Empire of Shadows

There were two jobs the prisoners coveted highly. Quarterers like Samson who could tell who would die next and diggers like Jameson who went beyond the wall every day to dig graves and drainage ditches. It meant he got to see the outside world for just moments, but that was the only freedom ever allowed.

The earth was hardened by winter and packed with hard clay. It was even harder to dig with blunt shovels and feet shackled together to the rest of the diggers. But even as Jameson worked the earth, he was momentarily free from the prison. It was just the earth and the ground and shovel loads of packed red clay, and the bite of winter air against his skin. If he focused hard enough he didn't hear the chains, or see the makeshift rock markers, or smell the rot from decomposing bodies.

The guards had dragged out two more dead—both killed from the plague for which the prison was quarantined. Jameson stopped digging, measuring the depth of the trench. It would require another two or three feet before it was deep enough to throw a body inside. He glanced back at the body behind him. It was a man old enough to be his father, with stomach distended and face contorted from rigor mortis. Livor Mortis purpled the man's face, the purple coloring darkest around his cheeks. He must've died in the night, sleeping on his side. The guards probably found him when he didn't report for roll call.

"26X." There was a pain across his back and he stumbled forward, jerking the prisoners connected with him. He looked back up to the guard, taking a deep breath as the pain began to dissipate. The guard held a baton, patting it against his open palm. "Would you like for me to use this?"

Jameson didn't respond, just shivered as a cold wind sliced through his thin tunic.

"I believe I asked you a question, 26X."

"No sir." Jameson coughed. When was the last time he had spoke? It was at least a week, in the mess hall with Samson. His voice sounded rough and shaky, a foreign noise to him. It was dangerous to talk and so he didn't

"Good," the guard snorted. "Now get back to work and stop daydreaming."

He didn't respond, simply drove the edgeless shovel into the ground and dug up another shovel-full of dirt and rocks.

A whistle blew and work stopped.

Jameson lifted his head, wiping his calloused hands against his trousers. There was a commotion amongst the diggers at the head of the line. There were noises of joy, thanking. Jameson's right leg slipped as the prisoners strained in their shackles. A cry of "What is it?" ran rampant through the line behind him. He struggled out of his ditch, squinting as the figures passed them.

The Sisters. They passed in front, multicolored rosary beads glistening from their necks. Four of them today, arms heavy with something, Jameson couldn't tell what. Today it was the older Sisters—the ones old enough to be his grandmother with round bellies and unmarked skin. What did they know about work or prison?

"Repent, for the time of judgment is upon you!" The abbess was yelling now, making sure her words could be heard by all prisoners. She was far enough away from them that if any carried the plague, she would remain untouched. The Sisters, however, were touching hands.

The abbess continued as she watched Jameson with disdain, turning towards the others. "The blameless shall be upheld, but the wicked cast into the depths!"

They passed him and he cast his eyes to his dirty bare feet. A cold hand touched his and he looked up. Underneath a brown habit a woman's eyes watched. She was younger than the others, perhaps a couple years younger than Samson. His gaze lingered on hers for a moment before she pressed a small brown pouch into his hands.