Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Borus and the soldiers will,” he pointed out, regretting the words as they left his mouth.

  She turned a sour look upon him and drew one of the whittling sticks from her belt. “I know.”

  “I’m sorry,” he offered.

  “It isn’t your fault.” She unsheathed her knife and began stripping the bark from the stick.

  “Why did you come with us?”

  “You heard the Legion, he has assurances.”

  He recognised the venom in her low voice and winced a little, glad it was not aimed at him. “But what does that mean?”

  “You don’t know?” A sliver of bark flew from the stick, spiralling through the cool air to come to rest on the leaves of a fern which peeked out onto the trail.

  “No,” he said. “I never asked. Should I have?”

  “I did wonder.” Her knife flicked again. “I did consider that you were just being polite by not asking or talking about it. But now you’ve asked, I realise it was just ignorance.”

  “That’s not fair,” he protested.

  “Fair?” A thick chunk of the stick went flying and she grunted in frustration. “What about this is fair, Kyron? Is it fair that I am taken away from my people? Fair that your people have decided you need to rule the world, own more land and take that from people that have lived here forever?”

  “We’re bringing peace and civilisation,” he answered, though visions of death and smoking pyres clouded his mind.

  “Civilisation just means a way of living,” she replied, her knife moving smoothly along the wood, “and we have that. One of our own, not yours. And how do you bring peace? At the tip of a sword or javelin.”

  “But the Empire has culture.”

  “Theatres to tell your stories in?”

  “Yes, and plays written by the best playwrights in the world,” he said, some pride entering his voice and a memory of being taken to see a drama where all the players wore masks. He could not remember the story, but the majesty of the event, of the building, had awed him.

  “We have our own stories,” she answered. “The Colosseum where your precious games take place?”

  “I’ve been to the chariot racing there,” he said. “It was incredible, exciting.”

  “And the other games?” Her knife gouged into the wood, freeing a triangular sliver which she discarded. “The gladiators? The fights against animals and the slaughter of those who disagree with your Emperor or Church.”

  “There have not been those for decades,” he said.

  “Gladiators?”

  “Well, there are still those fights, but they are trained and know what they are getting into,” he answered.

  “They fight to be free,” she answered. “A lot of them are slaves, are they not?”

  “Slavery was outlawed a long time ago,” he shot back.

  “Then they are prisoners?”

  “Some of them,” he admitted, “but most are professionals. It is their job.”

  “To end up dead, gutted and bleeding out on the sand for the amusement of others,” she answered before he could continue. “You call that civilisation? It is barbarism.”

  Kyron could find no words, no answer to the accusation. In truth, his one visit to the games, with his grandfather, had been enough. He could see little from the stall they sat in, but his imagination filled in the gaps with more than enough blood. The gladiator, wearing greaves and a manica to protect his sword arm, who lay dead on the floor looked so small and it brought back memories of the raid on his village, the death of his parents.

  “Why did you come, agree to guide the Empire you dislike so much?”

  “I told you, your Legion had assurances,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to see the three soldiers trailing them.

  Kyron followed her gaze before turning back to her. “That is not an answer.”

  “What do you want me to tell you, Kyron?” Another sliver of wood flew from the stick in her hands. “You believe your Empire to be just and good, to be the right way to live, to be based upon peace, a fair society. What will you listen to?”

  “My master…” he started, but was forced to stop and swallow the sudden ball of grief which blocked his throat. “My master taught me to listen to everyone, but to make up my own mind.”

  “I can see that he would, but teaching and learning are two different things,” Emlyn said, stepping across a depression full of muddy water.

  “Is all this a long-winded way to say you are not going to tell me?”

  He heard her sigh and the knife stopped moving against the wood in her hand.

  “Your Legion has my parents,” she said in a quiet whisper which he had to strain to hear. “If the honour guard reaches the Empire safely, they will be released. If not, they will be executed.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Kyron hurried a step or two to bring himself alongside her.

  “You didn’t ask. Padarn knew. He asked me one evening while you were recharging the magic on the Emperor’s funeral waggon,” she said, resuming the whittling of the stick. “Borus knows, as does Astentius, and I’m sure any number of soldiers. You’ve never asked, listened or looked further than the end of your nose.

  “The world is changing, Kyron, your world especially. So now that you are on your own, start to see how it really is, not how you childishly wish it to be.”

  XXXVII

  The General

  Six years ago:

  “It is good to see you, my old friend,” he said as the newly raised High Priest stepped down from his carriage.

  “A wet night,” the High Priest said, glancing up at the dark clouds.

  “Come in, I have food and wine,” he said. “You can relax this evening, we both can. The troubles of the Empire can wait till tomorrow.”

  “That would be very welcome,” the High Priest replied with a smile. “And who is the strapping lad next to you?”

  “Reports from the west quarter, General,” the clerk said, handing over the bound scroll and retreating from the room.

  Bordan unfurled the scroll. His eyes scanned the lines of neat script written in the way only a true soldier could. It was short, to the point, and frustrating. Bordan found his hands crushing the scroll and forced himself to calm.

