Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Most probably had a smattering. Some would have been fluent.”

  “The chief?” Borus asked.

  “His accent was northern,” Emlyn answered. “I doubt he knew much beyond simple phrases, if any.”

  “Did we find his body amongst the fallen?” Rullus asked.

  “No,” Astentius replied, shaking his head. “That worries me a little. If he was the spark which enflamed that army, he could do so again.”

  “There are not that many men in the forest,” Emlyn said. “The southern tribes have gone soft in contact with the Empire. Money is more important than tradition or shepherding of the forest. Those that wanted to fight moved north when your army invaded.”

  “You make it sound like we are safe, tribeswoman,” Livillia said, delicately sprinkling salt on her bread.

  “Not safe,” Emlyn countered, “but less at risk in the south than the north. Most trees don’t like fire, priest, but the tribes and clans will happily fell as many as needed to build you a pyre big enough to send you to your god.”

  “A kindness, no doubt,” the Curate answered without looking in Emlyn’s direction and popped the bread into her mouth.

  “Enough,” Astentius snapped. “Emlyn, you will visit the villages as we travel. Make contact with the people, assure them of our good intentions, and secure provisions. Cohort Borus will go with you to question the locals about the route ahead. I will supply you with enough money or items of trade. Kyron, you will go too. I want you to make sure we are being told the truth about the track and any supplies we purchase.”

  “Spear,” the Curate spoke up, “I must protest. Allowing this tribeswoman and this,” her lips curled up further in disgust, “magician to determine our fate is a step too far.”

  “Cohort Borus will, as I said,” Astentius said, biting off each word, “accompany them as will two soldiers to provide protection. Would you prefer to send a priest perhaps? You’ve already heard what the tribes would like to do to a priest.”

  “Sending soldiers is bad enough,” Emlyn said, her voice tainted with venom, “but a priest also? We’ll have stones and worse thrown at us the moment we appear.”

  “Our mission is too important,” Astentius said, “to risk it based purely on your fears, Curate.”

  “But…” she started.

  “The decision is made,” Astentius said, cutting off her words with a sharp gesture. “Your role tonight, Curate, is to lead the army in prayer and ensure the fallen are honoured, respected and find a place in the Holy Flame.”

  “You have not heard the last of this, Spear,” the Curate said.

  “Probably not,” he agreed, “but once the Emperor’s body is safely back in the capital, I will happily listen to a list of your complaints. For now, for the sake of the Empire, and because it is your calling, you will lead the service tonight.”

  “I will not put the magician’s body on a pyre,” the Curate snapped, her eyes narrowing in challenge.

  “No one is asking you to,” Astentius said.

  “Good,” the Curate said, biting off the word. She straightened and stamped away from the fire and the discussion.

  “You are dismissed,” Astentius said to her retreating back and sighed. “Now, are the rest of us clear about our duties?”

  “Yes, Spear,” Kyron said along with the rest, happy to find his voice once more. Emlyn nodded but stayed silent.

  “Don’t worry, lad,” Borus said. “The soldiers will honour your master with a pyre. I’ll have some detailed to build it and place him upon it.”

  “I’ll stand with you,” Emlyn said.

  XXXIII

  The General

  Seven years ago:

  “In the ranks, you’ll stand with the other soldiers. You’ll fight for them and they for you,” he said, watching the boy wash the day’s sweat from his face. “You’ll rely on each other. It won’t matter how big the enemy is because you’ll be thousands strong.”

  “Is the army a good life?”

  “It has always suited me, lad,” he said.

  “But my father didn’t want to be a soldier?”

  “No,” he answered, his good mood evaporating.

  “Where is he, General?” Aelia said, her blonde curls still damp from the bath and dressed in an old cuirass of small bronze plates sewn onto a leather jerkin.

  “In the cells, Princess,” Bordan said, staring at the armour. “Where did you get that? I thought we stopped issuing those to the troops over a century ago. Mail is stronger, lighter, and better protection.”

