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 to 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.”
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?”
Sabian glanced across at Salonius, who nodded.
“Officer Salonius of the captain’s guard in the Fourth will second Varro. And Cristus?”
The prefect smiled.
“I nominate captain Crino as my second, though I cannot imagine for a second that I will need him.”
Sabian shifted his gaze to the named captain, standing with his unhappy troops, enclosed in a ring of men emanating a low but clearly discernable air of detestation and disapproval. Crino grimaced, clearly unhappy with his lot, and finally nodded reluctantly.
“Very well. Varro and Salonius; Cristus and Crino.”
He gestured to Iasus, who adjusted his black cloak and removed his plumed helm. The strict guard captain squared his shoulders and stepped forward, opening a gap in the shield wall and entering the arena.
He called out in an officious tone “Under article fourteen of the codex of Imperial military law, Captain Varro has requested trial by combat.”
He turned to the captain.
“State your accusations for the record and be witnessed by all here as representatives of the Emperor and his council.”
Varro shrugged wearily.
“This traitorous piece of shit has called on himself the death penalty time and again, according to the standards of military law. He consorted with the enemy at Saravis Fork and sold out a garrison to the barbarians to become slaves or worse… penalty: death.”
Some of the weariness seemed to drop from Varro’s frame and he pulled himself upright, his voice gaining volume.
“He lied to his commanding officer and his peers, claiming honours and victories that were not his, gaining prestige and position by condemning his own men and covering his tracks with bloodshed and deliberately heavy losses… penalty: death.”
His arm shot out and an accusing finger pointed at Cristus.
“He employed assassins and secreted them among the men of the Fourth, with orders to kill myself, sergeant Petrus, Salonius, and possibly even the lady Catilina, succeeding in the death of my cousin Petrus, a hero and survivor of the Saravis Fork massacre… penalty: death.”
The captain growled.
“And last night his men besieged us in a ruined villa not far from here. His attack almost killed the marshal’s daughter, who was wounded in the process. And now that I think of it, that’s the third time we’ve been attacked by Cristus’ men. This is basically a declaration of war against two officers and a civilian… penalty: death.”
He stepped back and took a breath.
“If he’s allowed to go on, he’ll continue to lie, cheat, betray and murder, only in higher levels, on the Imperial ruling council. He has to be stopped now for the good of the Empire.”
Captain Iasus waited a long moment to be sure that Varro had finished and then turned to Cristus.
“Prefect? Do you wish to state your case?”
Cristus sighed and gave a sad little smile that he flashed around the crowd of soldiers present.
“Perhaps, if I thought it worthwhile. Captain Varro has fallen under the spell of an unpleasant and thoroughly false rumour concerning my past, spread maliciously by a man who is now conveniently deceased and can no longer confirm or deny it. He has victimised and hounded myself and my officers and, I believe, has already turned most of my peers against me. I fear that in the eyes of my contemporaries, I am already guilty. And so, I am left with only one option: to accept Varro’s challenge and leave the proof of my innocence on his body. I have faith in my cause, my Gods and my skill.”
He folded his arms, the blade of his sword wavering slightly and catching the rays of the morning sun, flashing them back around the crowd.
Varro coughed, though Salonius saw his face and was sure he heard the word ‘arsehole’ disguised in there. In other circumstances the juvenile behaviour would have made him laugh.
Iasus took a step back from the arena’s edge and glanced up the slope at Sabian, who nodded slightly. Clearing his throat, the guard captain once more addressed the combatants.
“Can there be no peaceable resolution?”
Varro growled “No.”
“Very well then.” Iasus pointed to two ends of the makeshift arena. “The regulations laid out under military law for this are as follows: The combatants will separate to a distance of thirty paces before we start. Combat will begin when I call the order. There are no restrictions given to the precise nature of combat, and so the employment of certain tactics is down to the conscience of the individual.”
He paused to let his words sink in and then took another breath.
“A halt can be called at any time by either party by addressing the adjudicator, that is myself. Equally, I have the right to call a halt at any point. No other party may stop the combat, though they may approach me to do so. Combat will end when only one party remains alive. At that point, the second of the losing combatant may elect to issue their own challenge and step into the arena. The winner of the combat is absolved of any crime for which he stands accused and may return to active service on clearance by the medical staff. The remains of the loser will be dealt with appropriately. Are these regulations clear?”