  It was to be expected, and the expected was to be cherished by a wise commander as only the unexpected could ever lead to defeat. The saying, from an old manual on military tactics he had once read, had served him well down the years. Re-rolling the scroll and tying the ribbon about it, he placed it to the side.

  After dipping the stylus into the pot of ink which sat upon the desk far enough away from his elbows that he had to stretch to reach it and holding the writing implement carefully above the map on his desk, he paused, looking at the roads, streets, and lanes which marked out the different quarters of the city. In the centre was the palace, and from it a spider’s web of threads connecting it to every part of its domain. There should have been some trembles along those narrow strands, something to indicate where Abra had gone to ground. Nothing.

  With a sigh, he marked off the roads and buildings searched as detailed in the scroll. Each mark he added whittled down the potential hiding spots of the treasonous Duke. The city was in lockdown, the gates guarded most closely, and everyone and everything going in and out of them was searched thoroughly.

  A boat, or rather a ship, he corrected, was a likely mode of exit for the Duke of the water, but those too were searched and only three had left the city in the past two days. The sailors were unhappy, and the City Watch had called upon soldiers to assist in policing the dock’s inns and taverns during the nights. The cells were overflowing by sunrise and the morning tide of sailors returning to their impounded ships was rising every day.

  “You have to be somewhere,” Bordan muttered at the map as he finished his marks. “You could not get out on your own, and whenever you rely on others there is always a weak link in the chain.”

  Pushing his chair back, Bord
an crossed his office to the low table upon which refreshments had been laid by his secretary. How long ago he could not say. Condensation still beaded on the terra sigillata jug and pot. A small tower of cut fruit rested on a low, wide platter and there was only a touch of brown on the white flesh.

  Lifting the jug of wine, he poured a measure into a goblet and added water to it. Swirling the goblet in his hand he mixed the liquid and gazing down into the mirrored surface, saw the lines which spread like bird’s feet from the corner of his eyes come into focus. His hair was grey and the stare which transfixed him was one of exhaustion and fear.

  He shook his head, dispelling the image of age and defeat, lifted the goblet and drank it all down in a few large gulps.

  Picking the least spoiled piece of fruit, he held it up to his eyes. The flesh was firm, strong, and pure white, an echo of the Empire around him. On the edges though, where the Empire met the other lands, brown spots of corruption had set in and were slowly expanding their influence across the fruit, the land.

  “Immunis!” he shouted, dropping the fruit back to the table where it bounced from one cut slice to another before cartwheeling off the surface and onto the floor.

  “Sir?” His secretary opened the door and stepped in.

  “He had help,” Bordan said. “He must have done.”

  “Duke Abra, sir?”

  “Of course, Duke Abra,” the General said, stomping back over to the map. “Who helped him?”

  “I do not know, General,” the Immunis answered, stepping into the room and closing the door. “You believe the answer to be on the map?”

  “Staring us in the face,” Bordan said, slapping his hand down upon the desk. The strike hurt his palm, little needles of pain ricocheting up his arm bone and spiking into his skull. It was inconsequential, a moment of punishment thoroughly deserved. “We assumed it was the gangs and criminals, or the merchants who would help him. All are well-versed in smuggling, in hiding people, bypassing our customs agents. Who better?”

  “Indeed, General,” the Immunis said, a hesitant cautious cadence to his words. “That does make a good deal of sense.”

  “We were wrong,” Bordan said. “Corruption in plain sight is often a distraction, or a sign that you have acted too late. It is the hidden decay that rots from the inside which we miss and holds more danger.”

  “General?”

  “The other Dukes and nobles, Immunis,” Bordan looked up from the map. “They have the wealth, the people, and the resources to hide him or get him out of the city.”

  “Who though, General?” the Immunis ventured. “Forgive me, but it would not be wise to antagonise them all by casting allegations without evidence.”

  Bordan caught the rush of swear words, phrases learned on the training yard and left in the ranks, before they fell from his mouth like molten rock from the fire mountains which dripped into the sea raising a screen of mist and the hiss of a thousand furious snakes. “I want to stir the hornet’s nest until the one I am looking for tries to fly away. Find Legion Maxentius. Tell him I need to see him right away.”

  “Yes, General.” The secretary was through the door before the last syllable had dropped from his mouth.

  Bordan stared at the map again, tracing his finger across the homes, streets, docks, and businesses, fighting the urge to ball it in his fists and throw it against the wall. “Stupid. So stupid.”

  He paced. The walls of his office had never seemed so close, so restrictive. Lost in his thoughts, the knock at the door and its subsequent opening was almost lost on him.

  “General.”

  “Maxentius,” Bordan greeted, choking down his anger. “I’ve been stupid and missed what was before our face since this began.”

  “Your secretary informed me you wished to see me?” the Legion said, his voice calm as he moved across the room to look down at the map.

  “We have a problem which will need a quick solution,” Bordan said, taking a breath and meeting the other man’s eyes. “I suspect other members of the Ruling Council will be assisting Abra to leave the city.”

  “The Ruling Council?” Maxentius’s eyes widened.

  “Suspect only. Though proof will not be hard to find now that we know where to look.”

  “What do you want to do, General?”

