Titus blinked.
As the burly warrior had swung and stepped into the strike, the white-haired man had simply bent like a stalk of grass in the wind, slipped beneath the lunging arm, and delivered his own blows – three in such quick succession that they were almost invisible to the naked eye. But Quintillian had seen the angle of the moves and could see the results clearly enough to identify the strikes. The numb arm he’d been unable to raise but he had instead used it to grab hold of the pronounced hamstring behind his opponent’s knee, wrenching it agonizingly. And even in the blink of an eye that his opponent had begun to collapse, white-hair’s other hand had jabbed twice. The first blow had struck at the point where shoulder meets neck, paralysing the muscle there and thus – along with the hamstring – rendering the Gota’s entire left side useless. But as quick as the thumb had left the flesh, it struck again, a jagged thumbnail tearing a small nick in the neck. It was a minute hole. But it was well placed. The vein beneath was an important one, and the dark blood was jetting from it with impressive strength.
The white man straightened, examined his nails again, and now chewed off the jagged point he’d deliberately left as he strolled around the stricken man and back to his lord.
‘Shit on a fat stick!’ breathed Titus, slapping the balustrade. ‘How the hell did he do that?’
‘Planning,’ Quintillian smiled. ‘He was willing to take a couple of blows to size up his chances.’
‘I’m glad he’s on our side. At least I won’t worry so much about the northern borders any more!’
Quintillian chuckled as Titus slipped the coins grudgingly into his palm. Down below, Lord Aldegund was congratulating his man in a quiet, steady tone – the white man’s name, it transpired, was Halfdan. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the dying Gota at the centre of the circle, who had collapsed to the floor, entirely useless and paralysed on one side, desperately trying to hold his vein shut with his other arm as he slipped and slid in the growing pool of his own blood. But the pressure was too much and he was already becoming weak. The warrior looked up imploringly at his father, the Gota king, but all he found there was contempt as the king turned his face from the bastard son who had so clearly disappointed him.
The Gota champion died unsung and alone on the floor, and such was the speed and efficiency of the palace staff and the guard that within a matter of minutes all that remained to mark the passing of these events was a clean, damp section of marble.
Quintillian gave an odd half smile as Titus disappeared back to the stairs, muttering to himself. The younger brother could see the emperor moving among them now, absolving Aldegund and his man of any blame in what had happened and giving reassurance, then passing on to the Gota king – not commiserating, since clearly the king cared little – but empathizing and discussing the qualities of warriors. Kiva may not have the makings of a fighter himself, but he knew what made one, and he was a consummate politician.
Perhaps Titus was right and men like this Halfdan were the future of border defences. It certainly freed up the military from dull garrison life on the edge of empire and made them useful for such things as construction of roads and aqueducts, keeping banditry down and clearing the seas of pirates. The north, then, was protected, and with Pelasia tied to them by marriage, the south was settled. To the west: the open ocean. Only the lands to the east were still troublesome, but they would ever be so.
For a moment, Quintillian wondered whether the nomad horse clans of the steppe would be amenable to a similar arrangement as the barbarians in the north. No… they had no concept of home or ownership. They were nomadic. How could a people who never stopped moving guard a border? Besides, trying to get the thousand disparate horse clans to agree on anything together would be like trying to nail fog to a tree. The east would always be a fluid border with the risk of banditry and raids, and the imperial military would need to keep men around that edge of the world for safety.
Lost in thought about the strange eastern land of silk-makers, the ephemeral nature of the horse clans and the solidity of imperial frontiers, Quintillian had no idea he had company until there was a faint rustle behind him. He turned, startled.
Jala stood silhouetted in the faint light of the stairwell, the back-glow making her robe surprisingly gauzy and throwing her shape into sharp relief most inappropriately. Quintillian swallowed down his panic and his desire somewhat noisily and threw a fraternal smile across his face.
‘Dearest sister.’
‘Quintillian, why will you not join the festivities? Must you lurk here in the shadows like some monster in a poor play?’
She reached out and grasped his upper arms in her warm, sensuous fingers, and Quintillian gave an involuntary shudder.
‘I… I don’t like parties. I don’t socialize well.’
‘Nonsense.’ Jala smiled. ‘I have seen you do just that many times.’
‘I’m not in the mood, Jala.’
Her lip stuck out slightly in a barely discernible pout, and Quintillian almost laughed despite himself.
‘Come on, dear Quintillian.’
‘I really cannot. I should be doing many other things. And you should be with your husband down there.’
Without warning, Jala leaned close and planted a kiss upon his lips before leaning back with a strange smile. ‘Your brother is too busy with affairs of state to keep me company, and I tire of all these rough northerners. I need company, Quintillian. Good company.’
Quintillian stared in abject panic.
‘You look like a hare caught in the hunter’s gaze.’ She chuckled. ‘Will you come join me, then?’
Quintillian’s voice seemed to have vanished. It was there somewhere, though, deep inside, and it took a great deal of coaxing to draw it up into his throat where it still wavered and croaked.
‘I’ll be down shortly.’
‘Don’t keep me waiting.’ Jala smiled, and swayed off back into the stairwell.
