Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  His toe caught a step and Bordan fell forward. Both hands shot forward and his callused palms protected his face from the worst of the impact. Even so, pain shot up his arms as the stone stairs bit into the flesh and bone.

  “Get up,” Godewyn’s voice called from a lower step.

  Bordan looked down and saw the former soldier frowning at him. “I am getting too old for this.”

  “Very true,” Godewyn acknowledged without softening the blow. “This is why you’re a General and no longer a soldier. You have men to do this for you.”

  Bordan huffed and lifted himself from the cold stone, his arms and legs aching. “Go past. I’ll catch up at the top.”

  The last sight of the High Priest was a swish of white robe and the bottom of a leather sandal as he turned at the next landing.

  No longer running, Bordan tramped up the steps, stopping on each little landing to catch his breath, while his mind worried at the events occurring above. The Empress would be fine, she had to be. There was so much still to do to secure the throne for her daughter. The palace was considered safe and well-guarded, but if so how did the assassins get in to attack Aelia and kill Alhard? They had to have had help. And he had ordered a doubling of the guard, trusted men only. There was no way any more could get in and certainly not to the Empress.

  But what if they did?

  The thought set him running again. Each breath a burning poker shoved down his throat into his lungs. He hawked and spat out the boiling phlegm which threatened to clog his airways. Another flight done, another quick rest, and he climbed once more.

  Broaching the last stair, stumbling out of the door, he found the palace in a state of confusion. Guards stood with drawn swords and spears readied crowding the corridors he stumbled along. Servants, fearful of getting in the way, hunched in doorways and alcoves. Whispers crept along the hallways, following in his footsteps. Shouted orders drowned out his footsteps and the number of guards increased as he closed in on the imperial quarters.

  He noted the change in their expression and slowed. Here, near the centre of the Empire’s power, there was quiet and those around spoke in hushed tones. The door to the Empress’s chambers was open and voices wafted out, but the blood still pounding in his ears rendered them unintelligible. One hand on the frame, Bordan turned into the room and froze.

  In the centre sat Aelia, golden curls covering her face as she looked down into the face cradled upon her lap. To the side was her bloodied gladius and beyond that the dark-clothed body of the assassin. Just behind Aelia lay another body, that of a guard, one Bordan knew and had entrusted the safety of the imperial family to. Godewyn stood, unmoving, and he too looked down at the Empress’s pale face.

  Her gown, one of deep purple, was rent and torn. The front of it was soaked in blood and the hilt of the assassin’s knife jutted from it.

  “No,” Bordan breathed.

  Godewyn looked away from daughter and mother, a gaze filled with sadness. “I arrived too late, General.”

  “What…” Bordan faltered because the answer was obvious. The lay of the bodies, the bloodied sword, knife, and stench of death told him everything. The assassin had somehow gained entrance to the Empress’s room, killing the guard and then, as the Empress came out of her bedroom—the door was open to his right—stabbed her. Aelia had arrived then, or very soon after, and the assassin had been unable to retrieve his knife and fled for the window which looked down the sheer wall of the palace. Before he could reach it, Aelia had cut him down and returned to her mother. A thought struck him. “One of Vedrix’s potions?”

  Godewyn pointed to the vial by the fallen Empress. “I tried, but it was too late. Death is a kingdom from which no magician may reclaim a soul.”

  “How many more are there?” Bordan pointed towards the assassin laying near the window. The curtains were thrown back, light spilling across the dark robes from the window.

  “The assassin in the cells does not know,” Godewyn said. “There could be many more of the Circulus Sicariorum in the castle.”

  “Are you sure the circle is involved?”

  “I can only vouch for the one in the cells, but yes, I believe so,” Godewyn replied.

  Bordan turned to one of the soldiers by the door. “Seal the palace. No one gets in or out without being vouched for by two people, one of which must be known to a guard. If anyone starts to fuss, send for me, and I will put them right, or into the cells.”

