Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “Julianus,” he whispered softly. “Julianus, wake up. It’s Valerius Clericus.” The man on his left mumbled something incoherent, but none of the men woke. “Julianus!” he repeated a little louder. “Julianus, it’s urgent. Wake up! We have to speak, now!”

  He could hear the man on his right finally begin to stir. “Clericus, is that you? What the hell are you doing in here, lad? Or sorry: ‘sir.’ We’re not under attack, are we?”

  “Shhhhh, lower your voice,” Marcus urged him. “Assassins in the camp. One attacked Gaius Marcius as he slept. He’s dead. I think the legate is probably dead too. I saw them dragging off the bodies of the two men posted as his guards.”

  The cot creaked as Julianus rolled off it and came closer to Marcus. “The general is dead? Are you certain?”

  “I’m not certain of anything, except that Marcius and the two guards posted outside the general’s tent are dead. The assassin tried to stab me too, but the dagger didn’t get through my armor and I managed to stick him in the side before he ran. Not enough to kill him, though, and he got away.”

  “Dammit,” the decurion cursed. “But you did well to scratch him. We shouldn’t have much trouble finding him tomorrow unless they sneak him out of the camp tonight. There aren’t many wounded in the infirmary. You said the general’s guards are dead?

  “It was the primus pilus. I saw the blood on his blade.”

  “Gnaeus Junius? Hell’s poxied whores, Clericus, you think Honoratus killed Marcus Saturnius? Are you absolutely sure it was him.”

  “I was almost close enough to stab him myself. I know it was him. But I don’t know for certain if Saturnius is dead. I think he is, because whoever was with Honoratus, a shorter man I didn’t recognize, was dragging the dead guards inside the tent.”

  “Sounds like he’s done for. But why? Why would they kill the legate?

  “I wasn’t in the camp earlier tonight, so I don’t know what Marcus Saturnius did to alert them, but he must not have suspected Honoratus’s involvement in whatever was happening. I didn’t, so why would Saturnius? Honoratus must have been ready to act on short notice, but he didn’t know the general had sent me to intercept any messengers riding to the other legion.”

  “The other legion? What other legion?” Julianus sounded incredulous.

  “The Severan one. It’s in Cynothicum.”

  “There’s a Severan legion already here? Which one?”

  “Fulgetra. I talked to a merchant at the baths in Gallidromum, and he described their sigil to me. I don’t know what the Severans are doing there, but I’m sure it’s not for our benefit or the City’s. I’ve been thinking about it, and only thing I can imagine is that the Severans intend to kill all the officers and take control of the legion. The men aren’t political, so with the officers dead, they’ll probably do what they’re told. Even the men from Vallyrium.”

  “Yes, especially if whoever is behind this clever enough to keep the politics out of it. They must have been planning this since the legion was formed. But that would mean there must be something serious developing back in Amorr itself.”

  “Intrigue? I should say it means civil war!” Marcus shook his head. “It must be House Severus, if Fulgetra is involved—but why them? They’ve always been our rivals in the Senate, but I never thought of them as outright enemies or traitors. But who else could it be? The House Andronicus can hardly be trying to reclaim their old throne after all this time!”

  Julianus, not being a patrician, had no ready answer for him. Shocked into silence by the thought that they might have witnessed the first blow in what could be a long and bloody internecine war, the two men sat and stared at the whites of each other’s eyes. That was all that could be seen in the darkness. “Why did you come to me?” Julianus asked quietly. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I came to you because I think there must be at least one centurion involved besides Honoratus. I didn’t think any of the knights or decurions carry enough weight with the infantry to replace the officers.” Marcus shrugged. “And to be honest, I tried to imagine you betraying House Valerius and your oath. I just couldn’t picture it.”

  Julianus snorted. “I can’t say I love your House so much as all that, Valerian. But you’re right. I’d run through any man who’d try to turn me against my own damned legion, new as it may be. The boys are green, but they’ve been blooded, and I daresay they’re as good as any legion in the Empire now.”