Varro and Cristus chorused their understanding.
“Then let the parties separate by walking a further ten paces apart from where they currently stand.”
Varro crouched and, jabbing his sword in the ground, picked up a handful of dry dirt, rubbing it into his hands before retrieving the blade and standing again. With a quick glance at the retreating figure of Cristus, he spat once on the floor and then turned his back and walked away, counting his paces.
Catilina leaned close to Salonius.
“Can he actually win? Cristus may be more of a politician than a general, but he prides himself on his swordsmanship. He’s won competitions.”
The young man nodded unsurely.
“I didn’t realise Cristus was that good, but Varro’s still going to win. Cristus has rigid thinking. He can only see black and white. Varro’s cleverer than that. The captain won’t win because he’s better with a sword; he’ll win because he can outthink the prefect.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Salonius continued to nod.
“I am. I know I am.”
Catilina swallowed nervously and briefly flicked her eyes toward the eaves of the sacred wood and then focused on Varro, standing poised to one side of the arena, glaring at his opponent, who swung his sword in figure eights with a flourish.
Iasus’ sharp voice made her jump.
“Begin!”
Cristus stepped forward, still swinging his blade in elaborate arcs, smiling confidently. Varro pursed his lips, glanced once, quickly at Catilina and mouthed something that Salonius couldn’t quite see, and then began to walk forward slowly and purposefully, his sword held straight in his hand and his eyes locked on his adversary.
Salonius tensed and felt Catilina’s good hand grasp his wrist. He encompassed her small and delicate hand in his and cast a sidelong glance at her. A single tear ran down her cheek, past her hardened, resolute features.
Varro struck first.
It was a thorough, hard, military blow; backhanded and aimed horizontally at elbow height. As he’d predicted, Cristus suffered a fleeting moment of indecision as to how to block the blow before hurriedly raising his blade and bringing it back down, awkwardly and barely in time to turn the blow away.
Varro took a step back.
“That’s your problem, you see, Cristus? You’ve only ever fought gentlemen under peaceable circumstances. You’ve never fought anyone who’s only goal is to kill you. That’s why you’ll lose.”
Cristus stepped back.
“You’re an idiot Varro,” he said, quietly enough to be inaudible beyond the pair of them. “You’ve damaged my reputation almost beyond repair. If I’m to come out of this smelling sweet, I need to make this a show. I need them to think I deserved to win. You’re just going to look like a thug.”
Varro growled and suddenly lunged, thrusting his sword at Cristus’ belly. The man laughed and wheeled aside, bringing his own blade down on Varro’s theatrically, with a ringing noise. In an almost blinding flash of speed, the prefect’s blade flicked across the captain’s hand guard and scraped along the wood and leather contraption Salonius had created. Within, Var5ro heaved a sigh of relief. Even that fancy scratch could have ended it. He looked up at Cristus, who was smiling benignly.
“Tut tut, captain. Calmly, now.”
Spinning around to face the man again, Varro felt a wrenching in his side. He reached down and grasped his waist, his eyes momentarily blurring.
“Not yet…”
“What was that?” Cristus chuckled. “Your wound and the venom causing trouble. Please rise above it. If I finish this too quickly it’s such a wasted opportunity.”
Varro suddenly winced and dropped to all fours, making a hacking sound. Cristus sighed as he wandered casually over to the stricken captain.
“Come on, Varro. Get up and die on your feet.”
Varro grinned. In a lightning quick move, he rolled onto his side, bringing his sword down to the grass, directly onto Cristus’ foot. With satisfaction, he drove the blade through flesh and bone and into the earth, breaking several bones in the middle of the man’s foot and pinning him agonisingly to the floor.
Cristus stared down in shock and horror at his maimed foot as Varro rolled back out of reach and slowly and painfully climbed to his feet.
“Never be drawn in by deception, you piece of shit.” He tapped his wounded side and smiled at the dull, echoey thudding noise.
Cristus moved ever so slightly and, as the muscles in his foot tore further around the deeply-wedged blade, let out a piercing shriek that cut through the silence of the hillside. Varro laughed.
