TUMULTUS
THE ULTIMATE SPOILS
Nathan R. Mancini
Published by Park Street Publishing Pty Ltd, Australia.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and events portrayed are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or locations, living or dead, past or present, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © Nathan Mancini 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the publisher, except for reviews who may quote brief passages only.
First eBook edition 2021
ISBN: 978-0-6489490-1-5
Map & cover art by Tomasz Madej, Fictive Designs.
For commentaries and updates in the Tumultus series visit:
NathanRMancini.com
Special thanks owed to the Haemophilia Foundation Australia.
To all my friends and family whose talents and support made this dream possible, with special mentions owed to my wife, thank you.
***
For my grandfather, for keeping my imagination and love of history burning strong.
Contents
Map of Tumultus
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Epilogue
Prologue
‘If a man does not strike first, he will be the first struck.’
Arcemite Proverb
He ran down the corridor, lungs burning, sandals echoing on the marble floor. Elder Liberius, custodian of the Senate house and keeper of its lore, slumped awkwardly against the wall as the strength of his limbs deserted him.
He had dropped his staff back in the lower passages and now regretted leaving it in his urgency. His heart pounded in his chest as if it would explode and his legs felt as if they could not carry him another step. No more, his ancient body begged of him, no more.
Wheezing, Liberius forced himself on. He had to warn someone. Trembling, he pushed one foot in front of the other to get himself moving again. The alarm must be raised. That is all that matters, he told himself. We must reclaim what was stolen.
Stolen – the word was as sacrilegious as it was believed to have been impossible. Arcem’s most treasured artefact, a piece of history from before the cataclysm of The Fall – gone. Though he knew it to be true, the knowledge was just as unfathomable now as it had been the moment he had uncovered the bloodied remains of the vault’s guards that morning.
How could this have happened in the heart of the citadel? The thought played constantly through Liberius’ mind along with countless other unanswered questions.
Such concerns were irrelevant at that moment. All that mattered was to raise the alarm and lock down the citadel before the artefact vanished forever. The prospect of such a loss spurred the elder’s pace back into a run.
The movement was as foreign to his hunched frame as it was to the usually tranquil passageways of the Senate house surrounding him. It was not long before it drew the attention of the guards.
At the end of the corridor a pair of soldiers came into view, their hands ready on the pommels of their swords.
‘Praetorians, thank the gods,’ Liberius sighed, recognising the two guardians of the citadel, distinguished by their full-face helms and long, pearl-white capes over ornate silver armour.
With that, Liberius collapsed.
The two guards drew their swords before running to the fallen Senate Elder. Quickly scanning for any threats in the passageway they knelt over Liberius and attempted to aid his frail person. The elder’s breath was laboured and he lacked the strength to stand.
His eyes, however, burned with purpose.
‘Sound the alarm. The citadel has been breached,’ said Liberius, grabbing the cloak of the closest soldier.
The Praetorians remained silent, their oaths still binding them. The one closest to Liberius tilted his head slightly, uncertain of the old man’s words.
‘Your brothers lie slain in the vaults. Someone has stolen it... The alarm you fools!’ Liberius tried to shout, his voice hoarse from exhaustion.
The two Praetorians exchanged a quick glance. Though not a word was spoken between them or any expression discernible through their helmets, the gravity of the situation clearly dawned on the two.
The guard cradling the fallen Liberius immediately lifted his crooked frame off the floor and began to carry him down the corridor, whilst the other guard sprinted ahead in the direction of the garrison.
By the time Liberius and the guard supporting him finally exited the Senate house and staggered onto the paved courtyard of Victory Square, the citadel was in lockdown.
The immense doors of the gatehouse were closed and barred to the city of Monarx below. Guards lined the walls as if expecting a siege while the citadel bells rang out, sending waves of foreboding across the surrounding suburbs.
The usual sense of wonder offered by the marble surroundings of Victory Square was lost in the presence of a thousand Praetorians standing to attention before the Senate house. Their silver-armoured ranks were as impassive as the sculpted heroes atop the plinths lining the courtyard.
Liberius’ eyes widened at the sight. It was a rare thing indeed to see so many soldiers of the First Legion in one place. Liberius knew there were few moments in Arcem’s long history that had ever required the full mobilisation of these elite protectors of the citadel and that knowledge only emphasised how terrible the cause was that day.
As Liberius and his aiding guardsman descended the steps of the Senate house, a figure broke from the ranks and marched briskly to meet them. The man’s uniform marked him as a Praetorian but as his was the only face not hidden by a helmet, Liberius knew him to be their commander.
His face was a mask of pure indignation and instantly triggered Liberius’ recollection of the man’s name – Atratus. Had the man not already possessed a reputation for bitterness, his expression would have captured the outrage over the crime perfectly.