  “Yes, General,” the soldier said.

  “And get the Spear of the Guard here now,” Bordan snapped.

  “The story will get out before the guard reaches the doors,” Godewyn pointed out.

  “Likely,” Bordan agreed, “but I want to sift through every man, woman, and child still in the palace. I want to know they are all our people and we have no one unknown here. After that, I am going to seal the palace. Only those trusted, those with authorisation, will be permitted to enter or leave.”

  “And the servants?”

  “Can sleep here,” Bordan grated out between clenched teeth. “Do not go inventing problems now, Godewyn.” He began to pace. “We must protect the Princess beyond all others’ comfort and position. When it is sealed and safe, I am going to hunt down every last member of the Circulus Sicariorum even if I have to take the city apart stone by stone.”

  “You may not have to,” Godewyn said, but was interrupted by the appearance of a Spear.

  “Sir,” the Spear said, “you sent for me?”

  “I want the palace staff questioned. Every single one from the clerks down to the kitchen scrubbers. I want to know where they were, who they saw, what they did since the Princess and I went to the cells. The moment anything rings untrue, the heartbeat you feel something wrong, lock them up until you can verify their account.”

  “Sir, that will take an age,” the Spear said.

  “I do not care,” Bordan snapped. “Do as ordered or I will find someone who can, and you can go back to the training ground.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Spear snapped to attention. “You and you,” he picked out two soldiers stood on guard in the corridor, “come with me. We are starting with the clerks. Find one who can write a legible hand and we can verify quickly.”

  The three hurried off, the sound of their sandals and boots fading away.

  “What were you going to say?” Bordan said, turning back to the High Priest and the Princess. The young woman had not moved or spoken, just cradled the head of her mother in her lap and let the tears fall across the dead Empress’s brow.

  Godewyn looked down upon the grief-stricken Princess and nodded towards the corner of the room. Bordan followed him there.

  “What else do you know?” Bordan whispered.

  “We will have to watch the Princess most carefully,” Godewyn replied, whispering also. “So much tragedy in such a short time will be difficult for her.”

  “It was already difficult, but she is the heir to the Empire,” Bordan said. “She will survive and be stronger for it. Power weighs heavy on young shoulders, but she has the strength to bear the grief alongside it.”

  “I hope you are correct,” Godewyn said. “However, the assassin knew his employer.”

  “What?” Bordan blurted out, the single word a shout in the quiet room. He glanced at Aelia who had not moved in response or given any indication she had heard. Bordan lowered his voice once more. “He said he had never met his employer or knew of him.”

  “He lied to your man,” Godewyn said. “My inquisitor was very thorough. Our assassin did not lie when he said that he had never met the man who took out the contracts. However, he was a cautious assassin, cheated by employers before he said, so he asked around, sought out answers, and put gossip together. I see no reason to doubt his final conclusions. As I say, Zonara was very thorough.”

  “Who paid them?”

  “Duke Abra.”

  “Abra?” Again the word came out as a shout.

  This time Aelia did turn and look
up at the General. Her eyes were hollow, and the madness of grief swirled in them. Tears fell, tracking down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. “What of Abra?”

  Bordan swallowed, biting down his own bubbling anger and rage. “It appears it is he who hired the assassins, Your Highness?”

  “Abra?” The Princess’s voice shook, disbelief, grief, and now a sharp barb of anger.

  “Cohort!” Bordan called across the room and another soldier entered, saluting smartly even as his face paled at the sight before him. “Send troops to secure Duke Abra. His home, office, business, street. I don’t care where he is, I want him in chains before the sun sets tonight. Sweep the city for him if you need and there is no need to be gentle.”

  “Sir?”

  “Now, Cohort,” Bordan barked.

  “You cannot just arrest a Duke of the Empire, Bordan,” Godewyn pointed out in an infuriatingly calm manner.

  “Watch me,” Bordan replied.