Quintillian stared at her retreating form and continued to gaze at the empty archway long after she had gone. His mind was churning like a winter sea, his heart hammering out like a cavalry horse at the charge. Had that been innocent? Was he reading something into what just happened that wasn’t truly there?
But Quintillian prided himself on his ability to read people. Had not his instincts just won him ten gold corona? And he had seen Jala’s eyes as she’d lunged forth and kissed him. It had been as deliberate a blow as any he’d ever struck with a sword. It had been no kiss of brother and sister, for all its seeming innocent from the outside. He had seen through her eyes. He had seen into her soul. And there it had been: the reflection of himself. The longing. The desire. Suppressed beneath a veneer of civilization and correctness. She had wanted him as he wanted her!
The realization almost floored him.
He turned back to the room, suddenly aware he was trembling and sweating coldly. Down below, he saw Jala emerge once more into the hall, barely noticed amid the rich and the powerful. Kiva spotted her through the crowd and gave her a warm smile, which she returned easily, but he was trapped in conversation by a pair of stocky, swarthy lords and as soon as smiles had been exchanged he was back again, drawn into their talk. Jala took her seat at the room’s centre once more, where she became an island amid a sea of busy socializing.
Quintillian stared at her.
What should he do? What could he do?
A line had been crossed, a barrier broken. And no hand in the world could repair that barrier. No digit could redraw the line. Why were human hearts such fragile things? As fragile as an empire, perhaps? An empire could not ruin a heart, but for certain a heart could shatter an empire if misused.
The panic was gone, but it had left a desolate, hollow uncertainty in its place.
He had to do something, but what?
He made the mistake – or was it a mistake? – of looking down at Jala just as she looked up at him from her divan, and his gaze swept in through her eyes and deep into
her heart once more, leaving him in absolutely no doubt now that Jala shared his feelings. Oh, he did not doubt that she loved Kiva. And so did he. And therein lay the worst of the problem, for he could no more hurt his brother than he could strike off his own head.
Fragile. Hearts and empires.
Whatever he did, it would have to take him away from Jala, he realized, for if they remained in the same place, no matter how hard they might fight it, trouble would be inevitable. One man could live with impossible, unrequited love, no matter how painful. But to have that love shared could bring down the whole empire.
No, he had to find a way out somehow.
And soon.
Part One
The East
‘No matter how far a man runs from his troubles, they are never more than a few steps behind him.’
Pelasian proverb
Chapter I
Of Lies and Most Necessary Escapes
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Quintus,’ Quintillian lied quickly. Using the mad old emperor’s name no longer bore the stigma it had two generations ago. The burnings and the insanity that had triggered the civil war were history now, and distant history to most.
The man in the dusty leathers, weighted down with business-like weapons and travelling kit, eyed him suspiciously. Under other circumstances Quintillian would have baulked and sweated nervously. He was not a liar by nature, despite the one great untruth with which he had lived since Jala came to Velutio, though it seemed now that every passing week brought a new barrage of fabrications and deceptions for him to uphold. This latest – a shift in name for the sake of anonymity – was not the tallest lie he’d had to tell, just the latest.
The rough soldier looked him up and down as though appraising his abilities from his shell alone.
‘Can you swing that thing?’ he asked, gesturing to the blade belted at Quintillian’s side.
‘As well as most, better than some.’
The man grunted, apparently still unsure for some reason. Quintillian was itching to point out that men like this fellow were hardly in a position to be too choosy about who they took on. Or perhaps he was wrong?
‘Go in. The master will be here in a few minutes.’
Quintillian nodded as the soldier turned his attention to something else, instantly dismissing all thought of the newcomer, and the emperor’s brother strode into the doorway. He paused at the threshold and turned to look up. The walls of Velutio rose impregnable and imposing behind him, banners fluttering atop in the spring breeze. The day was already promising unseasonal warmth and the soldiers atop the battlements would be sweating in their mail, praying to gods of comfort that soon their shift would be over and they could visit the baths.
The walls of Velutio… The tower of angels, the Moon Gate, the wall of Adris Catulo. He knew every stone, had walked every pace of them in his life in the city. And when he’d been away on campaign, those great bastions had welcomed him home like old friends.
His city.
His home.
And behind them, far across the busy throng and the noise and the life: the palace.
Kiva would be at his morning ablutions now, preparing for the day. Jala would be lounging in their bed…
He turned his glistening eyes away from the walls. This was no time for weakness. He had made the decision and it had been a necessary one. Two months had passed since that awful celebration where the depth of his peril had been laid open before him. He had tried again and again to come up with a solution that involved anything but this, but the Fates kept dashing all other hopes and returning him to the inevitable.
Two more weeks in the palace had strengthened his belief that the situation had become untenable. As though that kiss on the balcony had been a fracture in the wall of a dam, the pressure had begun to mount, and other cracks had begun to appear in relationships at court. Sooner or later, they both knew, a tryst would occur. It was inevitable. Alone, Quintillian had had the strength to deny it and hold it back, but with Jala in the same position, it was inescapable.
Quintillian had wracked his brain for a happier solution.
