An Empire for Ravens

by Eric Mayer

  Clementia paled. “These men you fought, where are they now?”

  “Bleeding in their den. We ran them off without injury ourselves.”

  Clementia stared at Gainus incredulously. “Why didn’t you kill them?”

  He shrugged. “We foiled their scheme. Only one man got past us and he didn’t cut your throat.”

  “No one should have got past! I don’t need to pay anyone to give every beggar and brigand in Rome free access to my house!”

  “Mistress, in all fairness, it’s a very large house and the guards are few. Another left this morning to find greater compensation elsewhere.”

  “You are compensated well enough for failing to do the job I hired you to do, Gainus. Don’t let this happen again.”

  Clementia dismissed him. She was furious. What business did he have trying to terrify her with stories about ruffians wanting to cut her throat? Was the whole incident nothing more than a ploy for higher pay? Had the guards really been fighting off would-be intruders or sitting around drinking wine in the atrium? She had heard no sounds suggesting a brawl, despite her window being open. Besides which, she would have expected any attack to be carried out during the night hours, not in broad daylight.

  Nevertheless, the whole thing made her uneasy. Would her remaining guards have staged such an elaborate scene unless they were paid rather than just threatening to leave?

  Was she no longer as safe here as she had foolishly assumed?

  John sat on the cold floor of the catacomb, his back against a marble slab, and stared numbly at the sprawled body of his friend. Soon that body would be no more recognizable than the bones he supposed were moldering within the tomb behind him. Torchlight shivered over the corpse, lending it a spurious illusion of life. Didn’t the broad chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly to draw breath? Didn’t a finger twitch? Didn’t Felix’s lips briefly curve into a smile?

  No. Nothing moved but the shadows.

  Cassius had gone for help. John chose to wait here. He’d had some vague idea of spending a few final moments communing with Felix. He wanted to ask him what woman had got him into this? Or what ambitious scheme? What losing charioteer? What jug of wine?

  But Felix was gone. John knew well enough that the man inhabited the body. The body was not the man. His friend’s spirit was now ascending the ladder through the seven celestial spheres, unchained from the physical world.

  John’s own worldly journey was not yet over. He ran his fingers over the elaborately decorated knife hilt, imagining how it would jerk in his grasp as he drove the blade into the man who had murdered Felix.

  He stared into the darkness beyond the torchlight as if the heavy air might retain some ghostly impression of the murderer. He had searched the area meticulously finding nothing but a confusion of footprints in the dust and a large amount of dried blood. More than he would have expected.

  Cassius was taking a long time.

  What did John know about the man?

  Could he be trusted?

  For all John knew, Cassius might have abandoned him here, or sent men to arrest him.

  Finally he heard footsteps. He jumped to his feet, sword at the ready. Cassius arrived accompanied by two others, fellow Mithrans. They had brought a large piece of canvas. Wrapped in it, the corpse might be any sort of goods.

  “We’ll hide him until dark, then leave him on the street, raise an alarm, and disappear,” Cassius said.

  John nodded his assent. It would be an undignified end for a man who had served as captain of the emperor’s excubitors.

  Archdeacon Leon’s hand trembled as he drew the knife nearer to his watery eyes. “How did you obtain this?”

  “I found it,” John replied, omitting to specify the exact location and why he had been there in the first place.

  “Indeed? I shall be interested to hear more.” Leon scrutinized the weapon.

  “I have the impression it’s old,” John remarked. “Its decoration is suggestive of ritual use.”

  Leon laid the knife down. The two men were standing in the library at the Lateran Palace, where they had met before. Then, John had believed he was searching for clues to the whereabouts of a missing friend. Now his mission was much grimmer.

  “You are correct, Lord Chamberlain,” Leon replied. “It is a ceremonial knife of the type used to make offerings to the gods in pagan times. See, clearly this is Jupiter’s thunderbolt engraved on the hilt, although overlaid with a deeply engraved cross. I am not an authority on those old gods, but given the juxtaposition, I believe this is a relic and fortuitous circumstances have conspired to see it returned to the possession of the faithful.”

  “You think it may be connected to a martyrdom?”

  “Yes.” Leon reached down and traced the cross on the hilt. “The apostle Bartholomew was flayed while still alive. It might have been used for a terrible death of that kind. Later, a Christian graced it with a cross.” He fell silent, looking thoughtful.

  John wondered if he were contemplating the scene of Bartholomew’s death. It seemed strange it would be the first thing to come to the archdeacon’s mind. Why not a simple stabbing or throat-cutting? Death by torture seemed to play a surprisingly large part in a religion that preached love and fellowship.

  Leon might have read the meaning behind John’s frown because he added, “When we think of martyrs, we remember how our Lord sacrificed His Son for us all. We draw great comfort from such thoughts in these times that test our faith. At any rate, this is surely a stolen relic. You will recall I mentioned to you not so long ago that many of our hidden treasures have not been found and I felt it possible those who assisted in their concealment returned to steal them. I am grateful to you for returning it.”

