Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Of course, my Prince,” Bordan said. “I am sure they will always follow your directives. It is they who will be dealing with the people at large and what they say to each subordinate will work its way down to them. Rumours and stories, those which we’ve worked to control, can make your rule easier or more difficult.”

  “Then better to be about amongst the people, letting them see the truth,” Alhard said.

  “We are at a dangerous time, my Prince.”

  “And I am wearing the armour you insisted upon and we have guards,” Alhard pointed out, his voice taking on an edge of irritation. “Where is this unrest you mentioned most pronounced, General?”

  “We have much of it contained, my Prince,” Bordan said.

  “But where, General?”

  “The southern quarter, adjacent to the docks.”

  “The Fishers? Where the statue is?”

  “Yes, my Prince,” Bordan said, surprised. “I was not aware you knew so much of the city.”

  The Prince’s high-pitched laugh rang out through the street. Two soldiers turned as they marched, but a barked order had them facing the front once more.

  “My father made me study, General. I know each area of the city and trade for which it is named,” Prince Alhard said. “However, I have visited very little. This is my city, General Bordan, the heart of the Empire my father ruled and has passed to me.”

  “Cohort Timet,” Bordan said, “what is the current situation in the Fishers?”

  “Tense, General,” Timet, a thin man upon which the armour he wore looked too large, replied. “Though we have increased patrols and it is the calmest it has been.”

  “Safe enough?”

  “That would be hard to say, General. The city is nervous, and the people are talking about the Emperor’s death. They’re worried and the delay in the coronation is only increasing their fears.” Timet leaned forward and nodded in the direction of the Prince whose gaze was elsewhere. “Everyone wants the Prince to take the throne without delay.”

  “I’m sure they do, Cohort,” Bordan said, acknowledging the unspoken words. There were factions in the city, amongst the people and the nobility, who had not been happy under the old Emperor’s rule. They would take the chance to make their feelings known. “Prince Alhard, we can visit the Fishers should you wish.”

  “I thought that was my order, General,” Alhard said, surprise in his tone as he turned back to face Bordan. “I did say that was where I wished to go, and my wishes are to be taken as commands, are they not?”

  “Of course, my Prince. However, your safety is our prime concern,” Bordan replied, adding a short bow from his saddle. “Cohort, lead the way.”

  As Timet called out orders, Bordan checked the position of his sword hilt. It felt good to have the weight on his hip and his own lorica hamata encasing his chest. A shield would have been welcome but would have felt too much like heading off to war, and a battle in the city was the last thing he wanted. The soldiers were, as always, dressed for battle and the people expected that, welcomed it as normal. However, it would not be seemly for the General or the heir to the throne to go about kitted out for war. It would send the wrong message.

  Around them, Sudrim went about its business. The tall, ornate buildings of the nobles gave way to the shorter, plainer homes and businesses of the merchants then to the single storey dwellings of the clerks, administrators, and money counters as they began to descend from the hill upon which the palace sat.

  Citizens moved aside as the patrol approached, the soldiers with their spears and shields forging a path for the horses which followed. The scent of the sea rose to meet them, and the homes grew in size once more as the slope levelled off. Here were the factors and warehouses, the trading houses, markets, and navigating it all, like the great sharks of the open water, would be the Emperor’s tax collectors, hated and feared in equal measure.

  Through the buildings, Bordan caught a glimpse of the tall masts of ships at harbour. The source of Duke Abra’s wealth and power. His horse flicked its head, and it took an effort of will to relax his grip on the reins. A deep breath, letting the salt air wash away the fetid scent of rotting fish, rubbish, and anger.

  “We turn here, General,” Cohort Timet said.

  The soldiers led them along a road which headed off at right angles and ran parallel, though a few streets away, to the docks. The street narrowed and Bordan felt the weight of stares upon him. Expecting rotten fruit, a stone, or an arrow between his shoulder blades at any moment, he kept his hands on the reins and away from his sword.

  “The Fishers is just ahead, General,” Timet said. “Are we sure we wish to visit the market… the statue this morning?”

  “We are, Cohort,” Alhard said in a loud, clear voice. “I believe I was clear in my wishes.”

  “Of course, my Prince,” Timet said, a tremor in his voice and Bordan noted the way the man’s eyes twitched and throat reddened.

  “It will be fine, Cohort,” Bordan assured him. “Lead us through the district. Any information you can give on landmarks, buildings, or how trouble here has been dealt with, would be very much appreciated.”

  “Yes, General,” Timet said, the words whistling out between clenched teeth, before he called to the soldiers around them. “Tighten up the ranks. Keep a watch out.”

  “Where is the statue, Cohort?” Alhard asked. “My father spoke of the statue to an old Emperor, the founder of this very city.”

  “It is in the district market, Prince Alhard,” Timet replied. “I believe it is to one of the early Emperors, when the city was smaller. If I had known earlier that it was to be our final destination, I would have made better preparations.”

  “Didas,” Alhard said, waving away the officer’s excuses. “Emperor Didas. The fourth or fifth Emperor. It was he who moved the capital to Sudrim. Constructed a fleet of ships to carry the court across the seas from the southern continent and secured the trade routes.”