He had asked for a military posting. When his brother had laughed and asked if he really smelled that bad, Quintillian had tried to make light of it, simply citing the fact that he was getting bored with the lack of action, and practice was important to any warrior. Kiva had chuckled and told him to hire a sparring partner. He was staying in Velutio. He was too important to lose to some pointless provincial posting.
Gradually, Quintillian had increased his pleas, possibly to the point of beginning to sound desperate, for Kiva had started to show concern over his brother’s health and state of mind.
‘Could I take an ambassadorial position in Pelasia?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We have politicians to do that, not soldiers and princes.’
‘But princes do nothing useful and you won’t let me be a soldier!’
‘You are a marshal of the army. Can I help it if there’s peace and you’re not needed.’
‘Vengen needs to be brought under control. I hear things are becoming slovenly in the provinces.’
‘I hear no such thing. And there is a marshal already in Vengen. You’re not needed there.’
‘There have been incursions in the northern mountains. Let me gather a force…’
‘There are always incursions there. And now we have our borderland lords to do such jobs for us. Why send imperial soldiers when we pay the old tribes up there to keep us safe?’
And so it had gone on. An almost constant begging to be sent away, and each time a rebuffal. It was obvious to Quintillian why, of course. Apart from brief campaigns and missions the brothers had never been apart, and even Quintillian, strong and independent as he was, felt a nagging emptiness in his being when he was away from his brother. Kiva was worse. He hated being apart, and Quintillian knew it. But there was no choice, now.
A week ago the peril in which they floundered had become a little more panic-inducing. Jala had met Quintillian on a narrow staircase in the north tower of the palace and there had been the usual chuckling and joking as they each dodged this way and that to try and let the other pass. And then somehow, with no apparent intention on either side, they had kissed. The gaiety and humour of the situation had evaporated in a heartbeat, leaving a cold realization and a fresh level of hell for them to inhabit.
Even Jala had been shocked, and had scurried away with Kiva’s name on breathless lips.
That was when Quintillian had decided that it was no longer viable to plead endlessly with his brother for a new posting. Even if the emperor ever reached the point where he would grant a leave of absence, with the worrying progression of matters in the palace it would be too late by then. Either Quintillian would have surrendered to his heart, or Jala would, and everything would come crashing down like a badly-built siege tower.
And so he had taken the last option: flight.
Last evening, Quintillian had made sure his horse was in the farthest stable, that his saddle, bridle and saddlebags were all easily accessible, and that the stable hands responsible would be off-shift before morning. He had packed everything he considered truly important, and was rather disappointed to realize in what a small pack he could fit his entire world. He had gathered up his sword – which had been his grandfather’s and was a blade made for a soldier, not a courtier – and donned his riding leathers rather than the usual fine clothes of palace wear.
This morning, before the sun rose, he had gathered everything, saddled Phyteia and ridden with no ceremony out of the Forest Gate at the northern edge of the city. The guards would never stop a member of the imperial family, of course, but it was not just a matter of stopping him. He had to buy enough time to disappear. Only when he was safely away from Jala and Kiva would he be able to let up. But he habitually rose for early rides on days when his conscience was bothering him, so the guards would have thought nothing of his exit from the city.
>
He’d had to go.
There was no other way. Jala would hurt, and Kiva would be broken by it, he knew. And once the initial thrill of daring was over, he would begin to feel the familiar tearing void caused by his brother’s absence. For Kiva, with the separation so unexpected and unexplained, it would be far worse. But what was the alternative? Ruin not only his brother’s marriage, but the stability of the empire, their collective reputations, and all hope of a lasting peace with Pelasia? That was unthinkable.
They would all heal in time, and while Jala might yearn for Quintillian, he knew that she did really also love Kiva. As long as both brothers were there, she would have an impossible choice and in the end the strain would tear them all apart. Separate they would feel wounded, but they could heal.
With a deep indrawn breath, Quintillian turned and made his way through the doorway.
After leaving the city, he had circled around the outskirts to the mercantile camps, a semi-permanent canvas city below the eastern walls. He had found this place easily, given that he had subtly enquired about it over the past week, and his horse was now corralled with the others, happily munching soft, verdant grass while she waited. And he was here.
The enclosure was ringed with canvas walls but open to the warm, buzzing spring air. Opposite the wooden-framed door through which he’d entered was a separate opening that led to a huge, dim tent interior. Two more of the dusty, clearly very competent, guards stood to the sides barring admittance to the common folk.
Quintillian looked around the open ring. He was not the only applicant. Six others stood in the circle waiting patiently, and Quintillian took a moment to size them up. Two of the men were clearly twins, so alike were they. Each was swarthy with black, floppy hair held back by a narrow, soft leather band. Each wore a sword with a slight curve to it, mimicking an old Pelasian design. They looked enthusiastic, excited even. He dismissed them in his mind. Interesting they might be, but they were inexperienced and probably rather rash. Their excitement and apparent bravado was covering a lack of practice and capability. Unless the master of this camp was foolish – and foolish people didn’t last long in this trade – those two would be staying right here.
Insurgency (Tales of the Empire Book 4) Page 2