  Leon’s fingers continued to trace the hilt as if seeing details his aged eyes could not. Was he more concerned with the religious significance of the knife or its value should it need to be sold to buy food for the faithful? What would the cleric think if he knew the blade had taken the life of a Mithran, the devotee of an officially proscribed religion, as the Christian martyrs had been?

  John picked up the knife. “I shall return it in due course.”

  “But Lord Chamberlain—”

  “My apologies. I have need of it for a while.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  John examined the scrap of parchment he had found on Felix. It was well creased, suggesting he had carried it with him whenever he left his house. Thus, the note had been important. Dirty marks on the parchment showed it had been handled frequently.

  He was seated on the edge of the bed Felix had slept in until a few days ago. He furrowed his brows again over the smeared list written in Felix’s bold hand: Sergius, Lucinius, Nilus, Optatus, Junius, Bassus.

  And Diogenes.

  What could this collection of people represent? Had Felix been investigating a matter with no connection to his official business? Or had Diogenes not fully informed John about Felix’s mission? In either case, were these persons of interest in whatever he was investigating? The presence of Diogenes’ name was the most immediately intriguing. Was it possible the garrison commander was involved in some wrongdoing and the others were his associates?

  Until he obtained more information, John decided, he would keep the existence of the parchment from Viteric, who would be sure to report to Diogenes. If Diogenes was involved in something unsavory, John might find himself under lock and key.

  He folded the note and put it in the pouch at his belt, then went to the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. He had no time for formal dining arrangements.

  Julius was there, gnawing a chunk of bread, more like a feral animal than a child. He started when John appeared.

  “Don’t run off, Julius. Sit down on this stool. I want to talk to you.”

  The boy regarded John with undisguised suspicion but did as he was to
ld.

  John hunkered down beside him. “Are you getting along with Eutuchyus?”

  Julius sneered.

  John wasn’t surprised. It was easy to see Eutuchyus resented the boy’s presence.

  “You would probably like to return to your parents. When the siege is over, I can help you find them.”

  “My parents are dead.”

  “Are you sure? How could you know that?”

  “I know. They’re dead.” There was flat finality to his tone. They were dead as far as he was concerned was what he meant. John could understand that. When he’d run off from Plato’s Academy to become a mercenary he had considered his former life and everyone in it dead.

  “Your room is to your liking?”

  “Better than sharing a leaky ruin with rats and smelly cats.”

  “But you spent a certain amount of time foraging in this house.”

  Julius did not reply. His gaze darted around as if looking for the best escape route.

  “I only want to know what you saw here,” John went on.

  “I didn’t see anything. It was always after dark. I only visited the kitchen and the storeroom.”

  “Did you ever see anyone?”

  “No. Everyone was asleep.”

  “You didn’t hear people talking?”

  Julius shook his head.

  “You lived next door. There must have been people coming and going, visitors?”

  Before Julius could answer there was the clatter of running footsteps and Viteric burst into the kitchen.

  “The Goths are attacking!”

  John followed Viteric into the street, which was filled with civilians running for the city walls. They were armed with whatever they could lay hands on, including kitchen knives and axes.

  John had ordered Julius to remain in the house but he knew very well the boy would find his way to the battle.

  When they reached the top of the wall, the massive size of the Goth force was plain to see. Countless archers, foot soldiers, and cavalry, and in the front ranks, a vast array of scaling ladders alongside rams. More fearsome than all the rest, leading the way, were siege towers, immense wooden structures, taller than the wall, drawn by teams of oxen. They reminded John of mobile tenements but housed fighters and weaponry.

  Viteric led him to Diogenes’ command post. The general eyed John suspiciously. “Do you know anything about this assault?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Can you use a sword well, Lord Chamberlain? I imagine at the emperor’s court, treachery is wielded more often than steel.”

  “I have fought on many battlefields,” John replied coldly.

  Diogenes turned away. “Don’t let him out of your sight, Viteric.”

  “Are you afraid I’m going to open the city gates, general?” John asked. “Or stab you in the back?”

  “It may be you’ve stabbed me in the back already.”

  An armored man pushed his way through the confused crowd of civilians surrounding the post. “Sir, the Goths are advancing from the north also!”

  Diogenes cursed. “There aren’t enough men to cover the whole wall. Totila has more ladders than I have men. Spread these civilians out. They can deal with the ladders.”

  “What about the siege towers, sir? The catapults are in place.”

  “Hold off. Go and organize the rabble.”

  John heard orders shouted.

  Monsters out of a nightmare, huge Cyclops menacing the city, the towers continued to advance behind their straining oxen.

  Transfixed by the sight, John didn’t see the soldier fall ten feet away. He only heard the scream. By the time he turned toward the sound, the man was on his back, an arrow protruding from his chest.

  Another arrow hissed past John’s ear.

  Diogenes, hit, clamped a hand on the suddenly bloody sleeve of his tunic. “Their archers aren’t in range yet. Where are these coming from?”

  Viteric leaned out over the parapet looking right and left, oblivious to two more arrows that passed by without finding a target. “Over there. Under that pine tree!”