  “He founded the city?” Timet asked, leaning forward in his saddle.

  “Yes, Cohort,” Alhard answered with a chuckle. “There was, I seem to remember from the interminable scrolls one of my tutors made me read, a town or perhaps just a small village already here. Didas expanded it and began the building of the palace and castle. I would very much like to see the statue of my ancestor, Cohort. Lead us there.”

  “As you wish, Prince Alhard,” Timet said.

  Bordan glanced across at the Cohort. He sat straighter in his saddle, the rebuke forgotten or forgiven and a look of pride upon his face. A lowly soldier spoken to by the heir to the throne as almost an equal had given the man a sense of worth. It was a trick Alhard’s father had deployed with the troops, a sharing of knowledge, a conversation, a meeting of minds, and they had loved him for it. Perhaps, Alhard had inherited some of the skills he would need to rule. For the first time since the Emperor’s death, Bordan found a spark of hope in his heart.

  The flow of people increased as they approached the market and the soldiers in the lead began calling out to clear the way. There were angry mutterings and a few shouted insults, but they meant nothing to the troops and the Prince, to his credit, ignored them all. No one would ever have knowingly spoken to him in such tones, and when the people realised who rode amongst them the shouts dwindled to a sullen silence.

  The market here was not the permanent structures of the docks or the wealthier areas. Some had set up tents and awnings from which to sell their wares. Others, more transient and desperate, had spread blankets upon the ground which they covered with scattered belongings, hoping someone would offer them a penny so they could feed their families.

  “We’ll need to dismount,” the Cohort said. “The horses won’t be able to get through the stalls to the statue.”

  Bordan swung his legs, wincing at the ache in his hips and frowning at the way his muscles trembled as his feet met the earth. Getting old and out of shape, he thought and rested his hand on the sword hilt, angling it for
a quick draw in an unconscious gesture.

  “Lead the way, Cohort,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. The groups of soldiers and the Prince began to pick their way through the crowd.

  “Meat for sale, fresh yesterday.”

  “Trinkets and jewels.”

  “Cloth. Best you’ll get.”

  “Spices and herbs.”

  “A penny for the bread.”

  Sellers crowded around the soldiers, the aroma of wealth which wafted from Prince Alhard drawing them all closer with the promise of profit. Their shouts and imprecations to buy grew louder.

  “We will soon have a riot on our hands,” Timet said, casting a nervous glance at the crowd.

  Bordan nodded, wary of the press of people and the growing demands to buy, to spend, to give a little to the poor. In the centre of the pocket, surrounded by the soldiers, the Prince’s face wore a smile almost beatific. General Bordan took a step closer, hand not leaving the scabbard of his sword and noted the way the Prince’s eyes swept the crowd, soaking in the faces and noise. There was no fear, no tremor or nervous tick, no sweat upon his brow. He is enjoying it, Bordan realised, he thinks they are here for him, not for his money.

  “It is just through here,” Timet said as the soldiers rapped the butts of their spears upon the stone and clashed their shields with the hafts. Around them the crowd began to part a little, enough for the group to move forward.

  They emerged from the stalls and tents into a small clearing set about a low wall which contained a pond of stagnant water. From the centre rose a statue, carved in dirt-smudged stone. It depicted a man dressed in the ancient fashion, a toga gathered around his waist and draped over the leather cuirass which covered his chest. The statue’s legs were bare, the man’s hand upraised and pointing. Bordan followed the direction of the outstretched finger and knew that way lay the palace. Didas’s head was encircled by a crown of laurel leaves.

  However, the statue had not been well treated. It was missing an arm and its feet were covered in the green brown sludge of dirty water. Straps and ropes had been wound around its body to secure the thick pole which rose above the Emperor’s head. From this, awnings were tied which stretched across the pool and made up the first rows of market stalls.

  “Who has done this?” A strident voice, full of outrage, rang out in the clearing.

  All eyes, soldiers, and citizens alike, turned towards the source. Prince Alhard stood with his own finger pointing not in the direction of his palace but at the statue.

  “Who has defiled my ancestor? Who is so craven, so unthinking, as to blind the rest of the city to its founder? Who drags his memory through the sludge and mess of this stagnant water? Who has tied their profit to his memory and uses his stature for their own ends?”

  Bordan watched as the Prince’s eyes were consumed with anger and rage. He saw Alhard’s finger tremble and his lips peel back from gritted teeth.

  “You have.” The Prince turned on the spot, to point at the stall owners and people of the market. “Such affront cannot be allowed to stand. Tear it down, General. Tear it all down. Arrest those men. Arrest them.”

  Spittle flew from the Prince’s mouth. Where a moment ago he had seemed to be enjoying the crush of the crowd, the presence of the people calling to him, now that man was gone and in his place was a tower of rage. Red-faced and the tendons in his neck showing clear and proud against stretched skin, mouth open shouting orders.

  “General?” Timet said, stepping to his side.

  “My Prince, we can take down the awnings and return the statue to its former glory,” Bordan began, eyeing the fearful crowd and soldiers who looked to him for direction. “Given another day of preparation and we would have cleared the marketplace for your visit.”

