Iron and Flame

by Alex Morgenstern

  “Well, if you say so,” Elkas said. “Let’s get our horses ready. It’s time to go back home.”

  Chapter XXVI – Last Journey Home

  Cladius did not let anyone know, not even his closest associates, not even the director of the hemp plantation where he often helped to prepare compost, not even Zita, mistress embroiderer, who was working hard to train a new batch of uninterested apprentices. Cladius did not even tell his servants.

  For months on end, he had worked hard every day and night, trying to get people to work on the old hemp fields. He had worked himself off like to increase the production. He had brought foreign blacksmiths to the village, but none of them could replicate the old craftsmanship of Gadalian art. The purported apprentices were too amateur even to produce anything of quality. The name of Adachia, once synonymous with luxurious artefacts had sunk to the nadir of imperial inventories. And yet, he kept trying hard, at least, to keep it afloat.

  He did not let anyone know that he was leaving. He took a few round trips to Tharcia, carrying his own luggage, no servants by his side, just the driver of his carriage. That part was routine, but when he knew Florianus had ridden to the East with his best cavalrymen, he knew it was his chance to go back home. He reached the old Provincial Capital of Tharcia, thousands of miles to the South. A happy town with bricks of concrete and stone, with old hellenian pillars and an industry that could boast to be strong, though modest. He did not meet with the city’s prefect, but quietly slid payment to his driver to leave him close to the Western City gate. There, he paid for a carpentum with a long wooden body, an arched roof top and iron wheels, guided by an old Thracian with olive skin and, a pointed hat and a thick white moustache.

  He packed his light luggage, and a few gifts for his children, paid the driver with a bag of silver coins and set off on the main road.

  As the carriage advanced through the miles long road, and its wheels made a grinding sound so terrible it could wake the dead, but Cladius was so used to it he could even sleep. Its price, however, was to wake up with a stiff neck.

  “You’re not from here, are you?” the old man asked. Cladius leaned out of the body of the carriage, with a smile. The man’s clothes were simple, a plain white tunic. His hat, Cladius recognized as the ones freed slaves wore.

  “Well, I’m from the capital.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, I apologize if I offended you.”

  “No, you did not offend me.”

  The man did not utter a word. He picked up the lines and pulled them lightly, altering his hand grip to make his horses turn.

  “Are you saying it because of my skin?” Cladius asked.

  “I . . .” The man did not know how to ask. Cladius smiled, but avoided laughing.

  “Yes, my grandparents are from Habesha, a great kingdom south of the middle sea.”

  “Oh, I see, a great kingdom.”

  “Yes, very far away. Never conquered.”

  The man turned his head back.

  “So how did you end up as a patrician?”

  Cladius was not only a patrician, but a senator, at the top of the Itruschian elite, however, he did not believe that made him any better, only that it gave him more responsibility with his people.

  “Well, we did not live in the independent kingdoms of the south, but in the north. It was part of Itruschia. My father escaped from the south, then grew in his influence. Ended up directing the commerce between the independent Kingdom of Aksum and Lybiah. He became so rich that they had to give him citizenship, he sent us to be educated in Itruschia, and the rest is history.”

  “Good, good.”

  “He was a slave before, too,” he said.

  The old man took a deep breath.

  “I honestly don’t care much about gold. I just want to live an honest and peaceful life. But to each his own.” The man glanced back at him.

  “Yeah.”

  “So that made you a patrician?”

  “Part of it was his genius, part of it was marrying right. And more than right, he had five wives.”

  “One after the other? I’m on my third.”

  “Simultaneously.”

  “Oh, that happens.”

  “My name is Cladius Duodecimus. What about you, good sir?”

  “Me? Grabus, no more, no less.”

  Grabus remained silent for a moment, guiding the horses to the side with a light flick of his whip.

  “So you’re the twelfth child?” he asked.

  “I am. Twelfth of sixteen. I was born of Kletus Salis Mercator and Cornelia Aebutia.”

