A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  He cleared his throat and spat. There had been whispers of men engaging in forbidden behavior during the long march through the dark tunnels of the Via Pumilia, as the dwarvenway deep under the mountains had come to be known. But they were whispers, rumors, nothing more, and none of the senior centurions had thought it wise to demoralize the legion by conducting what might turn out to be a hunt for an imaginary evil. The unwritten rule of the legion was that an officer would look past violations of the Iron Law so long as the violations were minor and the violator was discreet. It was, for example, customary to ignore illicit vows secretly exchanged with a camp wife, a little interest charged on a personal loan, or an overnight excursion from a castra that happened to be situated near the village of one’s birth.

  “Very well then,” Marcus told the decurion. “We’d better address this straightaway.”

  He whistled at the two knights and waved them forward. After kicking the big roan into a gallop, he gained on them quickly, with the decurion only a length or two behind. As the sun rose higher and the red rays of dawn began to give way to a clear blue sky, the four horses thundered back towards the legionary encampment.

  “Make the case for mercy,” Marcus demanded of Father Gennadius. “If you can.” He had summoned the legion’s priest, along with its senior centurion and the tribune laticlavius, now dignified with the cognomen Lecerus, to his command tent, where they were discussing the correct way to deal with the incident. Proculus, the primus pilus, was eager to subject the two men, Claudius Cerficius Fuscus and Quintus Annius, to the prescribed punishment and get the legion on the march without further delay, but Marcus was determined not to let military exigencies dictate justice. So long as they reached the location identified by the scouts before nightfall, they would lose nothing from the schedule set by the Savondese.

  The short, middle-aged cleric, who was already to regain some of the weight he had lost on their long march underground, shook his head. “There is no case for it, Marcus Valerius. There can be no mercy where abomination is concerned. The Law of the Eagles is clear, as are the consequences for breaking it. My sole concern, indeed, I would go so far as to call it my sole demand, is that the guilty men be given the opportunity to confess themselves before being executed. They must die, but I would not see even creatures such as them damned.”

  “I don’t understand how this could have happened!” Trebonius said angrily. “They are not even contubernales! How is it that they were out gathering firewood together in the first place?”

  “I asked Longus Avso that,” Proculus answered. “Fuscus arranged to trade places with another member of Annius’s tent. They was planning it. If Annius had been only whoring himself out, we might give a thought to spare Fuscus, but as it stands, there ain’t no doubt about either of them.”

  “Who is Avso?” asked Father Gennadius.

  “Their optio.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” the priest nodded. “Then he would have been in a position to know the duty roster.”

  “If they planned this, then they knew the risks they were taking,” Trebonius said. He sniffed, his dark eyes devoid of mercy. “Proculus is right, Marcus. Confess them, kill them, and get the men on the move. There are thirty thousand orcs waiting for us four days’ march to the east. We have no time for these trivialities.”

  Marcus looked at each man in turn. They met his eyes without flinching. All three of them, centurion, priest, and tribune, were in one accord. He closed his eyes, uttered a silent plea for wisdom, then nodded his assent. “Call the assembly, Lecerus. Have their centurion bring both of the accuseds’ contubernii to the fore and see that he informs them of their customary responsibility, Caius Proculus. And Father, please give both men the opportunity to confess and be cleansed.”

  Father Gennadius nodded as the two officers saluted, then departed. Marcus watched them leave the tent, feeling troubled but knowing he had done as his duty to the legion demanded. Was this how his father had felt when news of Fortex’s fatal disobedience arrived? Had Corvus ever known this sick and empty feeling at the bottom of his stomach? If so, he had shown no sign of it while standing before the legion, not even when the executioner’s axe had struck off his own nephew’s head right before his eyes.

  But despite his best efforts to maintain his equanimity, Marcus found that his hand shook when he poured himself a goblet of wine. He made a few desultory efforts to gather his belongings, then gave up, called in a guard, and told him to summon the centurion responsible for packing the command tent. The officer and his men had just arrived and were beginning to go about their business when the horn summoning the assembly was blown. The centurion looked at Marcus quizzically, as if to ask if he and his men should continue with their preparations for the day’s march.