‘Commander Atratus-’ Liberius panted before being silenced by the raised hand of the legion officer.
‘Tell me what you know Elder, and do not hold back any detail,’ said Atratus. As the commander of the Praetorian Guard his was the only voice in the First Legion not bound to silence.
Liberius inhaled a lungful of air before continuing, partly to ease his panting but mostly to cover his shock at the man’s lack of respect for a venerated senator. Evidently the commander’s reputation was well founded, or maybe all the years of silence ascending the legion ranks had simply led the man to forget how to converse properly, Liberius thought.
Quickly deciding it best not to raise such formalities to a man with his sword drawn, Liberius went straight to the point.
‘The vaults have been breached,’ Liberius began. ‘I was attending to them to perform the daily invocations of warding on the chamber doors when I discovered one had already been opened. The vault lay empty of all its contents, other than the remains of your guards piled inside.’ Liberius’ exhausted body trembled slightly more as the dreadful image resurfaced in his mind. ‘Commander, they have taken it.’
Atratus stared at the old man.
‘Which vault was this? Tell m
e, what has been taken?’ asked Atratus, already fearing the answer but needing to hear it for himself.
‘This was in the southern vaults. They have taken the Spolia Opima,’ said Liberius, his voice but a whisper.
Atratus turned sharply, his long white cape snapping behind at the movement. From the steps of the Senate house he overlooked the assembled Praetorians in the square.
‘Our most sacred relic has been taken from us,’ said Atratus. ‘Scour the city. I want those responsible for this desecration crucified before this day is out!’
***
Deep beneath the city of Monarx, in a chamber lost among the labyrinth of ancient catacombs where prying eyes would never glimpse, Marcus Valerius lay fastened to a surgery table. The cold steel of its surface made his skin shiver and his breathing echoed loudly in his ears. The chiselled features of his naked body glistened slightly with nervous sweat. This was something for which even his years of military service could never have prepared him.
The many days of medical tests and planning prior to this dawn were also of no consolation now that it was finally here. Restricted of movement and near blinded under the harsh light of the room, Marcus prayed. He only hoped the gods could hear him this far below.
Hidden in the subterranean vaults built by the planet’s first peoples before there ever was a city above, this place was as ancient as the contents that now filled the chamber.
Marcus turned his head to better glimpse the vast array of strange equipment lining the concrete walls of the room. Great bulky machines of steel thrummed idly in the corners, waiting to begin. Smaller devices lay closer at hand; their mechanisms linked to the tubes in his arms beeping almost rhythmically and screens flashing with symbols that were completely alien to Marcus.
They said these relics pre-dated The Fall, almost four centuries ago. Each device represented an ancient technology of priceless value. They were the result of many centuries of exploration and campaigning to reclaim them from their historical resting places. Now they represented just a few months’ worth of conspiring to steal from the Senate troves.
Though these artefacts had survived the destruction of The Fall and all the ensuing wars, Marcus found it hard to trust this ancient technology. To believe in the marvel of the planet’s first peoples was one thing but to put his life on the line for it was something else entirely.
Struggling against his restraints, Marcus craned his neck to see as he heard a door open somewhere behind him and several pairs of footsteps enter.
The strong figure of his father came into view, still dressed in his senatorial robes. Behind him came two surgeons, who instantly went about tending to the various machines that surrounded the operating table.
The tallest of the pair, clearly holding the authority of experience, began directing the other surgeon to start the ancient devices in no obvious order. It was almost as if he were working off the memory of having done this operation before. Of course, Marcus knew, that was impossible. No one had tried this surgery for over a hundred years – it had been deemed sacrilegious by the Senate almost immediately after the first fatal attempt. With all subsequent efforts abandoned and the artefact sealed away for what was meant to be eternity, its existence had largely been forgotten as myth. Nevertheless, rumours still shrouded the subject and if queried, old storytellers would speak of a curse presiding over the device that would kill anyone unworthy of its power.
‘Have faith Marcus, it won’t be long before this is all over. Soon enough you will have a gift once reserved only for the gods,’ said Gaius Valerius, his eyes full of the hopes and dreams an ageing father has for his only son. ‘You shall be great, like no other.’
While Marcus heard his father’s words, he found his gaze distracted by the stare of the various instruments around him. Glinting in the harsh light, Marcus saw the vast assortment of scalpels and other cruel-looking implements one of the surgeons was busy setting onto a tray. Am I about to undergo surgery or torture? Marcus wondered, trying to brace his mind for what was to come.
It was then that the other surgeon came into view pushing a large trolley and in that moment Marcus finally saw it – the Spolia Opima.