  “Bring me the warrant, General. I’ll sign it,” Aelia spat as anger won the battle for her voice. “And I’ll see him hung on a cross before the city gates so everyone can see, then I’ll personally tear him down, cut open his belly and set a cage of starving rats upon him. The whole city will hear his cries for the mercy of death.”

  XXXVI

  The Magician

  Six years ago:

  The new tunic was rough around his neck, scratching and irritating his skin.

  “I don’t understand why I have to wear this,” he complained.

  “Because we have an important guest for dinner,” the old man said, his own tunic freshly cleaned. “Now, stop fussing with it and, please, tonight, try to be polite.”

  “I demand to accompany them.” The Curate’s shrill voice pierced the chill air of morning. Overnight, as the pyres burned down, a wind had come from the north bringing cold air and the promise of rain. The trees rustled and branches creaked, but they protected the army from the worst of the weather.

  Kyron sat around the command fire, huddled in his cloak, still wearing the gladius on his hip, although the lorica hamata had been handed back to the armourer for repair. He cupped the warm tea in his hands and sipped at it without tasting. The cook, Tatian, sat on his haunches stirring a pot of porridge.

  Astentius peered at the priest over the rim of his own cup. “You demand?”

  “I am the ranking priest,” she said, puffing out her chest and straightening her shoulders, “and I do not trust a magician or our guide to work in our best interests.”

  “And Borus will go with them, as will two soldiers,” Astentius explained. “It really is too early in the morning for a repeat of such arguments, Curate Livillia.”

  “The tribes are heathens, pagans,” she continued. “It is the duty of the priesthood to convert all such to the true Flame.”

  “They don’t want converting,” Emlyn pointed out.

  “It is not their choice to make, guide,” Livillia spat.

  “It should be,” Emlyn responded. In her hands, her knife flicked another sliver of wood from the piece she was whittling. It sailed through the air and landed on the Curate’s lap.

  “Spear,” Livillia complained, pointing towards Emlyn, “why is the tribeswoman allowed a weapon in camp? I demand she be stripped of all weapons and armour.”

  Kyron shrank in his seat and sipped once more at the tasteless tea.

  “There you go again, Curate, demanding. This is not how the army operates. We have a strict hierarchy and I sit at the top of it,” Astentius said, his earlier friendly tone developing a layer of frost. “The decision has been made and you will not be going into the village. You heard, I’m sure, our guide’s summation of the situation regarding priests and the tribes. Were I to send you in, I would be sending you to your death, and worse still, ensuring that we could do no trade with the tribes hereabouts. We need supplies. We need food.”

  Livillia drew herself up even higher, a pose Kyron thought must have been painful. “I will complain to your superiors.”

  “When we get back safely,” Astentius replied, turning and looking down the trail for a moment before rolling his eyes, “feel free to do so. However, for the last time, while you are in this camp, with this army, you will cease demanding things of me and comport yourself as the ranking priest. Look after my soldier’s immortal flames but stay out of my decisions. You are here as a courtesy and to ensure the safe return of the Emperor to the capital.”

  “I will not stand for this treatment of the Church,” Livillia said.

  “You will,” Astentius replied, looking into the fire, “or I will find a priest amongst those few left and promote them. It is a wide forest, Curate, with many dangers, and you would do well to remember that the army protects you at all times. Now, Tatian, is that porridge ready?”

  “Yes, Spear,” the cook replied, spooning the thick white paste of oats and water into a clay bowl and handing it to the Spear. “Be careful. It is hot.”

  “Thank you,” Astentius said. “Please, the rest of you, eat. It has been a busy few days and you need food. If Borus cannot negotiate a deal with the village, we will all go hungry soon enough.”

  “You threatened me,” Livillia finally managed to splutter.

  “I offered you some porridge, Curate,” Astentius answered. “I am always alert to the needs of the Church, and to that of those under my command.”