  “Carry on,” Marcus told him. The sooner they would be able to leave this place of blood that would be shed at his command, the better.

  He took his time in walking to the tribunal, lost amidst all the noise and hubbub of men rushing to the center of the camp, many of them trying to finish putting on and buckling their armor as they ran, greaves in hand and helmets under arms. It was a good sign, he thought, that they obeyed with such alacrity. They knew as well as he and the senior centurions did that safety on the battlefield was to be found primarily in iron discipline. But discipline was owed by a commander to his men as surely as they owed it to him. He consoled himself with that thought as he stood below the crudely erected tribunal, watching one officer after another mount the wooden steps, and waiting for Proculus to let him know that he should take his place among them upon the makeshift podium.

  At last, the noise of the men taking their places died down. The primus pilus beckoned him forward as a hush fell over the legion. He took the five steps without hesitation, although feeling more as if he was mounting the gallows himself than assuming the place of judgment. Nearly five thousand faces looked up at him, but he had eyes for only the two men standing stripped and bound at the front of the legion, both of them flanked by seven armored men. To either side of Fuscus and Annius stood their centurion and their optio, and behind them, their signifier held the century’s red standard that was marked with a large III sewn in yellow thread.

  As he reached the front of the podium and came to parade rest, his arms behind his back, there was a tremendous clash as the entire legion slammed their fists against their breastplates. The entire legion present, save the two men with their hands bound before them, stood there at attention. Fuscus, a balding, unshaven man in his early thirties stood his ground bravely, shameless and glowering unrepentantly up at Marcus. Annius, on the other hand, was a beardless youth younger than Marcus. He was red-eyed from crying and nearly lost his balance when he startled at the crashing sound of the legionary salute. Only Caecilius’s stretched-out hand prevented the young soldier from falling over.

  “Claudius Cerficius Fuscus and Quintus Annius, you have violated the laws of God and Amorr by your shameful actions this day.” Marcus addressed them loudly enough for the rear ranks to hear him. “Your crimes were witnessed and you have both admitted your guilt. As you admit to having broken your sworn sacramentum, I pronounce you guilty and sentence you to death by fustuarium, as per the Law of the Eagles.”

  Annius sobbed aloud and dropped to his knees. Fuscus merely stared at Marcus and spat contemptuously on the ground.

  Marcus looked beyond them to the two pairs of seven men behind them. It appeared Annius had been popular with his tentmates. Their faces were white, their jaws clenched, and each of the seven bore a wooden club. From that, Marcus knew they intended for their young contubernalis to die as quickly and mercifully as possible. The tent-companions of Fuscus, however, were unarmed, and several of them were staring at the man with expressions of savage satisfaction. They clearly intended to draw out the beating and make him suffer before he died. Combined with Fuscus’s surly and unrepentant manner, Marcus surmised that Annius was not the first to be the subject of the older man’s b
landishments, although he hoped the youth had been the first to succumb.

  “Come forward, Longus Avso,” Marcus declared.

  There was a moment’s perturbation among the two groups of contubernales as the men looked at each other, then one man stepped uncertainly forward, the legionary who had exchanged places with Fuscus. He was tall and young, but with a weak chin that made him look rather like a ferret. A buzzing rose up from the ranks as the men asked each other what Marcus might be intending.

  “General!” Avso saluted.

  “Claudius Longus Avso, you have committed no crime. However, as a result of your self-centered indiscipline, Legio XVII has been deprived of two soldiers on the eve of battle. Therefore, I sentence you to be flogged, one stroke for every blow required to execute the sentence pronounced upon Cerficius Fuscus and Quintus Annius. Marcus Caecilius, strip him and prepare him for the flogging!”