“You are a good swordsman, Cristus. You’re also an idiot, a liar, a traitor and shortly a corpse. Best concentrate on pulling that blade out of your foot. Can’t reach me until you do, and the blood’s trickling away slowly.”
As he spoke, he began slowly to circle Cristus. The prefect attempted to keep his front facing the captain but, as Varro circled behind him, it was impossible. Even the effort made his face contort with the agony shooting up from his foot. Varro stopped directly behind him, smiled, and very, very gently kicked the stricken leg from behind. Cristus shrieked again, so loud that the birds left the canopy of the sacred wood. Combat all but forgotten, the prefect reached down toward the hilt of the sword pinning him, his mouth opening and closing in an ‘O’ of exquisite horror and agony.
With a calm smile, Varro reached out and gently plucked the man’s sword from his hand. The smile deepened as Cristus tried to turn once more and raised a hand to ward off the blow. Almost causally, Varro swung the prefect’s sword, cutting the fingers from the raised hand.
Fresh agony rang through Cristus as he stared first at his hand, with only a ‘V’ of thumb and forefinger remaining, the others lying like uncooked meat on the grass. With a grisly, determined look, Varro took his other arm by the wrist.
Cristus stared at him, repeatedly mouthing the word ‘no’ through a veil of tears, though no sound issued.
Varro stopped.
“You want mercy? You? After the deaths you’ve caused, you have the audacity to ask for mercy. Catilina’s wounds? Petrus’ death? And that poor messenger too? The soldiers in the valley station who didn’t even know what they were dying for? Turning Corda against me? And after all that, my wound and the poison? And you want mercy?”
Cristus stared at him, the pain and shock clearly evident, but another strange look of confusion joining them.
“Poison?”
Varro growled and tightened his grip on the man’s wrist.
“Yes. The Ironroot. Very subtle. Much more subtle than the rest of your activities…”
Cristus stared through the tears.
“I’ve never used Ironroot, Varro. I wouldn’t even know where to get it this far north.”
Sighing, Varro swung the blade and cut a single finger from Cristus’ hand.
“I know that me winning proves your fault anyway, but I’d really appreciate you unburdening yourself of your guilt quite noisily so that everyone else can hear it.”
Cristus whimpered, staring at his hand, still in the captain’s grip.
“I’ll confess to anyone. Just stop torturing me!”
Varro growled again.
“Then tell me how you got the poison to that barbarian!”
“What barbarian? What are you talking about, Varro? Please?”
The captain stopped and frowned.
“The Imperial sword. The nice officer’s sword that barbarian stuck me with? Covered in Ironroot? The one that killed me?”
Cristus stopped crying. For a horrible moment, he began to smile. Even through the tears and the pain, the prefect’s sides began to shake with laughter.
“What’s funny?” Varro barked.
“You!” Cristus coughed out. “You did all this to pay me back for something I didn’t do! Priceless. Oh, the Gods like a joke, Varro. They love a good joke, and this one’s on both of us. You’ve ruined me in retaliation for something I didn’t do, and now you’re going to die without even finding out who really did!”
Varro stared at this laughing maniac and suddenly felt a sharp pain. Staring down, he realise that Cristus had used his two remaining fingers on the other hand to draw a small, slender knife from his belt and thrust it into the captain’s side. Still gripping Cristus’ wrist, he stared in shock and suddenly collapsed to his knees, bringing the prefect with him. With a tearing noise the disfigured man’s foot tore in half around the blade in the floor.
Cristus drew his small knife back in his maimed hand, the blade making curious sounds as it tore back out through the leather support, and laughed again.
“Varro, Ironroot is an ingestive, you idiot. It would probably do you some damage on a blade, but not enough to be fatal. If only I had some on this blade, I could make your last minutes a little more interesting.”
He thrust forward with the blade again, going for the chest this time, but Varro’s own hand swung up, bearing his opponent’s sword and breaking the offending arm at the wrist.
Staring it his limp, broken hand, Cristus giggled.