  “My father had a room full of treasures,” Aelia said, running her hand down the small fish-scales of metal. They clinked and tinkled in the quiet. “I suppose it is my room now. This was in there, and after the attempt on my life, I thought it prudent to wear something.”

  “It looks to be in good condition,” Bordan said, leaning around the Princess and peering at the bronze plates. In the light of the lanterns the bronze took on a golden hue.

  “Father oiled it frequently,” Aelia answered and for a moment Bordan caught a glimpse of the wistful child, puzzled by grief and unsure of her next steps. “I want to question him.”

  “I understand your anger and need,” Bordan answered, “but, forgive me, Princess, we have people trained to extract information and I would save you the… unpleasantness.”

  “I want to see, General. He came after me. He knows who killed my brother, who tried to kill me, and who paid them,” Aelia said and the wistful child disappeared. In its place, her father’s child, stubborn, imperial and imperious, ready to face the dangers.

  “Of course,” Bordan answered, pausing to take a breath. “Princess, I understand why you want to do this, but please, save yourself this experience.”

  “Did not someone say, ‘Nothing happens to any man that he is not formed by nature to bear.’ Perhaps I was born to suffer this.”

  “A philosopher,” Bordan answered, dragging up a memory from decades ago. “One who lived a comfortable life under the patronage of an Emperor. He would not have seen what you now wish to.”

  “I have to, General.” The façade of the Princess broke for a moment, giving Bordan a view of the broken soul within.

  Not trusting himself to answer, the sadness choking his voice, he settled for a simple nod.

  With guards in tow, they made their way past the painted plaster walls and along the tiled hallways. The intricate and expensive tessellated panels at the intersections were ignored. Busts of previous Emperors and nobles of note, draped in the black cloth of mourning, went unseen. Servants, soldiers, and clerks who carried on about their daily business were quick to move out of the way.

  In a far corner of the palace, stairs led down. Regularly spaced and sized, carved from stone found in the mountains far to the west, smoothed by the tread of the years, they formed the path to the cells and prison below. Every twenty steps down there was a small landing, a flat, level piece of stone, before the stairs cut back upon their course to go down another twenty. On each of the first five landings, a door allowed access to another part of the palace used by servants, for storage, and archives.

  Past those, the doors came to an end, but the stairs continued. The air cooled and there was a damp smell. Enclosed lanterns lit the way, their flames steady in the unmoving air, giving rise to harsh edges and dark shadows in which the unlucky might become lost for an age.

  Despite the cool temperature, Bordan began to sweat as he descended. There was an ache in his legs and the small of his back felt like it was burning. He reached for the collar of his tunic and pulled it away from his skin, encouraging fresh air to circulate his torso.

  “Come, General,” Aelia said, turning and offering a smile. “I’ve seen you fight off assassins as well as a man half your age. A few stairs should not defeat you.”

  “Not the stairs, Princess, but age is an enemy I can never hope to defeat, not with clever strategy or tactics. It has chosen the battleground well and my reserves are
running low. When you reach my years, you too will face this foe and I hope you bring better weapons than I.”

  “You shouldn’t talk of death, General.” Aelia stopped her descent and turned to face the older man. There was a look of sadness in her eyes which chilled Bordan to the marrow. “Not today. I’ve lost too much already.”

  “Of course, Your Highness,” Bordan replied. “Today we should speak of uncovering those who have caused you and our Empire such pain. Today is the beginning of the retribution.”

  “A much happier topic.” Aelia resumed the journey towards the cells.

  The echo of each step was muted by the cool, damp air. Even the slow burning oil lamps set into hollows carved into the stone produced an apologetic light matching the maudlin mood which settled across Bordan’s shoulders like a heavy winter cloak.

  At the bottom, the narrow stairs opened into a small room occupied by a single guard who stood to attention as they entered.

  “General,” the guard saluted. “Your Highness.”

  “The prisoner is secured?” Bordan asked.

