Chapter 239: The Singer

The Colosseum fell silent as soon as anyone made a sound; they were quickly shushed, and those blocking the view were pushed aside. Within the centre of the Colosseum, a group of dancers slowly walked on, followed by musicians. The male dancers wore tight-fitting black outfits, each one incredibly fit, and wore white masks with weeping faces. The women wore white dresses with black masks, all of them designed to have absurd smiles. Finally, a man took to the stage, grabbing the large shell that had runes on it, allowing his voice to be heard across the arena.

He did not wear an outfit that matched the dancers or the musicians, but rather a long brown robe that looked dirty and worn, his bushy beard scruffy. Looking around, he scanned the watchers and took a deep breath, bringing the shell up to his face.

Behind him, half the musicians began a violent and aggressive song. The men started their dance, their movements matching the aggressive melody of the orchestra, the music echoing throughout the arena without the need for anything to assist it. Isis unconsciously reached into her satchel, pulling out her journal, instantly entranced by the melody, which reminded her of Hampton and the artlands as a whole.

Aggressive and violent, but despite that, there is a story. It isn’t aggression to call for war, nor aggression for no reason. No, it is a directed aggression, one that feels like the rage of a father in defence of their child. The dancers. Every movement feels slow and wide, but it flows like water...’

The other half of the orchestra began to play, and unlike the aggression of the first set, it was serene and mournful. The women moved with grace, slow but calm.

’This other half. There is sadness in it, like the sadness of a mother who lost their child. Even as the other half of the music plays louder with sharper notes, the serene melody can be heard. It is almost like a fight between the two songs, but if listened to closely, they are about the same thing, only the responce is different to whatever it came from.’

Staring at the dancers, she could finally understand the masks.

’The mournful tears of a father who had lost something precious and the absurd smile of a mother who can’t do anything to change the situation.’

The two songs, that were so different but the same, slolwy changed. The battle they fought to overpower the other cooled until it became a harmonised tune that didn’t lose either side’s intent. And with it, the man out of place holding the shell began. It was a language she couldn’t understand, yet she could feel the emotion. The sadness, the rage, the anger, the helplessness. Everything in his voice sparked a conflict of emotions. And his voice. Despite his large frame, unkempt appearance and dirty outfit, his voice was magnificent.

The mixture of high and low notes that he expertly switched between made it seem, much like the musicians, as if he fought with himself. It was a form of music she had never heard in Veston, lacking the usual reverence towards God, or the honouring of a former event. It wasn’t a hymn nor a lively tune that could be used in a feast. And most importantly, it couldn’t exist on its own. He needed the music, and the music needed him to complete the truth behind the music.

’How much I wish I knew what he said, and yet even without it, I feel I understand everything. This is art. The passion in his voice for his craft only enhances the emotion he wishes to convey with each word. Music that doesn’t need Gods nor fond memories.’

Her eyes never left the performance; the dancers, desperate to steal the audience’s attention, became a backdrop for the man in brown robes. And just as he reached the song’s climax, the music and his voice, reaching incredibly high notes she didn’t think a man could make, dropped, and the two melodies harmonised into one. The tune shed its serene sadness and turned violent and aggressive; the man’s once-mixing voice was now only a deep rumbling of foreign words steeped in anger and passion.

But it didn’t make them angry; no, rather it made them sad. Isis, unsure of what was even being said, felt her eyes water. It was righteous anger, a sad anger. No one needed to know the words to the story being told; all they needed to know was the man’s anger. And finally, unlike before, when it reached the climax and suddenly changed, the music began to die along with the strength of the man’s voice. It was done naturally so, as if whoever the song was about was dying themselves, the slow death of ageing.

When he finally stopped, the arena was silent. The world felt silent until one clap broke through it all. With that one clap, a tsunami of applause echoed, and by her side she could hear Justinian’s chair rustle as he stood slowly, applauding, his face plastered with a thin, admirable smile. He wasn’t moved like she and others around her were, but there was acknowledgement in his gaze for a performance that was perfectly done.

The man on the stage raised their hand to calm the crowd, and only after a minute did they finally stop. Bringing the shell to his mouth, he took a deep breath. "Thank you all." Unlike when he sang, his voice was rough, as if a completely different person had suddenly switched places with him. "Thank you all." Lowering the mic, the man looked around the arena, his gaze stopping for a moment in one direction before carrying on, "I, with a heavy heart, come before you all to say that my performance was based on a true story, one I hope conveyed its meaning to you all."

Some broke out into tears once more around Isis, quickly wiping their faces. "It..." The man paused for a moment. "It was a story very personal to me, that not even my band knew. One created in this very city." Unsure why she heard, Justinian tensed up and looked to him; there was momentary shock on his face as one of his guards signalled over. The man on the stage moved. Grabbing the top of his robe, he ripped it off, the fabric easily coming off, as if made to do so.

Underneath he wore even worse robes, grey in colour, damaged and thin, but ones Isis knew very well. ’Cras.... his neck, oh my god.’ It dawned on me why Justinian had reacted upon seeing the collar on his neck. Lifting his head so everyone could see, he spun and spread his arms for all, before bringing the shell back to his mouth, "All of you, watch me and applaud, and yet you were the same ones who put me and my wife and my child in these very collars." A hatred one unfathomably deep lathered his voice, as he looked around in disgust. Seeing the band, Isis saw many of them looking at him in horror, wondering what was going on, deciding if it was part of the performance, but realising it wasn’t.

"I refuse to let the story end the way my song does." The man paused and looked towards the boxes, and for a moment, she thought he looked at her, but realised he looked at Justinian. "I AM INNOCENTIUS BARDAS, AND I RENOUNCE THIS CITY! I RENOUNCE THE MASTERS! I RENOUNCE A GOD WHO ALLOWS FOR ENSLAVMENT OF OTHERS!"

From one of the stands, the place where Isis recognised he had stopped to look at for a moment in his spin, she saw a red light fire in the air alongside a whistling sound. Once it reached high into the sky, it erupted with a flash of red light before dimming.

"IN THE NAME OF THE FREEMEN AND WOMEN WHO CAME BEFORE ME! IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY CAUSE OF LIBERTY, I WILL NOT STOP UNTIL I SEE THE TOTAL END AND DESTRUCTION OF SLAVERY AND ITS ENFORCERS!" From the corridor they had walked down, Isis heard the echoing of battle and looked to Justinian; the man sat coldly, staring at Innocentius as he received the heckling of parts from the crowd and silence from the others. Around, soldiers marched onto the colosseum ground, with musicians behind Innocentius running off to stay clear of the coming bloodshed.

From the edges of the stands, people jumped down, all of them wearing cloaks with broken chains etched onto the back, which nearly hid the armour they wore. A large melee broke out beneath, and from the chaos the crowd began to run, trampling over one another to try and flee the arena.

"shit." Quietly whispering beside her, Justinian looked around, seeing the chaos as people pushed and shoved one another, trampling over those who fell, uncaring as they tried to escape.