“Best put me out of my pain Varro. I need to die first or my cause wins and I die a free and honoured soldier. And you’ll not even make it to the marshal. I know my anatomy, Varro. That was your liver. See how the blood pooling out at your belt and running down your leg is nice and dark? Darker than mine? That’s liver, that is. I…”
Mid sentence, the prefect stopped, his eyes glazing over as the tip of Varro’s sword broke through the man’s back and out through his tunic with a tearing sound. Cristus slumped over him, a mangled, bleeding mess.
Varro toppled backwards to the ground and looked down at his legs, tangled beneath him.
“Dark.”
It was true. The blood running in thick streams down his thigh was dark and wicked.
Clutching at the grass with whitening knuckles, he forced himself to his knees and looked around. Everything was blurred, as though seen through a pain of glass in heavy rain.
Rain.
It has been raining when he’d first met Catilina. He remembered it well. At Vengen. He’d reported to the senior officer in the square before the marshal’s palace. The rain was turning the gravel and dirt beneath his feet into a browny-grey mud that clung to his boots. He knew he looked dirty and haggard from a long ride, but then the palace doors had opened and she had appeared in her finery, a young lady; much younger than him, but so beautiful.
He smiled wistfully as he looked down at his knees and thighs, soaked through with deep, dark, red; the colour of Catilina’s dress that day, if he remembered correctly.
She had climbed onto her horse and walked it slowly across the square toward the civilian sector, pulling her hood up against the rain. Half way across the square she’d first looked at him. She’d stared and then slowly warmed to a smile. Rummaging in a pocket, she produced a coin and tossed it to him.
“Get indoors somewhere and get some wine while you dry off.”
With a lingering look, she’d ridden off.
He’d known that day that they’d be together til death. Curiously it hadn’t occurred to him it would happen this soon, but still, he’d known. And he was right, because here she was, his beautiful Catilina, with him in the arena. He couldn’t see at all now. Everything was a milky white, but his nose still worked. Even days on the road and nights in the woods hadn’t disguised that scent, like roses in the early morning dew. And other hands too; strong hands. He recognised those hands. Who did they belong to again?
There was a pain as he was slowly helped to his feet. He vaguely recognised the heady sensation of standing suddenly; light-headed. The pain was nicely distant. Like something experienced through that same window. If only he could see through the window, but it was so white. And someone was talking to him. He could hear that there were voices, but they were drowned under the surging noises in his ears, like a great torrent of water rushing down a gulley; like the bridge where they’d fought Cristus’ men in the mountain village. Such a loud rushing that there was little hope of hearing the voices. Shame, really. Catilina had a lovely voice when she wasn’t shouting, and Salonius… that was his name… Salonius… he had such a soft and calm voice for an engineer. He’d miss them.
Oh dear. He couldn’t smell Catilina anymore.
Silence.
Salonius gripped the slumped body of his captain with his left arm, holding him upright with all his strength, his right arm clamped tightly around the shoulders of the shuddering woman beside him. Catilina wailed and howled, shaking and snorting. Though only moments passed, it felt like hours to the young man, supporting the two most important people in his life. He waited patiently for the grief to plateau and finally the shaking subsided, the cries turned to sobs and the distraught young lady began to take her own weight once more.
As Catilina stepped back, wiping the tears from her eyes and cheeks with the back of her good wrist, Salonius turned the limp and suddenly light body of the captain to face him. That face; so white. With a sigh, he threw Varro over his shoulder and turned to follow Catilina back out of the arena, pausing only momentarily to deliver a hefty kick to the prone heap that was Cristus.
The arena wall, formed of two rows of men from their own army, stepped respectfully aside as Salonius carried the victor up the slope towards the marshal. As he walked, captain Iasus joined them. Glancing to his other side, he was, as ever, impressed by Catilina. The visual signs of grief had all but fled, leaving her with a resolute and proud look. Salonius tried to match her expression as they reached the marshal.
Sabian’s face was blank as they approached.
“Sir,” Salonius announced, “I believe since prefect Cristus died first, that this man deserves to be honoured appropriately?”
Sabian took a short breath; then another; then turned to Cristus’ second, captain Crino.
“Do you wish to take up the challenge, Crino?”
The relief on the captain’s face melted away as he came under scrutiny once more.
“No sir. I believe justice has been served.”