  Avso reeled in horror, almost stumbling backward, upon hearing the sentence. He knew, as did the assembled legion, that such a punishment might well amount to a death sentence in its own right. The vitis carried by each centurion could open a man’s back in ten strokes, and while it wasn’t nearly as brutal as the flagrum used on slaves and the very worst malefactors, enough strokes could kill a man. His life would depend upon how quickly his fellows killed their guilty men. As Caecilius, the optio, grabbed him roughly from behind and began unbuckling his armor, Avso did not protest, but stood there unresisting, silent and shaking with fear.

  Marcus returned his attention to the two condemned men. “Claudius Cerficius Fuscus and Quintus Annius, as the legate of Legio XVII, I cannot and will not show you mercy. However, in light of the good reports I have had of your conduct during the war against the Chalonu and Vakhuyu, and at the Battle of the Three Legions as well, I have decided to grant your centurion’s request that you die by decapitatio instead of fustuarium.”

  He gestured and two junior centurions brought out a pair of wooden stumps. A third centurion, a big, powerful man, who, in light of the circumstances, bore the ironic cognomen Clemens, came out from behind the platform, bearing the same large axe that had taken Marcus’s cousin’s life.

  The relief on Avso’s face was as palpable as the terror on Annius’s. The news that his death would be a speedy one did not appear to cheer the young man in the slightest. But then Father Gennadius appeared, from where Marcus did not see, and whispered something to the young man that seemed to calm him considerably. Fuscus resisted momentarily, but his centurion expertly forced his subordinate to his knees, after which the recalcitrant man gave himself up to his fate and obediently lay his head on the block. Avso did likewise, with the gentler assistance of the optio, Caecilius.

  Clemens hefted the executioner’s axe in both hands and looked up at Marcus. Marcus, not wishing to prolong Annius’s suffering, nodded in the direction of the younger man. The centurion raised the axe, and it was over in a flash. The ranks murmured with approval. The centurion shook his dripping axe, then moved onto Fuscus, looking up again at Marcus for the sign to proceed. But when Marcus glanced at Father Gennadius, the little priest shook his head. Marcus held up his hand, and Clemens dutifully stepped back.

  The ranks began to shift and murmur as Marcus walked down the stairs to the ground and around the platform to where the convicted man was still kneeling with his head on the block. He ignored the blood and the headless body of Annius; fortunately, the young man had been permitted to void his bowels beforehand, so the smell was less noxious than it otherwise might have been.

  “Stand him up,” he told the centurion, and the man pulled Fuscus to his feet.

  “You have not been shriven?” he asked the older man. “You will not avail yourself of one last chance to confess your sins?”

  Fuscus had small, mean eyes and sharp features that were too delicate for his broad-jawed face. He remained unrepentant, as far as Marcus could tell, although enough of his legionary discipline held to prevent him from being entirely disrespectful.

  “I did what I did. I am what I am and I ain’t sorry.” The man shrugged. “You can call me whatever you want. Just get it over with, General. I ain’t afraid and I ain’t asking for no mercy.”

  “And I will show you none, Cerficius Fuscus.” Marcus said. “I respect your courage, Fuscus. You do well not to fear me. I can only kill your body. But you would be wise to fear Him who can destroy both soul and body in Hell.”

  The condemned man wrinkled his lip and snorted. “Ain’t nobody can kill what ain’t there.”

  “Then you will not reconsider?”

  Fuscus shook his head. Despite his bare torso, his bound hands, and his disheveled appearance, the disgraced legionary bore himself with all the pride of a patrician Senator. “No, General. I won’t. But my thanks for making this quick. I’d salute you, but for these.”

  He lifted his bound hands with a rueful grin.

  “I will accept the thought for the deed,” Marcus answered gravely, then lightly touched his fist to his breast to return the phantom salute. “Very well, Claudius Cerficius. Let it be as you will have it, and I pray God will have mercy on your soul nevertheless.” He nodded to Clemens, turned his back on the doomed man, then walked back around the platform. As he approached the stairs, he heard a meaty thud behind him. By the time he had returned to the podium, Fuscus’s head was lying beside Annius’s on the bloody ground.