  “Oh, so you’re from the Aebutia family. Important family. So that’s how you really became patrician,” the man said with a hint of irony.

  “And, that could be. Really, I was just one lucky fellow in a way.”

  “I have lived here all my life, worked and saved just to be free. That’s all I wanted, to be free.”

  “I wish all men were free,” Cladius said, looking out the window.

  “You’re patrician and saying that? That’s new.”

  “I’ve seen things.”

  “Who hasn’t seen things? You may have seen, but you haven’t lived.”

  Those words felt a bit like the sting of a bee.

  “I can’t deny that.” He really had grown in wealth, not knowing misery, and yet he felt a deep compassion for others. He wasn’t sure if it was his father’s understanding of life, or his instructors and their stoic philosophy. At least, he thought, he could bring freedom to the people of his land.

  “And what were you doing here, Cladius Duodecimus?”

  “I used to work with the Tharcian governor, with Larius Quintus.”

  “I heard he died.”

  “Yes, honestly, don’t say this to anyone, but he made a big mess. A big mess. That village sunk to the lowest point in Hades, and there’s no way to get it back. A shame, really, I was working with them for a long time. They destroyed the people, the economy, etc.”

  “I never understood why the governor wanted to settle in that province.”

  “He did it because he had a project that failed.” Cladius, like a million times before, felt his heart sink with what had happened. Part of him thought of the financial losses, which made him shudder in guilt, but the horror that was committed against innocent peoples had surely sunk Larius in Phlegethon, the fiery river that flowed living flames in the depths of Tartarus.

  “So are you running away?” Grabus asked.

  “No,” Cladius responded instinctively, raising his head.

  “If I were you I’d start a life somewhere else.”

  “No, it’s not that, I came here because of my responsibility to them. I couldn’t let this happen like this, and, listen, I cannot tell anyone what went on, it’s horrible. It’s horrible. I wish I could turn back time and repair what had been done, return things to how they were, but that damned Larius wanted to kill the people he wanted to kill, and everybody believed them. Can you believe that? Everybody in the damned Senatorial Hall believed his lying mouth.”

  “Things happen,” the man said.

  Cladius leaned back on the carriage walls. The man was not as curious as he seemed to be. Cladius loved talking, but his own rant had left him with a bitter taste. There were other issues that weighed on his heart like an iron yoke. His wife Lukrezia and his children. He expected her to throw the biggest tantrum in both their lives, but he yearned to hold his children in his arms. Five months was not too long a time, but he wondered how tall his children had become, and what new words little Lenna had learned.

  The travel was uneventful, Cladius slept at resting homes along the road, alone, and talking to travelling merchants. There, he heard of strange news and nightmarish visions spoken by oracles in distant cities. They said that the Sacred Itruschian Empire was at its last moments. Cladius couldn’t believe his ears. Who would say that? Those foolish fears had prevailed fifteen years prior, during the height o
f the Barbarian Invasions, but at that point, the Empire was stronger than ever. Nothing could destroy the biggest empire in the world. Nothing could make it collapse.

  Or could it?

  Chapter XXVII - The Prisoners

  Florianus marched back toward the village, followed by his victorious company of three hundred men. The caravan advanced, their dozens of soldiers, their infantry hoplites and their battering rams. A cage-shaped carriage rolled in the middle of the caravan, like those that carried beasts from the Southern Continents. But in that journey, it carried women and men. All of them bound like cattle, no one of them killed, all spared, their lives preserved as much as that of their own soldiers, to an end more grandiose and meaningful, a vision so big, it could not be fathomed.

