Caelum

The highest point of Parquet, and often referred to as the ‘Caelum Palace’ (the one meaning the other this irritates the Troges no end, who are apt to ask ‘to palace palace?’). The Caelum is arguably the oldest part of what is now Parquet. Here were raised temples, though it is difficult to determine how many were here previous to the Invado Romanus. That regular irritator to the Troges and his fellow scholars alike, Nikola Bulgar, would have it (to any that cared to listen) that the Caelum is a fine example of how in the classical world the gods of Greece became the Gods of Rome. Temples then make up much of the Caelum, and between and about which the palace not now adorns Parquet was built.

Where the Looms is a grand place of open plazas and parades, of buildings both complimentary and often attractive, of comprehensive cleverness where the weather itself is mastered and the very best court and dwell then the Caelum in contract is rather a… mess. The temples to Juno, Venus, Diana, Minerva, Ceres, Vesta, Jupiter, Apollo, Julian, and Neptune (though curiously not to Mars, Vulcan, nor Mercury) are ancient and as well preserved, like so much raised with coralline, as they might have been so long before. Great statues stand between them, dozens at least, but where these were all once open to the sky this is now no longer the case. Amaro Pargo and the rest of the crew of El Clavel wanted a palace, and a palace they got. Over four decades the temples were swallowed up, if far from absorbed. The spaces between were roofed, and rooms divided, or became, as the slow expansion spread messily until there was no more room remaining as far as the great Murus walls. And for the most part built not by the Troges at all, save where with reluctance pillars of coralline and braces of vitro glass were placed simply to stop the whole awful mess collapsing into the then sirenum scopuli (now the Looms) about it.

In places even this has proved insufficient. Never built as one piece the roofs leak, and in places have collapsed altogether. Where the work was better that below is mostly dark, small, irregular and as damp as the Delves. In all it smells, at best, like a ship. At worst it smells like a… ship. There are many parts of a ship after all. To many this is not surprising, as not knowing of the mines from which the Troges takes their wood, Pargo had used that timber than was given by the sea. Most notably from the wreck of the Resolution, and more so from the almost intact Sally.

A hall might be passed through where the head of a statue vanishes into the ceiling. The mosaics that remain have been picked at, so that where there is habitation and regular use those there might be whole. Indeed it is possible to pass from a fine hall of grand frescos and mosaics, to a corridor with an uneven floor ending in a wet vestibule clotted with the detritus of the Caelum, and with no more effort than going through a door. And where hall and chamber are hale and occupied then those are often crammed with the statuary, ornamentation and even furnishings of many, where such have been recovered and moved to where they might be of use. There are places of ornate luxury, but so too are there doors best not opened lest be buried under anything, and often everything, crammed in there and willfully forgotten over many decades.

Those places where there is no roof, or it has long fallen, are not abandoned simply because they let the weather in so much because of all the birds. The roof of the Caelum and the taller, more ancient crests of the temples, are home to many such, thousands indeed. Ancestral nests like hives clot the tops. Where, bizarrely, Pargo wanted masts these have now become trees, and especially where seeds blown from the verde have themselves taken root upon them. Birds thatching the Caelum and would be a menace if they did not do so well at keeping away vermin, nor provide nine tenths of all the eggs for Parquet. And the guano, so much guano, is so wonderful for the vines, or for the coffee grown on the cliffs. There are even varieties of birds about the Caelum that can be found nowhere else, and which unlike those of the verde fly, and glide, and have adapted to the rising airs and captive winds of the Looms below. One, the mayordomo bird lives only inside the Caelum itself. Something akin to a heron, its feathers black, its neck and head white, it lives entirely upon a unique variety of shellfish that breed and thrive only in pools of spilt wine.

And there is a lot of wine spilled in the Caelum. Where it faces the ocean vines cover the walls to hang down to the Looms, these vines cultured from the samples found in the Sally and which the birds of the Caelum, not being much given to fruit, never care to eat. But who drinks such wine? Why, the quality of Parquet!

Just as there were thirteen crew of the El Clavel, so too there are thirteen of the truest quality. Their descendants in the main, but not always where the line, dying, others have been granted a title. And of course they all live in the Caelum, apart from those that have finer homes in the Looms; which is all of them. All save for the rulers of Parquet, these at present the twin children of the late, mad, Principessa Ojos. Here and in their own apartments, the Principe Importante and the Principessa Glorioso rule. They rule in grand majesty and all their subjects love them. Two lies firmly enforced by the quality that all compete, politic, vie, and connive to ensure that, whilst the secretive work has taken many, many years, the one day one of the twins will have the support sufficient to overthrow their hated sibling. The twins know this absolutely, receiving reports or all that occurs and making grand decisions that affect the lives of all the subjects of Parquet. The quality are enormously keen to supply all this, whilst not a word of any of it goes further than the nearest door out of the apartments of each. There are balls, important ones. There are feasts, gluttonous ones. The very best attend, and the great game of the Caelum sees them whisper and convey between the two glaring siblings, albeit that to an outsider it would seem that the quality, indeed the fashionable too, seem very changing in their loyalties. One day though, oh glorious day! One day, there shall once again be a single ruler over Parquet, that will wield absolutely power, be adored, be doubtless a living god their selves, and on that day the victor will emerge from the Caelum to parade before their rapturous people. And the citizens will not, in any way, wonder who the bloody hell that pasty fuck is? But that day is not this day. Until that day the quality must endure their onerous task of being responsible for dispersing the coin of the Troges across Parquet, having a fabulous time, and not suffering again the madness of the twin’s mother. Nor any more revolutions because of it.

