Ironroot (Tales of the Empire)

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Now, gentlemen… if you’ll all step the requisite twenty paces back and give us some room.”

  The party of officers retreated up the hill a way and took up position with Crino’s men. Cristus flipped his sword around in his hand expertly a few times.

  “Isn’t it said for the modern military that bravery and stupidity are so often aligned in a man.”

  He grinned as he began to slowly circle Varro. The captain started to move likewise dropping his shoulders and holding his sword ready.

  “I’ve got to kill you Cristus, just to stop you talking if nothing else!”

  He stepped forward with lightning speed and lunged out towards Cristus. The prefect laughed and ducked to one side, knocking the blade out of the way with his own sword.

  “Fast, but sloppy and obvious.”

  Varro smiled and circled once more. After a momentary pause, Cristus suddenly twirled back on himself, bringing his blade out in a wide, flashing arc at shoulder height. Varro ducked, but only just in time. The damn contraption Salonius had made might save his life, but it meant he couldn’t bend low enough. Damn it! He would have to adjust. Adapt and adjust, like his friend would.

  “Flashy. Does that impress your friends, Cristus?”

  The prefect smiled an unpleasant smile.

  “Sadly, every move I make tells me something about you. And now I know that you can’t duck. Nasty wound and that evil toxin destroying you from within. I’m surprised you can move. Scortius must have done wonders with you to keep you upright.”

  Varro growled.

  “I’m not going to exchange chit chat with you, Petrus, you piece of shit. Just fight me.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Almost unbelievably fast, the prefect’s sword lashed out and caught Varro a stinging, if minor, blow to the thigh.

  “I’m really trying not to kill you, Varro. I’d like to give the men a bit of spectacle first.”

  “Sir!”

  Cristus’ head snapped round. For a moment Varro wondered whether to take advantage of the distraction, but decided against it. If this was to be done, it had to be done right.”

  “What?” Cristus demanded of the young cavalryman who’d just rode close to the combat and reined in.

  “Sir, marshal Sabian is on his way. He and his guard have just crossed the stream.”

  Varro was pleased to see the prefect’s smug expression slide for a moment.

  “Now we’ll get an audience, Cristus!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marshal Sabian arrived on the scene in spectacular fashion. Though a practical and realistic man, the marshal was well aware of the effect that pomp and splendour could have on a situation when used to its maximum effect. The trumpets calling the army to order were clearly audible before a single man became visible. Then, a few moments later, the standard bearers appeared over the slope, their banners fluttering in the light breeze and displaying the insignia of the marshal, the Northern Provinces, and all four armies under his command.

  At the first blast of the horn and without the need of a command from Cristus, every soldier on the hillside came to attention, and nervously maintained their posture as the standard bearers hove into view, followed in quick succession by the trumpeters and the drummers, beating out a marching cadence. Behind the musicians came Captain Iasus of the marshal’s guard, astride a magnificent black horse that matched his uniform in shade, giving him the appearance of some sorting of avenging spirit from the underworld. Iasus was accompanied by a dozen of his men in full dress uniform who rode in an arrow formation, forming a protective shield around the marshal himself on his white mare. The column went on behind them, with several of Sabian’s senior officers, more of his personal guard and two thousand troops split into four columns, representing the northern armies.

  It was a spectacular and fearsome force to behold and the effect was not lost on the two men facing each other with drawn blades. Regardless of whether Cristus won their melee, the day was now lost to him. Sabian’s force outnumbered the prefect’s by hundreds to one, and the sudden glorious reminder of the marshal’s power and influence would already be melting away the resolve of even Cristus’ most avid supporters. He smiled an odd smile.

  “It appears that my options are diminishing at an alarming rate, Varro.”

  The wounded captain snorted.

  “You have no options, Cristus.”

  “I fear you may be disappointed there, Varro; I make it a point to always have a way out. However, I feel bound to offer you one last time my hand in friendship. We could still walk away today. The marshal could be persuaded to put aside any animosity were the two of us to stand side by side.”

  Varro barked a laugh.

  “No options, Cristus! No way out today.”

  The prefect shook his head sadly.

  “Were I to find myself at the marshal’s mercy today, remember two things, Varro: firstly, I will kill you before I finish. That is not a boast or a threat but a simple statement. I am a better swordsman than you, despite all your frontline experience, and I am fully healthy and rested, while you are dying and weak.”

  He smiled.

  “And secondly, I am a master of politics. I can assure you that when all is done here, I will go on. I shall be leaving the military, of course, but I believe my place in the ruling council is still secure. No matter how sentimental over you Sabian gets and no matter how angry he may be over my dirty little secret, I have tricks up my sleeve and information in hand that will guarantee my safety and my future.”

  “You lying turd!”

  Cristus chuckled.