  “So what do we do? I don’t think there could be more than a handful of men involved, but I could be wrong. And I’m too tired to think straight.”

  “The second of the first had the watch tonight. I’d bet on their centurion being involved. I still find it hard to believe Gnaeus Junius would turn against the legion, though. He’s the primus bloody pilus!”

  “I don’t know. Is it any easier to imagine the praefectus doing so, assuming he wasn’t responsible himself? After Orissis…I would have sworn we could count on the men from Vallyrium. Now I’m not so sure if anyone can be trusted.”

  “Orissis—wasn’t he one of the men you took on patrol tonight?”

  “Yes. After we caught the rider, we were bringing him back to camp. I may have made a mistake: I forced him to divulge his message. Then, during the ride, Orissis disappeared. I have to assume he rode for Cynothicum, in which case he must have been involved. And he’s from Vallyrium.”

  “Don’t read too much into that. I know the man. He’s a gambler, worse than Proculus. And I know he’s in heavy debt, so maybe Honoratus bought him. Or it could even be that he wasn’t even involved with the conspirators beforehand. Maybe he just saw his chance and took it. It’s not out of character for a gambler to act on impulse.”

  “I suppose it’s possible.” Marcus nodded and yawned. And yawned again. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and the next thing he knew, he was staggering over to the empty cot, leaning heavily on Julianus.

  “You’ve had a rough night, Tribune,” the decurion said. He picked up Marcus’s sword from the ground. “I better clean this before suspicion falls on you. Get some sleep now, and I’ll keep watch until the morning. Just sleep. What’s done is done, and you can’t raise the dead. There’s nothing we can do until sunrise.”

  Marcus tried to protest, but the sensation of getting off his feet and lying down, even in his armor, simply felt too wonderful to resist. He closed his eyes and the welcome darkness of oblivion claimed him almost immediately.

  When Marcus awoke, the sun was high and the decurion’s tent was crowded. He felt strangely stiff and heavy, but his head didn’t hurt in the least. That seemed almost inexplicable, until he heard himself creaking as he tried to sit up and realized he was still wearing his armor. He looked down and saw a deep scratch nearly as long as his first finger on the left side of the metal covering his abdomen.

  The memories of the night before came rushing back to him, and he shuddered. Whoever had left that mark had known how to strike with a blade. If Marcus hadn’t been wearing his breastplate, he’d have been gutted.

  He looked up and saw a group of five men crowded inside the tent looking at him. Julianus wasn’t among them, but Marcus recognized four of them as decurions. They were older than the average knights. Two had grey hair, and two were bald. The man who wasn’t a decurion was the optio who commanded the legion’s ballastarii and architecti.

  “Good to see you’re still with us, Valerian,” the optio said. Technically, he was outranked by the decurions, but he had seen more time in the legions than any of them, and because he was responsible for men serving in each of the ten cohorts, his influence was considerable. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same of your fellow officers. It’s too soon to be certain, Tribune, but it would appear that you are now the senior officer of Legio XVII.”

  “Damn near the only officer, you could say,” a decurion added. “The laticlavius and the other tribunes were all killed in their tents.”

  Marcus nodded calmly and did his best to hide
the depth of his dismay. As of yesterday, he had been sixth in the line of command and no one had cared about his comportment. But he knew that if the events of last night meant he was now the senior officer, he was going to have to convince the legion he was worth following.

  Beginning with these men.

  “I feared as much when I discovered Gaius Marcius had been murdered. How about the praefectus? And the primus pilus? Were they attacked too?”

  The optio laughed. His name was Titus something, Marcus knew, but he simply could not recall the man’s agnomen. He was usually known as Cassabus. “They must have known better than to try killing the old mule. Trebonius has been stalking all over the camp, trying to find you and the other young tribune, Trebonius, and vowing red vengeance for Marcus Saturnius.”

  So Trebonius had survived! That was unexpectedly good news. He wondered how his friend had managed it. Had he belatedly taken up whoring? That didn’t seem likely, but it hardly mattered now. “What about the praefectus?”

