Those Below: The Empty Throne Book 2 by Daniel Polansky

the Commonwealth, slayer of demons, champion of humanity, a cock the size of child’s arm. You can have my scrawl on a bit of parchment for two silver tertarum, or eighteen bronze nummu.’
    Confusion, bewilderment. The world upended, right as wrong and up as down. ‘But … you’re black,’ the man said.
    Hamilcar looked surprised, then offended, then made an elaborate impression of surveying what portion of his skin was not covered with fur or cloth or gold. ‘So it seems.’
    ‘The Caracal isn’t black,’ the man averred, after a moment’s consideration.
    ‘Yes, I am,’ Hamilcar said.
    ‘Yes, he is,’ Theophilus agreed.
    ‘Black as night,’ Isaac said. ‘Black as sin.’
    ‘Black as the winter moon,’ Theophilus added, straight-faced in an ash-blond beard.
    ‘But … the moon isn’t black, either.’
    ‘You’re very clever,’ Hamilcar said, emptying the dice cup and cursing at the result. ‘And you’re terrible luck. Go away now, you just lost me three silver. The Caracal is not pleased!’ he announced to the bar in a voice loud and fierce enough to send the fool scurrying, ‘bring more liquor!’
    The last, at least, was a sentiment with which Bas could agree. The proprietor of the nameless bar in which they were whiling away the evening as they had whiled away the better part of the winter had been one of the innumerable camp-followers the army drew along in its wake, a double-dealer, a con man, a scavenger and a cheat, clever and fearless in pursuit of his fortune. He had moved into the place after the sack, its original inhabitants dead or fled or in any case, being in no position to dispute ownership. He came over with another jug of bad ale, set it down on the table with a heavy thud. In the days immediately after the conquest it had been possible to drink the finest Dycian wines for a handful of copper pennies, but the riotous orgy of waste had reached its inevitable end and the last few weeks there had been no decent liquor for silver nor gold, nothing but the strong and unappetising barley wine.
    Bas drank it anyway.
    ‘Do you ever wonder what it would be like to smile?’ Hamilcar asked. ‘Half my pot is now yours, and I’ve yet to see hint of a tooth.’
    ‘Have you ever known the Legatus to be full of cheer?’ Theophilus asked.
    ‘There were times when I found him less overwhelmingly depressing.’
    ‘I think he finds our accommodations insalubrious.’
    ‘There are worse places to winter,’ Isaac observed. ‘You know how many years I shivered beneath a horsehide yurt, peat smoke and a half-breed my only hope for warmth? I, for one, am not so quick to forget the virtues of a stone wall.’
    ‘It was cold,’ Theophilus agreed, ‘but at least it was clean. The rats grow large as dogs, and have begun to get ideas beyond their station. They say that in the far corners of the city they gather together in packs, pull down unwary children and devour them whole.’
    ‘Then they are the only thing so flourishing,’ Hamilcar observed. ‘A girl offered me her daughter for a loaf of bread, last evening.’
    ‘Hardly our fault,’ Theophilus said, still young enough to feel some semblance of patriotism, ‘if the smallfolk would bring their goods to market, none would need starve. Our supply lines are stretched feeding our own people – we can’t very well be expected to provide for three themas and the entirety of Oscan.’
    ‘I thought the Oscans were your people,’ Hamilcar observed. ‘and we were here to liberate them from the oppressive yoke of Salucia.’
    ‘But Hamilcar,’ Isaac brought his cup down from yellowed teeth. ‘We have liberated Oscan – can’t you tell by the smoke?’
    ‘We won’t be here much longer,’ Theophilus said. ‘The Salucians will come to terms soon enough. A drop in their tariff rates, a bowed head, and we’ll be back in Aeleria before the summer.’
    ‘You think so?’ Bas asked, his first words in a long hour, and he regretted them