  “Come, Varro. Do you really think I haven’t planned for this kind of eventuality? That I did not set wheels in motion to protect myself decades ago? It will be a shame to have my commission removed and be mustered out without a triumphal parade and great show, and I daresay one or two of my senior men will have to be sacrificed for the look of the thing, but Sabian is practical and it will be much more trouble to punish me than to promote me, I can assure you.”

  Varro bared his teeth.

  “Then, skill or no skill, I’ll just have to make sure you don’t leave this field, eh?” he growled.

  The two men stood for a long moment, their eyes locked on each other; Cristus’ expression an unreadable mix of smugness and satisfaction, Varro’s a look of pure hatred. Slowly, distrustfully, the pair tore their gaze from each other and looked up at the approaching column of men. The troops of the four armies had begun to move into position in a wide arc with one tip at the wood’s edge and the other at the crest of the hill, enclosing the men on the slope. The standard bearers and musicians had fallen into ranks on either side of the command unit and had ceased their bleating and thumping. In the centre, the black-clad guardsmen settled into a protective cordon behind and alongside their captain and the marshal, who gently walked his steed forward.

  Cristus lowered his sword and gave a crisp military salute as the marshal and his men drew up their horses twenty yards from the combat. Varro merely let his sword drop and nodded a casual greeting.

  The marshal regarded the scene, allowing his gaze briefly to wander to the edge of the woods and scan the ranks of men on the hillside. He sat comfortably in the saddle, his face a blank mask. Cristus appeared not to read anything into this, but Varro had known the marshal on a personal level long enough to see through the mask and recognise the very dangerous current flowing beneath. Sabian was just about as angry as Varro had ever seen him. The marshal spoke in a flat, dead tone.

  “Gentlemen…”

  His expression unreadable, Sabian dismounted and passed his horse’s reins to one of Cristus’ soldiers standing nearby, who took them nervously. Behind him, Captain Iasus and two black-clad sergeants also dismounted and stepped up to join their commander. The marshal clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously as he approached the two combatants.

  “Speak to me. It would appear that two of my senior officers are ready t
o cut each other to pieces and I am very much in two minds as to whether to stop this and have you both locked up or to let you kill each other here and now and solve all my problems.”

  Cristus remained at attention and bowed his head briefly.

  “My lord marshal, there are a number of baseless accusations that have been made against me by men driven by greed and jealousy. You will discover that there is no evidence for any of this bar the hearsay and rumour spread by captain Varro and his cronies. I was on my way to Vengen with my officers to bring this distasteful matter to your attention and resolve any questions when I was waylaid by the necessity of confronting the man over his behaviour. As is good and proper by military law, I was about to bring Varro to justice through trial by combat since violence appears to be the only solution that he understands.”

  Varro let out a mirthful chuckle. Sabian looked across at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Something to add there, captain?” he said in a quiet, yet deadly tone.

  Varro’s laugh stopped, his smile sliding into a feral grin.

  “I believe you’re well aware of my opinions concerning this piece of shit, marshal.”

  Sabian allowed his flat glare to pass across them both before he drew a short breath.

  “Prefect Cristus, I think we’re beyond denials now, so be quiet and wait.” He turned to lay his gaze on the other combatant. “And Varro? I’d need extra hands to count the number of times you’ve broken rules and deliberately disobeyed my orders. I’ve given you a great deal of elbow room due to your condition and your past record, but it stops now. I’m thoroughly sick of the sight of both of you. If you’re determined to carve each other to pieces, I’m more than happy to accommodate you, but you will do it according to military etiquette.”

  Turning his back on them, he issued quiet orders to captain Iasus. Varro watched him warily, the point of his sword wavering. Iasus saluted and strode off.

  “Now,” barked Sabian, “Where is my daughter, Varro?”

  Varro raised his sword and pointed to the woods with it.

  “She and Salonius are watching, sir.”

  “Catilina!” the marshal bellowed angrily.

  The pale, graceful figure of the marshal’s daughter appeared at the edge of the wood, followed by Salonius wearing an expression of hopelessness. For just a moment the lady paused at the altar of Phaianis nearby. The gentle depression in the top was stained red with both wine and blood. Reaching up to her neck and wincing at both the dull ache in her shoulder and her broken fingers, Catilina unclasped the necklace that she wore.

  Varro breathed in deeply. Even at this distance, he recognised the golden chain and locket; Catilina’s most prized possession: a cameo of her mother made the week before she died. Without even a visible hint of regret, she dropped the necklace into the bowl and strode on toward the waiting figure of her father. Salonius stopped for a second to stare at the item and then hurried to catch up.

  “Father,” the young woman said in a business-like tone as she approached. A greeting; no hint of submission.

  “Catilina, look at you. What have they done to you?”

  His daughter raised her head, her back straight and proud.

  “As they say in taverns the world over, father, if you think this is bad, you should see the other man!”

  Varro chuckled for a moment and then clamped his mouth shut.

  “Explain!” the marshal barked, glaring at the captain.

  She sighed.

  “Cristus’ men came for us in the night, father, just like they did at Vengen. I defended myself. Valiantly, I would say. I hurt my fingers; they’ll heal.”

