Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Send in the troops, testudo formation, to get the rest of the carts,” Bordan ordered and a moment later, after a flag was waved and bugle call sounded, the first troops mounted the bridge encased in their shields. “Get the second and third groups ready to advance and support.”

  “Yes, General,” Sarimarcus acknowledged.

  “As soon as the third group advances, I want the front ranks to start marching,” Bordan said. “We need to keep the pressure on the mercenaries holding the bridge. They fight for money, not the Empire, and they know the exact price of their lives. They’ll flee once we make some headway and they see what is coming at them.”

  “I hope so.”

  “And I’ll be in the front rank,” Bordan said, settling the belt and gladius on his hip into a more comfortable position.

  “General, I don’t think—” Sarimarcus started.

  “I need to be across the bridge at the start, Spear,” Bordan cut him off. “We need to establish a bridgehead and bring the rest of the army across as quickly as we can, and I need to be able to see to make decisions, not wait for reports. Assign some quick runners.”

  “Yes, General,” Sarimarcus said, “and if you’re not insulted, I’ll have a few of my best men on your right and left.”

  Bordan chuckled, a grim sound in the cold rain. “No insult taken, Spear.”

  “General.” The call came from behind and Bordan turned to see Master Vedrix, dressed in his usual robes with the hood pulled up, bushy beard protruding past its edge.

  “Master Vedrix, what brings you out this early and to a battlefront?” Bordan called back.

  “Well, now, General, I am used to being up early in the morning,” Vedrix said, his words trying to overtake each other, “or is that late at night. I suppose it doesn’t really matter either way, does it?”

  “No, Master Magician,” Bordan answered with a smile, “I suppose it does not. However, this close to a battle is not where I would place you.”

  “Oh, really, bless the Flame, why not?” Vedrix stopped a few paces away and peered over Bordan’s shoulder towards the bridge. “I heard the cart go up. Nice explosion, by the way, though I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it. Did my own stint in the ranks as a youth, you know. Not many years, but I travelled with the army west to pacify the tribes that way. Did my bit for the Empire.”

  “Can you destroy the other carts blocking the bridge?”

  “With magic? Not without getting a lot closer than I am here. Magic loses efficiency and power over distance, General. Sending a thought, a dream, a word or sentence, communication between magicians is possible, you’ve seen it happen, but that is not too complicated,” Vedrix answered.

  “I wouldn’t think setting fire to something to be that difficult either.”

  “It is all about energy, General,” Vedrix started, losing his bumbling demeanour now he was on safer ground. “Fire is really just an expression of energy, in this case heat and light. Now, to get combustion you need to increase the heat of a fuel source. Some have quite low combustion temperatures, oil for instance. Others, much, much higher. Stone, for instance, can be made to burn, but the energy required to do so is incredibly high. There was a fellow, or was he a she, I can’t remember, but they investigated that once. Quite an incredible piece of research—”

  “Vedrix,” Bordan interrupted as the magician took a breath, “I’ll take your word for it. How close would you need to be?”

  The magician went silent and Bordan could see the man’s eyes flickering back and forth to the bridge, calculating and considering.

  “A bow shot’s distance, if the cart was covered in oil,” Vedrix concluded. “Closer if it wasn’t and you wanted an immediate burn. Further if you have time to wait.”

  Disappointed, Bordan sighed, but did his best to keep the smile on his face. “That is good to know. I’ll keep it in mind. Now, why did you come down here? I’m about to send the first troops across.”

  “Two reasons, my good General,” Vedrix said, looking anything but disappointed in the answer he had given. “I wonder if I might speak with you out of earshot for a moment?”

  “It really is not the time, Master Vedrix,” Bordan replied.

  “Oh, really? I think now is the perfect time, General. Perfect time. I promise not to take up too much of it. A few moments only.” The magician clamped Bordan’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Over there, perhaps. Council business. I am sure you’ll find it interesting and useful in the upcoming battle.”

  “Sarimarcus,” Bordan called, “I want to know the moment the second group starts across the bridge. You have till then, Master Magician.”

  “Of course, General,” the Spear said, hurrying away.