  Now Bordan paused, glancing once more at the map. “Draw back half the forces searching in each area. Form four cohorts and ensure they are ready for deployment tomorrow morning at the latest. Who is the most senior officer we have as yet unassigned?”

  “Spear Ecdicius,” Maxentius said without a pause. “He was wounded in the recent action against the criminal gangs.”

  “He is fit again?”

  “Fit to command, if not fight, General,” the Legion said, his eyes looking up to the ceiling for a moment before he added, “a broken arm, if I recall.”

  “Draft orders, put him in command of the new cohorts,” Bordan said. “I will give him the target list and order of arrest in the morning.”

  “I’ll get that done, General,” Maxentius agreed. “What are you thinking?”

  “That we need more wine and fresh fruit,” Bordan said, his gaze sliding to the platter, “but do not have it peeled. I want it be whole and unsullied.”

  “You’ve gone too far, General,” Aelia shouted as she entered the council, slamming the door behind her.

  Bordan caught a quick glimpse of the two guards he had assigned to protect the Princess before the carved wood cut them off from their charge.

  “You are unhappy, Your Highness?” Bordan said as he stood and bowed. The other occupants—Godewyn, a nervous-looking Master Vedrix, Duke Flaccus, a man of few words and fewer thoughts, and Duke Gellius, from an old merchant family who were raised to nobility by the Princess’s father—stood also, but held their tongues.

  “Unhappy?” Aelia scoffed, dragging her heavy chair back with one hand. “More than that, General. I’ve had petition after petition sent to me this past day. A queue of nobles, landowners, and merchants demanding to see me. All of them to complain about you.”

  “I understand,” Bordan nodded, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them still.

  “Understand?” Aelia stopped in the act of sitting down. “You understand? And yet you have sent troops into their homes. Asked questions of their loyalty. Interrogated their servants. Searched their belongings. Demanded information of their spending and savings.”

  “I have done those things,” Bordan said, remaining upright, as did all in the room.

  “You counselled my mother about arresting the nobles,” Aelia accused. “Said they would cause problems for the army, for our security.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Bordan nodded.

  “I believe I signed an order for Abra’s arrest only. Well?” the Princess snapped, finally falling into the waiting chair, the one her father had sat in last. It was a gesture not lost on Bordan, and a gasp sounded from his right. Aelia’s gaze moved languidly from Bordan’s to the source of the sound. “You disapprove of my seat, Duke Flaccus?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Flaccus stuttered.

  “You think someone else should be sat here?” Aelia leaned forward, her eyes taking on the aspect of a hawk, narrow, piercing, hunting.

  “No… no, Your Highness,” Flaccus answered, hurried and unsure.

  “There’s your traitor, General.” Aelia pointed to the elderly Duke who began to shake. “All of your investigations, your assaults on the nobility, and I unmask him in moments.”

  “Your Highness,” Flaccus said, stumbling over his words and putting out a frail hand to the table to support him on suddenly weak knees.

  “Sit down, Flaccus,” Aelia snapped, pushing herself back into the Emperor’s chair. “You’re too useless, too old, too scared to be a traitor.”

  “And too loyal,” Bordan added, as the old Duke’s legs gave way and he fell into his chair.

  “That too,” Aelia allowed, waving her hand in a gesture of di
smissal. The red flush of anger which had warmed the Princess’s face faded and Bordan watched her take a long, slow breath. “So, General, explain yourself. What have you done? Tell me why I should not give into the demands of the nobles to have you crucified on the hill outside the gates.”

  “We found Duke Abra.”

  The words fell into the silence of the chamber and triumph, anger, and eagerness rippled across the Princess’s face.

  “You have him?” Aelia shot upright in her chair, one hand stretched across the table, palm up, fingers clawed, grasping towards Bordan.

  “With regret, no,” Bordan admitted. “However, we know where he is, where he is going, and who aided him.”

  “How? Who? Where?” The questions dripped from Aelia’s mouth like acid and burned their way across the air to Bordan’s ears.

  “With your permission,” Bordan asked and Aelia nodded with something like lust swimming in her eyes. The General took a breath and called, “Bring him in.”

  The doors to the chamber opened and two guards carried in a broken man. It was clear from the way in which they grasped his arms, the blood which crusted his face, the black bruises which surrounded his eyes, and his hunched shoulders which struggled to support the weight of his head, what he had been subjected to.

  “Who is this… creature?” Aelia asked, puzzled.

  “Duke Primal, Your Highness,” Bordan answered to a shocked hush from the other members of the council sat at the table.

  “He knows where Abra is?”

  “Your Highness,” Bordan began, letting some confidence fill his heart and voice, “Primal was instrumental in assisting the Duke with his escape from the city.”

  “Traitor!” Aelia roared, her hand slamming down upon the table, rattling the cups and jugs which lay atop, spilling wine from more than one goblet.

  “Lady Trenis is with Abra, Princess Aelia,” Bordan added. “I believe we have identified the major players in the plot which has led to the death of your mother and brother.”

  Aelia rose from the Emperor’s chair, her bronze armour golden in the light spilling in through the window, and, her hand on her sword, stalked up to Primal and the guards.