  “No one knows. One of my men said he saw Lucius Castorius in the outer camp yesterday evening, but we don’t know if he came back or not.”

  Marcus nodded. “Let’s hope he didn’t. If the guards at the gate were in on this, we’ll probably never find his body. Where is Julianus?”

  “He’s sounding out the senior centurions. They’re being summoned to help the primus pilus decide how to break the news to the men. There have been rumors sweeping through the camp like wildfire, of course, but each is wilder than the next, and no one knows what to believe, if anything. But everyone knows something is amiss since one of the night guards found a trail of blood through the forum that ended halfway along the Via Decumana.”

  Marcus frowned and looked down at his breastplate. Could it be the man who’d killed Gaius Marcius and marred the polished surface of his armor? “Did anyone search the nearby tents?”

  Cassabus shrugged. “Julianus might have set someone to it. I don’t know what he has in mind yet. He wanted us here to keep you safe until he’s able to determine who is responsible and what their plans are. We haven’t found the man you stabbed last night, but we’re looking.”

  “And your men?” Marcus glanced at the other decurions to include them in the question as well.

  “I’ve got three teams of ballastarii, each with a scorpio assembled and hidden in the stables across the street. Gerrus and Barbatus each have their squadrons there, armed and armored, as well. We won’t have any problem dealing with these bastards…if we can figure out who they are.”

  “Well done,” Marcus nodded approvingly as if he actually had a plan of his own in mind. “But what if they don’t make their move soon?”

  “I should think they’ll have to,” one of the decurions said. From his heavy beard, well-salted with grey, Marcus assumed it was Barbatus. “It’s not enough for them to behead the legion—they’ll have to take control of it, or it’s no use to them.”

  “That depends on what their goals are,” Marcus said. “If they simply want to neutralize us and keep us out of Cynothicus, it would work for a time…. But that doesn’t make sense. We weren’t planning to move on the Cynothii until spring, which leaves plenty of time for a new general and staff to arrive from Amorr.”

  He felt as if he was on the verge of figuring something out, something important, but before the thought could coalesce in his mind, a horn interrupted him by sounding four thunderous blasts. It was the signal for the legion to gather in the forum.

  Marcus stood up and fumbled at his side, relieved to discover that Julianus had cleaned his gladius and returned it to his scabbard. He wished he had his tribune’s helm. If he was going to take command of the legion, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to hide his youthful face. But it was back in his tent, assuming his tent was still standing. When he looked up, he was surprised to see the decurions and the optio all standing at attention, as if waiting for his orders. That was exactly what they were doing, he belatedly realized.

  He cleared his throat and did his best to assume a decisive manner. “Cassabus, wait until the men are assembled, then move your scorpios into place pointing straight down the Via Principalis. Don’t loose on anyone unless we’ve badly misjudged this and we’re completely outnumbered. They’re just there to show we are ready for trouble. Barbatus, I’ll want your squadron as an escort. Gerrus, mount your squadron and take a position behind Cassabus. The rest of you, get your men and show up in your usual positions, but every man is to be ready for battle. If we can’t end this quickly, it could get very ugly very fast.”

  “What about insignia?” Gerrus asked. “If it comes to blows, how can we tell who is with us and who is not?”

  Marcus winced. He should have thought of that.

  “Right. Everyone is to be fully armored. But each man is to leave the greave off his left leg. Some of the other men will be armored, others not, but no one will forget to strap one greave on.”

  “That will work,” Cassabus said approvingly. “By your leave, Tribune?”

  “Not yet, Optio. First, I believe we had better pray. If we ever needed it, it’s got to be now.

  There were grim nods, and several of the decurions exchanged significant glances. But no one objected, and each man unhesitatingly lowered himself to one knee.

  Marcus might have felt more self-conscious leading the men in prayer if he weren’t terrified of what was going on outside this tent. At least in battle, the enemy stood before you. But now, who could say where to stand and which way to face when no one knew who was the enemy?