  “Bordan, you can see what they have done. It should not have been allowed in the first place. Tear them down, scatter the market. I forbid them ever to use this space again.”

  “These people earn their living here,” Bordan tried to point out as the murmurs in the marketplace grew louder.

  “They can earn it elsewhere,” Alhard countered. “Or they can starve for what they have done. A punishment for their neglect and abuse of my ancestor.”

  “My Prince,” Bordan tried again, struggling to keep his voice low and calm but still be heard above the crowd, “the people have used this square as a market for centuries. It is their livelihood and how they feed their families. I agree,” he added hastily as the Prince’s furious eyes turned on him, “that the statue has been poorly treated, but we can remedy that now and into the future.”

  “General, I want those awnings down and this square cleared forever.” Alhard pointed at the obscured statue. “It will become a place of honour in the city. All Emperors should come here to remember how we began. It will not now or in the future be used as a marketplace by these…” Alhard waved his hand towards the stall holders who were being held back behind a line of soldiers, “…people.”

  The first stone sailed out from the crowd, bouncing on the stones by the Prince’s feet. Both men looked down upon it as it came to a halt by a market stall. The next landed on an awning then more followed, as did scraps of fruit, sticks, and anything the crowd could find.

  “Get the Prince out of here!” Bordan called, drawing his sword and once again wishing for his shield. He looked to the Prince who stood staring at the angry mob who were pushing forward, trying to break through the line of soldiers. “When you are safe, my Prince, we will return to do your bidding.”

  “General,” Alhard said, “what is happening?”

  “Timet, get them moving!” Bordan shouted.

  The crowd were screaming. Many tried to barge through the small alleys between stalls and others simply trampled their way out. At the front and to the sides, the soldiers laid about themselves with their pila, though Bordan was pleased to note they used the hafts and not the sharp heads of their weapons.

  “To the horses,” Timet ordered. “Look smart and keep tight ranks.”

  As they emerged from the awnings, the first stones began to fall.

  “Raise shields,” Timet shouted. “Quick time.”

  The missiles bounced from the wooded shields and Bordan drew his cloak above the head of the unresisting Prince. With luck, they would make it out in one piece and few citizens would be harmed. But luck was never a weapon a good soldier relied upon.

  He did not see the stone, but it struck him a sharp hammer blow to his temple and blood began to flow down his face. His vision swam and he stumbled, his hands refusing to come up and block his fall.

  “I’ve got you, General.” Hands grabbed him and he heard the voices fade as the world dimmed.

  XII

  The Magician

  Ten years ago:

  He screamed. The moment the door opened and before he was even aware of taking a breath, he screamed.

  The man possessed a livid scar running down one side of his face and moved with a limp. A grimace pulled at the scar, closing one eye and drawing a snarl from his lip.

  “Don’t go scaring the lad, Gressius,” said a gentler voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  Emlyn’s voice cut through his concentration, slicing apart the threads of thought which bound the construct he had spent the last three turns of the timer building. His grasp on the magic, the tiny motes which danced and cavorted, fled, and it collapsed. A sigh escaped his lips and his shoulders slumped.

  “What were you doing?” she repeated when he looked up at her.

  “Practising,” Kyron said, taking a square of cloth from his tunic and wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Magic?”

  “What else?” He unfurled his legs and stretched them out across the carpet of pine needles which shrouded the earth beneath.

  “What can you do with magic?”

  He stopped shuffling, trying to find a comfortable position, and favoured her with another look. “Why do you want to know?”

  S
he stepped towards the fire and sat down, moving some branches out of the way. “I’m interested.”

  “You don’t have magicians?” He squinted at her outlined in the flames. Was she trying to get information to take back to the tribes? At the outset, in the Gymnasium, he had heard talk of magicians amongst the tribes, though no one seemed to know much. There were legends and myths from the pacification of the tribes to the west, but that was so long ago they could not be relied upon.

  “Not like you or Padarn,” she offered, drawing a stick towards her and placing the edge of her knife against it.

  “What is it you want to know then? I will tell you what I can, if you’ll tell me of your magicians,” Kyron said. No learning was ever wasted and sharing knowledge was the path to true understanding: two of Padarn’s many teachings.

  “What can you do with your magic? Is it useful?”

  “Everyone is a bit different,” Kyron began, “but the only real limit is imagination and force of will.”

  “Will?”

  “I can’t think of a better word,” he admitted. “To get the magic to do what you want, create fire, lift an object, or whatever, you have to make it do it.”

  “Make it? Is your magic alive?” The shavings from her whittling were piling up before her.

  “No,” Kyron said, confused for a moment. He shrugged, “I don’t think so. It is a natural force, something that’s always been here.”

  “And you can control it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But other people cannot. Why?”

  He frowned. “We don’t know. Some people are born with the gift, the ability, and others aren’t. It is just the way it is.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Who can use your magic? How do you find out who has this gift and who does not?” She stopped whittling for a moment and fixed him with a questioning stare.

  “The Gymnasium has a test,” Kyron said. “If you pass, you have the gift.”

  “And you passed,” Emlyn nodded. “How many people do they test?”

  “Not very many,” he admitted.