  Those beings were symbols of something, of chaos, of resistance against order, and as such, they had to be made examples. If the situation had been normal, he would have executed them with no pomp nor ceremony. A simple beheading in the town square would do, before the relatives and friends of the condemned. But that would not be necessary. The women of Adachia, at that point, although resentful and cruel, were as dangerous as a vengeful bee. No, Florianus had greater plans. He would ship some of them to the centre of the Empire, to the great Itruschia of the Thousand Pillars. There the son of the traitor would be scourged in public, would be skinned, impaled, flayed and crucified or suffer whichever fate his executioner decided. The woman who murdered her own husband would be sent to a rebellious province, maybe the one in the South that had rebellions every year, to be presented in the Great Circus, or maybe to be devoured by beasts or dishonoured in public. He was no torturer, he would leave that to the experts.

  And that mute that had killed three men, he would keep to himself. Maybe, he thought, he would give him to the legionaries, those who had lost comrades in arms by the hand of that murderous youth.

  He stopped his trot to see how his prisoners were doing, pulled the reins while his company continued their slow march, and gallantly advanced toward the cage. If he moved too fast, the cheek guards of his helmet pressed against his wounded ear, now bound in bandages. He passed by the cage with a grin, and the prisoners glared at him. If the wooden bars did not divide them, they would have attempted to maul him alive. Savages. He could only laugh.

  The woman who fought him at the camp was intriguing. Her physical features were not that common among Gadalians, but reflected an eastern origin. He glanced at her and smiled slyly, her dark hair dropping down on the hills of her chest. Her body was beautifully formed, and he would admire it from afar. How would it feel to be desired by such a woman. An enemy.

  He spurred again. He had a few mistresses before. His late wife did not mind, but that woman’s image was like wine on his veins. Florianus took a deep breath and spurred, but couldn’t help looking back.

  And yet, he could not forgive himself. Desire was strong, and overwhelmed his body. And yet, they were enemies. His mind went through different paths. He could not even take that flesh by force. He kept riding.

  “Sir, Overseer. Are you okay?” Julius, the centurion, asked him.

  “Yes,” Florianus answered, without looking back. He did not return to the front; instead, he pulled the reins, turning his horse around, and rode back, through the lines of riders that surrounded the carriage. He trotted toward the slave, who walked next to a donkey loaded with bags of provisions.

  “Sir.” The slave bowed his head low.

  “Avlix,” Florianus muttered his name. “We have to have a talk.” Avlix couldn’t wait. They were already close to the borderlands. He had to issue an order as soon as possible. “We had that pending talk. Now, confirm with me that you’re right.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Avlix said. “I am certain that the woman will march back with an army. All the barbarians knew that was where she was going. Now how many men, and how long it will take, we do not yet know.”

  “Good,” he said. But the thought remained in his mind, hammering away like a blacksmith. The slave did not know if the girl had been successful in recruiting others. That would be seen shortly, but for that he had to prepare himself. He could not be caught off guard by a surprise attack, and the watchmen at the border wall had proven slow to carry the information.

  Florianus eyed his prisoners again. Although their execution would be saved for a later date, a good interrogation wouldn’t do harm when they got to the village. Florianus had made a fatal mistake, he had left no survivors except that slave. He could have gathered information on the barbarian army the girl had set out to contact.

  “My lord, I . . .” The slave kept his head low, but his voice was loud, as if pleading for life. “I beg you to consider my request.”

  “We’ll see,” Florianus said. He did not trust slaves. He’d had too many bad experiences with them. No matter how sincere, how lowly and submissive they acted, Florianus knew they could turn and slaughter them in instants, especially if they were as persistent as Avlix.

  “Now tell me, Avlix. Tell me about that woman again.”

  “Yes . . .” Avlix lowered his voice. “They call her Kassara, and she was their commander.”

  “You told me that, tell me more . . . Did she talk of a family? Children? Daughters in the village?”

  “I overheard them, yes,” the slave said. “She had a husband and a child or two. The husband was a warrior, the children, I don’t know how old. Not very old, not yet men, it seemed.”

  “I see.”

  “My lord, may I ask why her?”