  Longus Avso took his two strokes bravely, obviously relieved to be receiving considerably fewer than he had feared. Marcus rather was less concerned that the man had learned his lesson than that the rest of the men had profited by it; he had no doubt that Avso would not make the same mistake again. As the bare-chested optio was led away by his centurion, his back discolored by two red stripes, Marcus addressed the legion.

  “Legio XVII, soon we will fight as brothers-in-arms once more. Together, we have known victory, and together we have tasted defeat. It is my intention that we will once more stand victorious on the field of battle, and it is to that end that I have enforced the Law of Eagles here today. This is my duty to you, both as your legate and as a true heir of your House Martial.”

  A few scattered cries of “Valerius” met his reference to his House, but for the most part the legionaries were silent, waiting to learn if there were further surprises in store for them.

  “In Gorignia, Marcus Saturnius and my father subjected you to the Modus Austeris, as you were in enemy territory. I will not do so, for the Savonners are not our enemies. But this does not mean you may relax your discipline, as in a mere matter of days we will be facing a savage and bestial enemy. The orcs make war like a pack of wild beasts, whereas we make a science of slaughter, as the goblins of the Chalonu and Vakhuyu tribes learned to their detriment. Therefore, let it be known that any man who exchanges his duty on the duty roster with another without first receiving permission from either his optio or his centurion will receive ten lashes!”

  There was little protest at this aside from the usual murmuring; it was apparent that the men were expecting news that was more dramatic or related to the upcoming battle. For a moment, he was tempted to tell them about his father’s death, but he resisted the impulse. He was not here to entertain them or win them over, he simply wished to avoid any further incidents of this kind. Telling them risked demoralization, and in the meantime, they had leagues to cover and they were already late.

  “We will march inside the hour,” he concluded, and without further ado, he turned his back and signaled for the primus pilus to take the podium. Proculus was already bawling out the day’s order of march before he had descended again from the stairs.

  They had passed the mid-day pause and were more than halfway to the location the scouts had identified for their evening encampment when Girart de Forbonnais rode back from where he had been accompanying the other Savondese knights and requested permission to speak with Marcus. Unlike the mounted Amorrans, the Comte de Ilyois was unarmored, and his scabbarded sword was tied to the saddleb
ags behind him. In stark contrast to the shaved heads and close-cropped hair of the Amorrans, his brown hair was long and tied back with a blue ribbon.

  “I understand there were some unpleasantries prior to the march today,” the young man Marcus suspected of being a royal kingsmage said. “I was aware that Amorran discipline was commonly supposed to be harsh, but I had no idea it concerned itself with where its soldiers place la baguette magique.”

  “Legionary training involves more than distributing sticks to peasants in the hope that they won’t piss themselves and run away at the first sight of the enemy,” Marcus said sharply. He did not like the royal spy, he had no desire to revisit the morning’s events, and he was irritated that the Savondese had only delivered half the number of horses promised for his cavalry.

  “My friend, it was a mere comment, not a critique.” De Forbonnais appeared to be taken aback by Marcus’s contemptuous reaction. “We may not make, how did you say it, ‘a science of the slaughter’, but martial tradition is not unknown here in the realm. And I understand you are seeking information concerning the orcish way of battle. Why do you not come to me? I have some experience in these matters.”

  Marcus eyed de Forbonnais skeptically, unsurprised that the Savondese man was aware of his actions. “If you had the sort of knowledge that would be of use to me at the moment, I would have cause to burn you as a witch and I doubt your king would appreciate my treating one of his pet mages in that manner.”

  “Are all Amorrans so grim and legalistic?”

  “Are all Savonners so frivolous and corrupt?”

  “My, you are in a foul mood today, Lord Valerius. Perhaps you will be more amenable if I attempt this from another angle. As it happens, it is not only l’Académie des Sage Arts that takes an interest in the dark magics of the orc. L’École Militaire de Saint-Michel also devotes considerable attention to the subject, in fact, significantly more than l’Académie. As the nature of l’École’s studies are rather more practical than l’Académie’s theoretical approach, I suspect they may be more directly applicable to your needs. Not only that, but I believe you can contemplate them in good conscience without imperiling your mortal soul.”