  Sabian shifted his glare to Cristus but said nothing. Finally, grinding his teeth, he turned and bellowed back up the slope.

  “Surgeon! To me!”

  There was a brief commotion among the medical staff and a small group of men came down the slope. Several orderlies ran ahead, coming to a halt at attention close to the marshal. The chief surgeon strode on behind with an air of supreme unconcern and finally sauntered to a halt behind his subordinates.

  Mercurias shunned both the white robes common to private medical practitioners within the Empire and the crisp military uniform of their military counterparts, preferring as his standard mode of dress a casual, often worn and creased grey tunic and breeches bearing no insignia. His personal relationship with both Sabian and the Emperor was deep enough that no question would ever be raised over his behaviour, which was, some said, a damned good thing, given the old man’s acerbic nature.

  “What is it?” he demanded irritably, as though interrupted from a pleasurable pursuit.

  Sabian waved his hand at his daughter by manner of an explanation while his eyes remained locked on the two men before him. As the surgeon approached the young lady, Catilina smiled warmly.

  “It’s been too long, Mercurias.”

  The grizzled doctor cracked a grin.

  “I’d heard about your arrow wound. Now some broken fingers too eh? You trying intentionally to piss your father off?”

  She laughed as Mercurias grasped her gently by the wrist and began to unwrap the binding she had used. Sabian raised an eyebrow in question without shifting his gaze. As though by some sixth sense, Mercurias shrugged and reported.

  “Looks like two or three fractures on two fingers. She bound them quickly and correctly. She’ll be fine, though I’ll splint them better.”

  He cackled.

  “But judging by the placement and the depth of the bruising, some well-built young man somewhere is having his dinner fed to him with a spoon.”

  “In hell” added Catilina with a grin.

  Though the doctor continued to cackle, Catilina looked up and caught the expression on her father’s face and allowed herself to regain her composure.

  A distant pounding noise that had been growing gradually became more insistent and Varro turned to see a large group of men marching down the hill towards them. As they approached, they veered off into two lines and shuffled into position to form a large square around the two men, presenting their shields as an internal wall. Sabian cast his eyes over the makeshift arena and then beckoned to his daughter. The two of them, accompanied by Mercurias, Iasus and Salonius, strode back up the hill a way until they were high enough to obtain a clear view over the double line of infantry forming the arena wall.

  Salonius’ breathing was becoming tense and short. Sabian glanced across at him and narrowed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned and addressed the assembled masses on the hill.

  “I want Cristus’ command here to form into a unit at full attention. You may be under suspicion, but you are still soldiers in my army. Act like it!”

  Hurriedly the various clusters of men and odd individual soldiers rushed to a position on the hill, where captain Crino bullied them into a semblance of order.

  The marshal looked around and nodded with satisfaction. With the masses out of reasonable earshot, he allowed his shoulders to drop a little and relaxed. He glared at the two men in the makeshift arena.

  “You two just wait for a minute.” He turned to the young engineer close by.

  “Salonius,” he said in hushed tones,”What’s his chances? How bad is he?”

  The young man took a deep breath.

  “I’m really not sure, sir. Yesterday I wouldn’t have pitted him against a sheep with any confidence, but he’s dosed himself to critical, probably fatal, levels and he claims to be on top of his game. If he really does feel like he claims to, I think he’ll do it.”

  Sabian pursed his lips and frowned.

  “There is another possibility in the event of failure.”

  “Sir?”

  The marshal placed his hand on Salonius’ shoulder.

  “You have as much right to accuse and challenge Cristus as Varro has. This may sound heartless, but frankly I cannot afford to let Cristus leave this field alive. If Varro can’t do it, I need you to go in and finish the job.”

&
nbsp; Salonius stared at the marshal, but the surprise quickly vanished from his face and was replaced with a mix of determination and distaste.

  “It would be my duty and my pleasure, sir. But I still pin my hopes on the captain.”

  “So do I, soldier. So do I.”

  The two of them turned their eyes back to Varro and Cristus who stared at each other with open hatred. Sabian squared his shoulders.

  “Catilina…”

  “I know father. Later.”

  The marshal watched her for a moment and then nodded, raising his eyes to the arena.

  “Let this be official, then. We have an arena. We have two challengers. Military law dictates what must happen here. Both combatants must be on equal terms.”

  He grumbled something under his breath as he stared at the blood-stained mess that was captain Varro and the clean, limber figure of Cristus.

  “We’ll agree that this is as equal as you’re likely to be, I suppose.” He drew a deep breath and announced loudly.

  “We have a challenge to trial by combat between prefect Cristus and captain Varro. According to tradition, we need a judge who is impartial. Since that is an impossibility in the circumstances, I shall appoint captain Iasus to arbitrate this dispute. Everyone who knows my guard captain will know of his keen instinct toward law, order and tradition; tradition which, I believe, also requires both parties to have a second?”