Aside from the quality (who of course live entirely in the Caelum, apart from those that do not, which is all of them) the rulers of Parquet are not left to fend for themselves. Far from it, for the whole is well supplied both by the Caelum Drudge, and the Milicio Real (for ‘royal’). The drudge, servants and workers, have many tasks and considerable labours to undertake, all decided and listed, and made law, as part of the creation of Parquet in the wake of the Vague Revolution. Drouais insisted upon it, intended for there to be many more than the work demanded since most were his spies, even the perhaps-assassins, of his hated aristos. There are just as many, often the children or grandchildren of those that were first appointed. There are for example a good score that are set to mop a given pool, without a single mop between them. They are adept at looking busy when the quality come close. Though so too are some of the cosier parts of the Caelum occupied by many a drude, that day long smoke tiny cheroots and wash their stockings.

The roofs might well have been repaired otherwise, though sadly those responsible for the task were selected rather more for their revolutionary ardour, and the ability to peer through a convenient hole, than for any ability with rafter and shingle hammer. Each passing on the skills to their daughters, even a few sons, those skills remain those of peeking not roofing. Certainly there are doubtless those in the Delves that could affect a repair, but by the terms of the Parquet they are not suitable to do so.

Similarly, the Milicio Real. Using the need to allow the milicio to reform after his picaroon allies deserted him, Drouais made sure that in the Caleum at least (where after all he had established himself) then there they too would have an armed body. Choosing once more those of loyalty, he mockingly called them the ‘milicio real’ and to this day they remain. Answerable still only to the comite Parquet, the milicio has no capitan. So too handed down by parent to child the milicio real scorns the ‘aristo’ ceremonials of those other milicio, so too their popinjay colours and drill. Living in the Caelum the real do not serve the rulers, but Parquet. Formed (initially) not only to act as the comite’s forceful hand, but so too as the guards over the quasi-captive ruler. This remains the case, for the real never leave the Caelum. Scornful of the aristo ways of those other milicio, the real slouch, scratch, rarely shave, and scowl at anyone they consider too aristo. Nor too do they act in the disorderly manner of other milicio, when not at their duties the Real do not pick fights with their peers, nor the picaroon, and consider the very concept of elan… aristo!

Numbering now only six, the Real were once four times that number until they decided not to allow the Troges access to the temples. Whilst the Troges never claim to, nor exhibit, any sort of priesthood still there are times when by their own tradition they lay offerings in the temples, and especially that of Juno. The real scoffing at such aristo-superstition sent the Troges away, badly beating one in the process. The next night, though the Troges, having long since done away with their Lictors, the Lictors there no longer were visited the real and forced entry. Since the real, long scorning the brawling habits of other milicio, so too their aristo ceremonials, their aristo sword practise, and their aristo habit of cleaning their wands, were not possessed of the aristo milicio ability to actually fight, then mostly they died. The six that remain admirably ugly, ragged trousered, and cockaded now scowl all the more. And pee. They pee a lot, and everywhere. They even compete at it. Not like the aristos! Nor like everyone else in the Caelum do they speak aristo Spanish. They speak only the language of liberty; they speak only French. Very bad French too.

Such might leave the twin rulers of Parquet vulnerable if ever an agitator, more successful than most, ever managed to bring a mob to the Caelum. Fortunately then whilst the drudge might not be very skilled at, say, scrubbing up all the piss, a large number of them are somewhat better at, for example, knifing people in the kidneys. And loyal to the Vague Revolution though they are, they are also loyal to a life of cutting their toenails with a bollock knife. Yet aside from the temples, and the occupied parts of the Caelum, there are areas where few go. Indeed, that are barricaded and sealed off with an effort not normally seen in the drudge. Particularly where once there was the old menagerie.

For a time, where occasionally an animal might be given up the sea (notably those being transported and caught like others in some distant storm), then Pargo’s wife Naga would have it brought to the then considerably more hale, if smaller, palace. Never populous the menagerie was Naga’s, but its care dwindled at her passing until the animals that remained escaped during the reign of the Principessa Ojos. The monkeys and others may have vanished, but despite various attempts to enter and put the menagerie to rights then ten years ago it was all finally sealed off, the remaining beasts left to their own good council. And by rights they should have died, all good sense dictates it. Yet still alarming sounds can be heard on quiet nights, and the roar that shows that somehow, unbelievably, a single very old, very patient, and rather ratty lion remains.

The Caelum! House of an intrigue and political menace that never quite finds a victor, and of rulers that aren’t allowed to rule. Seat of the comite of Parquet that no longer exists. Temples and salvaged ships, tired treasures but the occasional very good ball. Of hereditary servants that do not serve, and a milicio that doesn’t fight.

And one yawning lion that, if you listen carefully, can be heard as it raps its claws on the shattered mosaic and waits, and waits, and waits…