Laid out beside him, its metal segments formed an almost perfect replica of the human skeleton. Though the pieces of its alien alloy were much thinner than human bone, they looked unbelievably dense, with a surface that shimmered like liquid. How mighty the people before The Fall must have been, to leave behind such arcane technology, thought Marcus as he sensed the power locked within its metal form.
Promising the power to defy the effects of aging, the Spolia Opima was Arcem’s greatest treasure. A relic so great, its use had been forbidden by law under pain of death. Not merely because of its sacred and cursed aspects – sacred for being a hallowed piece of reclaimed history and cursed for its previously fatal application – but because no man could be trusted with it.
Although the promise of immortality was, ironically, to die for, Marcus felt cold at the thought of it. The decree of a long-dead Senate council did not perturb him nearly as much as the technology did. He looked at the array of augmentations that would soon be fused into his system and shivered.
He knew all the details of the procedure and the extraordinary potential of a successful operation, but like so many others, failed to understand the how. Almost all they knew about it came from legends passed down through the ages, its technology unknown and untested. However, there were two things that all the histories of Tumultus agreed upon without exception; that the Spolia Opima would bestow an unnaturally long life to its host and that there was only one in existence.
Marcus remembered how the idea of it had sounded like a blessing when his father revealed his plan so many months ago, but now doubt was creeping in.
‘Do not fear Marcus, you are young and strong,’ said Gaius Valerius, as if sensing his son’s mind. He then turned and looked to the surgeons who stood waiting. ‘Xaphia, Apollonius, it is time to begin.’
***
Various machines around the room suddenly hummed to life. After this they would never be used again. They would have to be destroyed to remove any trace of the surgery, for there could be no evidence of this day given the punishment for the use of such sacred technology.
Such an unfortunate waste of history, Gaius Valerius thought as he left the room. The gods will understand its necessity though, they must.
Before he had made it halfway down the corridor, the screeching whine of a surgical saw began to pierce the silence. He could not help but shudder.
I
‘Great empires are not maintained by timidity.’
Chronicles of Tumultus
As Marcus stirred back into consciousness, so too did the pain. His mind throbbed as his body felt the ache of what had transpired in the operation.
Marcus opened his eyes but his vision did not return. He was in darkness. For a moment a wave of panic washed over him. Was he dead?
There was pain, so he must be alive. Pain he could deal with. Pain can be overcome, Marcus thought, remembering the lessons drummed into him during his service in the legions.
The shock subsided as Marcus reined in his thoughts. He was alive. His senses told him that much, for each passing moment his mind registered more feeling of his limbs. Movement returned to his hands and feet and Marcus was rewarded with a sting of fresh pain from his aching muscles.
I am alive, he thought, gasping for air. Alive but blinded.
A sense of grief returned at the prospect of such a fate.
Had something gone wrong? Perhaps the device really was cursed and this was the bane of the gods for being unworthy? Marcus felt his spirits crushed under such thoughts.
Please no, he begged. Gods give me pain and adversity but do not leave me as another cripple lying in the alleyways.
Though tremendously sore, he sat up and reached to touch his face. Doing so he realised he was no longer restrained to the surgery table.
‘Rela
x Marcus,’ said a voice he recognised as his father’s.
Marcus turned his head in the direction of sound.
‘Father I cannot see!’ he exclaimed.
‘That is alright, it is just the bandages,’ said his father.
Marcus reached up and felt the ribbons of cloth around his head and began to wrestle them off. He felt a pair of hands aid him in the task of unwinding the heavy bandages.
Once free his vision was flooded with the harsh light of the operating theatre. It took a while for his eyes to focus, but Marcus could make out the blurred figure of his father beside him.
‘Better now?’ said his father.
Marcus nodded, silently rejoicing the return of his senses.
He looked around, taking in his surroundings.
The room was empty of all its great machines save for the few still connected to his body – devices that would soon be destroyed also to ensure no trace of the surgery remained.
‘Welcome back, son,’ said Gaius Valerius. ‘How are you feeling?’
Marcus looked down. His body was strapped with bandages and his mind ached with pain.
‘Alive,’ said Marcus, managing a smile between breaths. ‘Tender, but alive.’
‘This should ease the pain,’ hissed a voice that could only belong to Xaphia, whose tall, slender person came into view next to Gaius. Marcus felt a slight sting as she pierced his arm with a needle.
Within seconds the pain settled and he breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You’ll be pleased to know everything was a complete success,’ said Gaius. ‘It would seem the power of the Spolia Opima has graced you with an unexpectedly fast degree of regenerative healing. You have awoken far sooner than originally expected.’
The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1) Page 1