  “As ordered, General,” the guard replied.

  “Has the Carnificina arrived?”

  “A few moments ago,” the guard said, nodding towards the door behind him. “They have not yet begun.”

  “Excellent,” Aelia said.

  “Open the door,” Bordan ordered, wiping the sweat from his face.

  The guard took a heavy key from his belt, inserted it in the lock and gave it a twist. There was a clunk and several scratches before the guard swung the door open.

  Warm air, heavy with the stink of rot and urine, gushed from the door and Bordan, accustomed to the cool air of the stairway, took a step back.

  “You get used to it, General,” the guard supplied helpfully.

  “I sincerely hope not,” Bordan replied.

  Looking to the Princess for instruction, or a hint of the young woman’s intentions, Bordan was surprised to see her flesh had paled and her eyes were as large as the rim of a goblet filled with dark wine. “Princess?”

  He saw Aelia take a deep breath before she answered. “It is what we came here for, General. Answers.”

  “And justice, Princess,” Bordan said.

  Aelia nodded. “Of course, General.”

  “It is the cell at the far end, General,” the guard said. “Stay in the centre of the corridor. The guards within can guide you if needed.”

  “Thank you,” Bordan said, recognising the prompt for what it was. “I’ll lead the way.”

  Aelia nodded, offering no other guidance or insight.

  Bordan steeled himself. The cells were never pretty, and he only came down here when he must. In the last twenty years, that had been… He paused, putting the events of the last two decades in order… only three times previously. Even so, the memory was strong, and it came with a sense of sickness which burrowed into his stomach.

  The main corridor was wide enough for four men to walk shoulder to shoulder and a carved channel ran down the centre. Small tributaries brought urine, shit, blood, and vomit from the cells either side into this channel where it was encouraged, either by the natural slope or more often by a guard with a bucket of water, to flow into a large trough. This was emptied every morning by dedicated night-soil workers whose sense of smell had ceased functioning.

  Bordan was careful to stay away from the channel and avoid each small tributary and confluence. Low moans emanated from one of the occupied cells and he was thankful the thick wooden doors, bound with iron and scribed with symbols courtesy of the Gymnasium, prevented him from seeing in. Even so, next to him, the Princess craned her neck to try and peer through the small opening high in the door.

  “Through here,” Bordan said, twisting the handle on the last door.

  Aelia waved him forward and they stepped into Hades. Iron braziers full of cherry red coal burned in the corners of the room, raising the temperature, and stealing the moisture from Bordan’s mouth on every breath. Sweat dripped down his back, sticking his tunic to his skin. A chimney cut into the ceiling drew the smoke which clouded the ceiling where it would follow the vents which ran between the walls as part of the castle’s heating system. Even so, it looked as though dark grey clouds shrouded the sky and billowed on a breeze denied to him.

  The far wall drew his attention. The assassin was tied to a chair, ropes binding his arms and legs to the stout wood, a gag encircling his mouth. Two men, dressed in sleeveless tunics which fell to the mid-thigh and tied with a thick leather belt, stood close by.

  Aelia was quick. Quicker than Bordan had expected, but the men in the tunics were quicker, moving to stand in the Princess’s way, barring her from the prisoner.

  “Get out of my way!” the Princess shouted at the two men, who stood, unarmed and impassive, in the face of imperial fury.

  Bordan placed a hand on her arm, encircling her forearm, and was surprised at the heat radiating from the woman’s skin. Hotter than the coals, it burned his hand, but he held on.

  “We need answers,” Bordan said, gritting his teeth and once more his shoulder reminded him of the wound. “They know their job. Let them do it, Your Highness.”

  For a moment it seemed as if Aelia would break free, but on the next breath the tension left the young woman’s arm and she sagged.

  “Forgive me, General,” Aelia said. “I should not let my temper, my anger at the man who attempted to end my life, rule me. If I am to rule the Empire well, I must learn to conquer myself first.”