  Kyron accepted the bowl from Tatian and noted the smirk upon the cook’s face. It vanished when Tatian noticed him watching.

  “Good fortune today, magician,” Tatian said. “We need supplies. I’d best go see to my men. With your leave, Spear.”

  “How far would you say the village is from here?” Astentius asked, as the cook stood and left the circle.

  “Half a day’s walk,” Emlyn answered. “My pace of walking that is, not the army. We will likely spend the night there. It is customary.”

  “And we will be there in the morning?” Astentius asked.

  “If you keep to your current pace,” Emlyn replied.

  “All the wards and other magic,” Astentius continued, turning to Kyron and raising an eyebrow, “are in place and secure?”

  “Yes, Spear,” Kyron replied. “I renewed the markers this morning. They will last a tenday at least.”

  “And this village had no part in the attack on us?” Astentius asked, his gaze flicking to Emlyn.

  “A warrior or two perhaps,” she replied, “but no more than that. Likely none.”

  “And the track will be safe?”

  “I cannot guarantee anything. However, it should be,” she answered. “I’ve no wish to starve alongside your army.”

  “Why not just run away?” Curate Livillia chimed in, her voice full of poison.

  “Because I cannot just ‘run away’,” Emlyn said. “I made a bargain with your Legion, and unlike priests, my word means something.”

  Kyron saw Livillia draw in a breath to retort, but a cold look from the Spear stilled the words in her throat.

  “Excellent,” Astentius said. “I have provided Borus with a sample of our trade goods, and enough coin to be taken seriously. We need that food. I cannot impress upon any of you the importance of this. We still have a distance to travel and we are slower than before. Though we have fewer to feed, the amount of supplies we lost in the battle is serious. Make the best deal you can, but do not be afraid to lose out on the bargain. Money and possessions are not as important as completing the mission.”

  When no one responded, the Spear nodded. “Good. Eat your fill and set out as soon as you are ready. Borus, you’ve selected your soldiers?”

  “Yes, Spear,” Borus answered. “Two trustworthy men, good fighters.”

  “I do not want any fights, Cohort.” Astentius raised a warning finger. “However, I would like you back safe and with a bargain sealed.”

  “It will be done, Spear,” Borus assured.

  Kyron gulped down another spoonful of hot porridge. The walk did not thri
ll him, but the chance to be away from the priests, Livillia especially, was a welcome one.

  Across the fire, Emlyn whittled another sliver of wood.

  It felt strange to be walking the forest tracks in such a small group. Every shadow, every rustle of leaves in the wind was a tribesman with a bow.

  “How can you stand it?” he whispered to Emlyn as they walked. Borus and the two soldiers followed behind, all three dressed in lorica segmata, armed with a gladius, but their shields left behind with the remains of the army.

  “What?” She stepped around a bramble which had grown onto the trail.

  “All of this.” He waved at the trees which towered over him, shading the light from the cloud covered sky.

  “Your buildings, in your city, are high and block out the light?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so, but we have streets we can walk down without having to step around plants and puddles full of mud.”

  “Your streets are empty?” She paused to pick up a small fallen branch, inspect it from all sides and discard it once more.

  “Of course not,” he scoffed.

  “Then how different are the forest tracks?” she said. “I’ve never been to your city, but I’ve listened to your soldiers talk in camp. They make it sound dirty, with rubbish piled in corners, loud with thousands of people talking and shouting all at once, and dangerous. You have to employ people to patrol the streets to keep people safe?”

  He felt the sting of her words and struggled to find the answer to her question. “We have theatres, the Colosseum where the games take place, restaurants to eat in, shops to buy clothes, squares to meet in on hot summer days.”

  “And everywhere you go, you’re being watched by those guards?” She reached over her shoulder, gathering her hair and tying it into a ponytail. “There is none of that here. Here, there is freedom. Pick a direction and go that way, nothing and no one will stop you.”