the bullies.

Or guards, if you want to grace them with that title. I won’t, because to my mind guards aren’t the uniforms, they are the protectors. Not those that you want protection from.

“Ho, Hex!” boomed the largest. “It’s time to pay your rent! Don’t make us look for you, who knows what we’ll break?”

She ground her teeth. “Go break yourselves.” she whispered. Then, much louder. “Over here. I’ve got what you want. And what we were missing from last week.”

With a snort, the male made his way between the piles. “You’d best have, else I’ll raise your rent.”

She drew a leather pouch from inside her belt. “Here.” she said, handing it over. “Your money is in here.”

He tossed it in his hand. “It feels light.”

“There’s some silver in there, weighs less than the same value for copper.”

“Hm. Times are picking up for you, then.” he said.

They really weren’t. The pride wasn’t lacking in Charisma skills, but they were no match for the professional merchants they sold to. You’ve heard of silver to the gold? Yeah, it was that level of unfair, and without a merchant’s pass, they couldn’t sell the items to clients themselves. Not legally.

“Hey.” Hexanter said. “That’s my purse you just put in your bag.”

“Get another.” Honorius told her. “That’s my leather moneybag now.”

The grinding of her teeth was audible, but Honorius and his crew just laughed it off.

“Does that happen to all the prides?” I asked.

“All of the ones that Honorius can reach.” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t. They have weapons and armor, and any pride that fights back gets... a lesson. Those that kill a guard get culled, entirely.”

“Culled?” I asked.

“She means killed.” Miletus said. “Slain. Removed from the herd.”

“We know what it means!” snapped Flavius.

“Clearly, the runt doesn’t.” Miletus countered.

“Well, teach me over this way.” I said, moving quickly through the piles of things.

Ah, yes, there was no end to the piles of things.

Miletus clearly already had Fleet of Foot, or some similar ability, for he was able to catch me. “No.” he said.

“No, what?” I asked.

“No, you don’t want the hassle that stealing his coin purse off his belt would bring.”

“What? No, I was just curious what path he was taking, where he collects rent from next.”

“Why does that matter?” he asked.

“Because there have to be other people tired of paying him, also.”

“Calfling.” Miletus said. “Nobody who likes breathing is going to attack him.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Surely not every family is defenseless.”

“He doesn’t charge rent to families. He charges rent to prides.”

I tilted my head diagonal to the floor. “Please explain. Some of you still sleep with your families.”

“And more don’t.” he said. “Don’t you get it yet? Most pride members are outcasts from their families. The best thing we can hope for in this life is to be adopted or enslaved into a family.”

I blinked. “But... Hexanter is a female. Couldn’t she start her own family?”

He chuckled. “With what money? I’ve seen you eating garbage, just like the rest of us do.”

And he had me there. People would bring by containers of fat, lard that had turned sour, oils that had been used too many times, things like that.

Things that you just couldn’t digest in your real stomach. They were things my System didn’t like, either, but it could digest them. One nutrition every two servings is still better than no nutrition at all, and if I left them too long, they smelled worse than Caesarius did.

When we got scented things, and also had a glass jar or other object, we made candles. They didn’t sell well, but they provided light. But there was always more new lard than we could put wicks in.

Caesarius said one day.

I blinked.

Yes, it meant digesting... yuck, fabric, as well as all the stuff that shouldn’t be in oil anyway. And it wasn’t foolproof, but honestly, I don’t know how we didn’t think of it before.

And then came the day when Miletus showed up with a pair of binders, for me.

“Put those on.” he told me. “I know who you are, now.”

No, not those exact words. Honorius spoke with short, concise words, and leaving them out when it suited him. He wasn’t stupid, per say, he just didn’t like thinking and avoided both that and hard work whenever he could.