  The wry smile the Princess favoured him with brought hope to his heart. “Your father’s words?”

  “His advice to me on another matter, but I realise now he was teaching me about much more,” Aelia answered.

  “They have provided chairs,” Bordan said, changing the subject as a thorn of loss hooked into his heart. “This will not be pleasant, Your Highness.”

  “I can bear this, General,” Aelia replied as she settled into the chair. “The heat may force my retreat sooner than a weak stomach.”

  Bordan steeled himself, reciting a passage he had learned as a child. “Now stands my task accomplished, such a work, flame, fire nor sword nor the devouring ages can destroy.”

  “Not yet, General,” Aelia whispered, “but soon.”

  The cutting began. With fine blades heated over the brazier the two men began to slice into the bound legs of the assassin. Behind the gag, their victim wailed and thrashed but the ropes permitted no movement. Blood began to flow, tracing its way to the floor where it puddled.

  After a time, the gag was removed, and the assassin was asked a question in a sibilant whisper. There was no response, but Bordan saw sweat mat the brow on the assassin’s forehead above defiant eyes.

  The cutting resumed. This time the blades traced delicate paths across the man’s stomach leaving a fine network of incisions which beaded with red.

  After each cut, a question was asked, and the answer written down. Soon Bordan began to detect the pattern of questions. Once a fact was established, a question would be asked to test that fact. The question was always posed in such a way not to be a direct repeat of an earlier one but phrased carefully to elicit the recall of the assassin. The new answer was then written down and returned to a few questions later.

  The nature of the questioning changed. Instead of cuts, substances were rubbed into the wounds and the assassin screamed. The high pitch wails pierced Bordan’s skull and where he had been able to look away from the cuts, the depth of the man’s anguish was impossible to ignore.

  Questions were asked, repeated, checked, written down to the accompaniment of the assassin’s screams. Glancing to the side, Bordan caught sight of the Princess’s face as sweat dripped from beneath her golden curls. The woman’s mouth moved in a silent whisper as the assassin screamed again. Aelia’s eyes were wide, unable to look away from the horror before her.

  Even in the oppressive heat of the room, Bordan began to feel cold and the queasy feeling in his
stomach spread to his limbs. The trembling began in his hands and he clasped the arms of the chair to hide them away. Soon though, he felt them start in his arms.

  The door opened and the blessing of a cool breeze swept across him, bringing a moment of clarity, followed by a spasm which wracked his frame.

  “Your Highness, General.” Godewyn stood in the doorway, the symbol of the Flame upon his chest appeared to waver and flicker in the heat of the room. “If I had known the questioning was to begin so soon, I would have been in attendance. How fare the answers?”

  Aelia stood and gestured to the Carnificina who held the stylus.

  “My lords,” the man said, “we have checked and rechecked this man’s,” he pointed to the assassin who was shaking and heaving, each rattling breath sounded as if it was his last, “answers. He does not appear to know who hired him and his colleagues to assassinate the Princess. He is aware of the previous death of Prince Alhard but does not know who carried out that contract. It appears that is not the way his group operate.”

  “What do we have that is useful?” Aelia asked, glancing at the assassin before looking away.

  “Not much, Your Highness,” the Carnificina said, shaking his head a little. Small droplets of sweat arced through the air to land with a sizzle upon the stone floor.

  “Perhaps,” Godewyn’s deep voice cut through the heat, “I can assist. This is Justice Zonara, one of the most experienced inquisitors in the Church.”

  “And she will get more from the assassin than the General’s Carnificina?” the Princess demanded.

  Bordan squinted into the shadows cast by the braziers and flames but could only see the outline of the woman in the doorway.

  “With all due deference to the talents of the General’s men, yes,” Godewyn said, ushering the woman into the room. “With your permission, my Princess?”

  “Go ahead, High Priest,” Aelia said, turning her back on the assassin with an expression which Bordan would have said was regret. “I will be interested to see how the techniques of the Church of the Holy Flame differ from those of the military.”