  A lone archer had crept to within a stone’s throw of the wall. He stood with his back to the tree and unleashed another shaft as John spotted him.

  “Get down, general! He’s targeted you!” cried Viteric.

  “Ballista!” shouted Diogenes. “Eliminate the bastard!”

  The men manning the ballista winched it, aimed, and loosed the huge bolt. It was a perfect shot. Traveling at tremendous speed the thick arrow caught the archer in the stomach, passed through his body, and pinned him to the tree trunk. He spasmed, shrieking, then was motionless, held upright by the shaft.

  Diogenes’ eyes might as well have been shooting bolts at John.

  Surely the general didn’t suspect John of giving away his position in some fashion? The archer could just as easily have been aiming at John.

  Totila’s army continued to advance, and for a time, the crowds on the battlements fell silent as they looked on, almost in awe. Finally, however, as the siege towers loomed larger and larger, there was a swell of mutterings and curses. What was Diogenes waiting for? Did he want the Goths to be clambering over the walls before loosing the first arrow?

  The general flexed his injured arm, walked to the parapet, and readied his bow. “Men,” he shouted, “watch what I do and then do the same.”

  He let an arrow fly. It struck one of the oxen hauling the siege towers in the neck. The beast bellowed and crumpled to the ground.

  Instantly, a swarm of arrows enveloped the ox teams.

  The thunder of their terror and death agonies filled the air. So must the roar of the Great Bull have reverberated through the cosmos when Mithra slew it.

  The towers came to a halt.

  Realizing what had happened, the Goths launched their assault, unleashing a storm of arrows at the defenders on the wall.

  Keeping as much of his body hidden as possible, John peered down, intent on what was happening. A number of men were advancing, one arm hooked into long ladders and the other holding their shields over their heads. Rows of Goths marched behind them, flourishing their weapons and screaming insults and threats at the city defenders.

  A ram moved toward a nearby gate. Incendiaries poured down on the wooden tortoise sheltering it and, as the roof caught fire and collapsed, the Goths who had been underneath fled, screaming, rolling on the ground, trying to put out their blazing clothes.

  The Romans laid down an unceasing fire from bows, ballistae, and catapults, but by virtue of the enemy’s overwhelming numbers, ladders soon reached the walls. Civilians dropped rocks on the climbing soldiers or pushed the ladders away. An old man wheezed and strained at one ladder until an arrow embedded itself in his neck. As he fell back, two children replaced him. His blood spurted over them. They seemed not to notice. Their expressions were fierce and fearless.

  They were not old enough to respect death, John thought. He rushed to their side and helped push the ladder over. The children stared wide-eyed and laughed with delight as Goths crashed to the ground. It was all an exciting game.

  One fighter calmly polished his blade on the sleeve of his tunic. His gaze went to the sword in John’s hand. “Don’t worry, sir. The archers won’t be able to get them all. There will be some left for us, and soon.”

  As he spoke, a helmet appeared. Its owner clambered the rest of the way up the ladder, striking down a chubby man in a baker’s apron who tried to fend him off with a broom. More Goths followed.

  John charged toward them.

  He wished Felix were at his side. This was what his friend had wanted—to see battle again, a sword in his hand, face-to-face with the enemy. Then again, had Felix been in charge, he wouldn’t have waited on the walls as Diogenes had. He would have launched a preemptive sortie.


  He saw Viteric step into the melee.

  As John fended off a sword stroke, Viteric’s blade flashed past his side, slicing into the assailant’s arm.

  John dodged a new attacker, ducked down, and brought his sword up under his opponent’s chin. He felt the sickening momentary resistance of bone against steel then a hot rain of blood spattered his face.

  He caught a glimpse of Viteric glancing at him, his expression indecipherable.

  He had no time to think, only to react. The din was unbearable. The clashing of blades, shouts, curses, the screams and moans of the wounded and dying. The air smelled of blood and death and smoke.

  John was stepping over bodies. It was becoming difficult to find safe footing.

  His boot slipped and he went down. When he raised his head he was staring into the ashen face of a corpse.

  Felix.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dogs barking and the sounds of voices in the street had drawn Clementia out of the senator’s house. She had clutched at the iron bars of the gate in the high brick wall and watched the noisy ragtag procession surging along the Via Sacra, every man, woman, and child brandishing a makeshift weapon.

  So the Goths were storming the walls? Where were her guards?

  “Gainus,” she shouted. There was no answer.

  Clementia called again. By now the crowd had passed and her voice echoed loudly across the empty graveled courtyard.

  She ran back inside and searched up and down deserted hallways, finding only the ancient cook sitting in the kitchen, calmly presiding over her boiling pots. “All gone to the city walls. The evening meal will be ready for them, if they come back. I might be cooking for Goths, for all I know.” She struggled off her stool and rattled a ladle around in the bubbling pots.

  “But what will we do?” Clementia cried.

  “Wait to see who shows up.”

  “How can you be so unconcerned?”

  “I’m an old woman, mistress. What do I care who I cook for? Goths need to eat too.”