  “Slave! Do not be so insolent. You are still a slave, behave as such or I’ll cut your head, bleach your skull and put it on my bookshelf.”

  “Understood,” he said, his skin turning pale.

  “What else do you know?” Florianus asked.

  “I . . . Well, you see the man with the brown hair? The tall one?”

  “Yes, he’s a traitor, and grandson of an old hexer. What about him?”

  “He’s a real magi.”

  “A magi?”

  “Yes, my lord. I saw him use a spell to bring her back to life. The woman died. She stopped breathing. We were all held as prisoners when it happened. She . . . died. And he did some enchantment and she came back to life.”

  Florianus narrowed his eyes, staring at the carriage and the head of the young traitor. His shoulder and side of his head leaned against the wooden beams. He was muttering something, like a prayer or a spell. Florianus believed in magic, and those barbarians were famous for summoning evil demons and dragon spirits that brought havoc on the world. He had to be careful. Then, he caught a glimpse of something else. The young dark haired boy remained hidden between the two women. His back hunched, looking down.

  “Sire . . .” Avlix continued. “Any information, anything you require of me. I will let you know. And please, when . . . When it is your will, please grant me my freedom.”

  Florianus couldn’t help but laugh.

  “I told you, Avlix. We’ll see.”

  Florianus trotted toward the chariot.

  “Stop! Stop!” he yelled at the soldier that was driving the carriage, he glanced back, confused, and halted his vehicle. Florianus advanced and situated his horse next to it. He clapped his hands, calling the attention of his prisoners.

  “Hey, boy, what do you have in there!” he yelled. The entire group looked at him through the bars, their necks and hands all bound with chains. The boy’s frown was prominent. “Yes, you, little scoundrel, I’m talking to your ugly face. Now, get up and show me what you were doing!” he said.

  The boy stared at him with narrowed eyes and tensed teeth, pure hatred emanating from his pupils.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you! Now get up or I’ll make the boys put you on the rack.”

  The boy pulled out his hand, showing a small die.

  “You lying bastard. Boys!” He pointed at two soldiers who were marching closely, taking the key out of his pocket. “I want you to go
inside and register the boy.”

  The entire company halted, and the chatter of soldiers ceased immediately. Four soldiers stood behind him, and Florianus opened the cell with a creak.

  “Nobody move!” he shouted, pulling himself into the carriage. The prisoners remained pressed against the bars, while he and two guards made their way in. Each step creaked under his sandals. He stood before the child. “Come on!” Both guards grabbed the child by the arm, he contorted violently and stepped hard on the floor, his foot above an old blanket.

  “Move, you scum of the earth!” The soldiers pulled him.

  “Leave him!” Florianus heard a female voice ring through. He turned, and saw one of the murderous rebels, a woman with dark blonde hair holding a baby in her arms. He looked at her with disgust.

  “What is this woman saying?" Florianus uttered with hate in his soul. He strode, the men and women of the chariot staring in awe, as he advanced. The woman turned slightly, shielding her baby.

  Florianus would not have it, he reached forth and pulled the woman's body toward him, she held the baby tightly, fear forming in her brow. Florianus reached for her bosom and yanked the baby away, pulling it by the legs.

  “Stop!” he heard her allies scream, men and women alike, and the sound of clanking metal chains. The baby started crying. Florianus glanced at the creature, his eyes sparkling blue, its body still small, almost insignificant.

  “Let the baby go or you'll regret it!” he heard a voice he recognized. It was the fighting woman. Florianus grabbed the baby tight. The prisoners struggled to get close, but their necks and hands were chained. He held the baby, with both arms, pulling it toward his bronze cuirass. Its cries became as loud as an iron carriage on a rocky road.

  “Back off!” said one of the soldiers, holding his spear forward, threatening the prisoners.

  “Now you people listen very carefully!” he called. “I had no intention of harming this child, but if you hide things from me, he'll be gone too.”

  “Leave him! He has done nothing!” the tall boy said.