  “Immaculate Son—hear our prayer. Lord, we are men of war, but we know we are washed in Your most holy blood. We do not fear to face the enemy, but now we find ourselves betrayed by our own comrades. Son of God, You know what this is like. You too have been betrayed. Be with us! We thank You that You stand with us now. Guide us, guard us all, and grant us victory. You are the Alpha and the Omega, You are the Rider on the White Horse, Lord. Show us Your hand, and may Your Father’s will be done. Amen.”

  “Amen.” The decurions rose, their faces grim. Perhaps the reminder that the Son of God himself was a decurion of sorts had given them courage and resolve.

  The tents nearest the forum were cleared away, and the great mass of the legion had arrayed itself by cohort, century, and squadron as Marcus, wearing a borrowed decurion’s helm, approached the rostrum on the western side of the forum.

  Julianus, the chief decurion, was already there, standing on the platform with the primus pilus and four other centurions. To Marcus’s considerable relief, Gaius Trebonius stood there as well. It was bad enough to have lost his general and his colleagues, but losing the man who had somehow become his closest friend in the legion would have been an even more devastating blow.

  He did not see the praefectus, however, which meant he had to assume that the legion’s third-in-command had been killed as well.

  He could feel the nervous excitement spiraling outward, cohort by cohort, as his knightly guard marched him through the crowd. The thousands of men didn’t intimidate him, though, as he was too focused on running through the cognomens of the dozens of centurions, trying to determine which of them might have some family tie or other connection to House Severus. But he couldn’t think of a single one. Nor did he think it was likely, as Marcus Saturnius was too cynical and too politically astute to have ever knowingly permitted a Severan, or anyone belonging to one of their satellite families, to hold a position of authority in his legion.

  The two centuries closest to the rostrum were the first and second of the first cohort, which meant they were Gnaeus Junius’s men. If, as Marcus was increasingly beginning to suspect, the primus pilus was behind the murders, this could be his moment of greatest danger.

  His knightly bodyguard, which had initially felt so imposing, now felt far too paltry in light of the dozens of armed men through whom they were making their way. Being infantry, both centuries were more heavily armored than the unmounted knights, and the weight of t
heir numbers was physically palpable.

  Were those men there pressing in against Barbatus’s men? Was that flash of movement he saw out of the corner of his eye an arm drawing back to throw a knife? It would be so easy to break through the double line of men that protected him, front, back, and sides. They wouldn’t even have to attack the guards—a simple surge of movement toward him followed by the lethal jab of a pilum or the silent thrust of a gladius, and he would be mortally wounded before his protectors even knew he’d been attacked.

  He felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his left side. A sense of claustrophobia seized him. The noise, the jostling, the smell of leather and cotton, steel and sweat, combined into a fierce assault on his senses. But he breathed in deeply through his nose and kept his eyes firmly focused on the men standing on the platform to whom he was coming closer with every step.

  We should have been mounted, he told himself bitterly. That’s the reason officers are always mounted, so they can be seen. No one would have dared to strike him down if he were in the full view of the entire legion. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly then walked toward the imposing silhouette of Honoratus, the primus pilus, who stood on the platform looming over them all like a murderous shadow god.

  MEERFIN

  Even by goblin standards, Meerfin Shistgurble felt life had been unnecessarily cruel to him. It wasn’t easy growing up the youngest of nine in a crowded, ramshackle hut woven of reeds that was perched precariously on the edge of a swamp. But he had survived his rough, tumble, and occasionally cannibalistic infancy, and by sheer hard work and determination he raised himself to become a valued, if not necessarily well-respected, member of the Mequani tribe.

  As Third Assistant Frogcatcher to Groonul Poisonspear, the tribe’s age-spotted master frog hunter, he owned no less than four of his own tri-pointed frog spears, a half-share in a hut within walking distance of the main creek, two pairs of pantalons, a net made from cured rabbit intestines, and a small collection of the engraved stones used as currency on account with the tribe’s Stoneholder, Wobbran Twice-bitten. More than a few young goblines had watched him carrying his spears and a sackful of plump-legged frogs home to the village with something akin to interest in their green and yellow eyes.