“Hmmm.” Sabian glared at the captain for a moment and then turned back to the small group before him.
“Iasus? I want you to start working through the Fourth. I want everyone separated into three groups to deal with: those who were a clear part of Cristus’ treachery, those who were unwillingly or unwittingly roped in, and those who are innocent. I trust you’re able to do this?”
The captain nodded curtly.
“Those with some level of culpability will be placed under guard at Vengen. And those who are innocent, sir?”
Send them to Crow Hill to await the arrival of a new prefect. Let them take their banners and their honours with them. And get the camp commandant and the quartermaster to organise setting up camp here for the night. I doubt we’ll be leaving until you’ve finished your questioning.”
Iasus nodded.
“I’ll have a palisade erected, sir. I already have pickets and guards out to prevent desertion.”
“Good,” Sabian waved away toward the wagons. “Get started.”
As Iasus stalked away, taking several of the black-clad guards with him, Sabian turned back to Salonius, Catilina, and the wilted body of Varro.
“Sad to see him end so. But a good way for him to go, I think. I suspect he’s content, wherever he is.”
Salonius smiled sadly.
“We were tasked by the Gods, sir, to achieve something great. I believe we’ve done so. I think the afterlife is waiting with honours to welcome captain Varro.”
Catilina shot him a quick and very strange look.
“It’s not quite over for us, Salonius” she said darkly.
And vengeance sends the last goodbye…
The problem with Varro and Salonius is that they both only ever think, or thought, in such limited ways. They had always assumed that the stag God had chosen them to do great works. Them and only them. I didn’t like to puncture their bubble of importance. I let them go on dropping to hushed tones when I appeared and whispering secretively like small children who’ve found a secret place.
I never told them about that night at Crow Hill where Cernus first found me, floundering in my despair; of how the Stag Lord explained to my heart why these things were so; of why Varro was important. They never seemed to wonder why I put my whole world at risk to follow them into the wilderness on their great errand, putting it down to my ‘wilfulness’.
And I never told them how Cernus found me again at Vengen; how I was wounded and felt close to the end at times, weak as a kitten from that wound in my shoulder, but how the Stag Lord came to me at that critical moment as my will dissolved and brought me strength to go on, and purpose to do so.
But the strange thing is, that even through my secret clandestine liaisons with Cernus, it never occurred to me that my path was different from theirs. Perhaps that Salonius was the peg that joined our tasks. For I was far from instrumental in their success in bringing down a traitor to the Empire. I played a part, certainly, but they would have arrived at their end without me, I now know. For the Stag Lord had chosen a dying man for his own goals. Cernus is a Lord of the forests and a God of the Northern tribes. What cares he that Imperial justice is served?
No. Quite simply, Cernus chose Varro to right a wrong visited on his own people. Cristus had to die, not for any betrayal of the Empire or his army, but for the violent extinction of the tribe of the Clianii. Varro was his instrument. Salonius was chosen as a son of the northern peoples.
But me? I had no part to play there.
My part was supplementary to the God. My part was to right the wrong done to Varro in return for his efforts.
I was, as so many times before, losing my resolve. We were in the sacred wood of Phaianis. I would never have set foot on such sacred ground under normal circumstances, but the situation demanded it. And beneath those hallowed eaves, I watched the man I loved open the last door to the afterlife. I saw him die once again and knew that his time had come. I doubted he would see another dawn and I broke.
I made some excuse about praying to Phaianis and left them. I just had to be alone to break. I was in the depth of the most hopeless loss I could imagine, and after all that Cernus had done for me, there was nothing I could do for Varro to help him with what he must face. I couldn’t understand how I could have come so far, only to be useless now.
And that was the third time the Stag Lord found me. Deep in the woods we associate with Phaianis the huntress, here was that most hunted of creatures, the stag, all unconcerned. To my dying day, I will live in the belief that Phaianis, and probably all of our Gods, are a fiction of our proud minds and that the only true spirits are those that actually touch us.
Cernus found me there in the pit of despair and brought me the knowledge of what I must do. By the time he turned and left me alone in the dark woods, my resolve had returned and I knew that I must harden myself and go on. Varro and Salonius had avenged the Empire.
And now I would avenge Varro.