  “What is it, Master Vedrix?” Bordan said as they stepped away from the soldiers.

  “First, a gift.” Vedrix reached into his robes and brought out a small, smooth disc of wood. “I made this last night.”

  “Thank you,” Bordan said, holding it up and inspecting both sides. “It is very… nice.”

  “What? Oh? Well, I suppose it is,” Vedrix answered. “It was just a piece of wood I had in my things.”

  “Why have you given it to me then?” Bordan squinted at it and tilted it to encourage the water to run off.

  “It is a shield token,” Vedrix said. “Wear it close to your skin and it will last all day. Should protect you from at least one or two blows. You’re not as young as you were and last time you went into a battle you came out with a wound. This should help.”

  “Magic?”

  “On its own the wood wouldn’t stop much,” Vedrix laughed. “Yes, magic.”

  “I’m not entirely sure…” Bordan hesitated.

  “A moment ago, you were happy for me to set fire to things, but magic which stops you getting hurt you have a problem with?” Vedrix said, brushing the water from his beard.

  “You’re right,” Bordan said after a moment, tucking the thin token beneath the neck of his lorica segmata. “Thank you. And the other matter?”

  Vedrix’s face lost its smile and the spark which seemed to reside permanently in his eyes dimmed. “Aelia.”

  “What about her?” Bordan asked, glancing around. The closest soldiers were all facing the bridge and the noise of the rain striking armour and shield was loud enough to drown out the whispers.

  “She seems… angry,” Vedrix observed.

  “Worried,” Bordan answered. “Her father’s body is close and the amulet also. Plus, Abra, the man who organised the assassination of her mother and brother is just across the bridge.”

  “Possibly the death of the Emperor too,” Vedrix added. “I have considered that possibility. The same man may be responsible for all three.”

  “The thought had occurred to me also, but with no proof it is only a thought,” Bordan replied. “If that is the only concern you have, I must get back to my soldiers.”

  “General,” Vedrix paused and Bordan saw him take a deep breath, “I know I seem confused, and I do not always make myself clear, nor do I speak up in council. I am happy to nod and answer direct questions only. However, please do not mistake me for an idiot. I am Master of the Gymnasium of Magicians, a place where almost every person is learned, a researcher, and a thinker. If they are not, they tend to die quite early on in their careers. I watch and I listen. The signs are there if you know where to look and none of them take magic to see.”

  “Signs of what, Master Vedrix?” Bordan asked, his stomach felt heavy and he felt his heart rate quicken. “In case you haven’t seen, I have a battle to win.”

  “You are out of favour, Bordan,” Vedrix snapped, all trace of the bumbling, genial magician gone, as the man straightened to his full height and pulled back his shoulders.

  Bordan took a step back, realising for the first time that the magician was taller than him. In every council meeting, on the journey here, Vedrix had appeared unsure, smaller, rounder, and if Bordan was being honest, ineffectual. No threat, h
e realised.

  “Aelia has turned away from you and looks to others for assurance and guidance,” Vedrix continued stepping forward and speaking in a harsh whisper. “Win this battle and that may change, but I think not. The Princess has a madness in her eyes, a hunger for power. Whether this is because of the sudden deaths of her family or was there before I cannot say. It is there now, and you have seen it.”

  “Master Vedrix,” Bordan gasped out, “this is treason.”

  “This is honesty, Bordan,” Vedrix whispered. “This is respect, mine for you. The Gymnasium dwindles, and even under the last Emperor our numbers have fallen. The Church hunts magicians in the countryside and we are a dying people in the Empire. Yet, we cling on and provide our services. Change is coming, General. I see it, feel it, and know it. Decide what is most important to you, General, and look to that.”

  Bordan gaped, his mouth dry and no words came to mind.

  “You will do your duty, and you will serve, but family is important,” Vedrix continued, his shoulders slumping and a spark of mirth returned to his eyes as he shrank back into the appearance Bordan recognised. “He is alive and he is coming. Choose wisely, my old friend.”

  “I’ve got a battle to win,” he managed to utter.

  “Keep the token close, General,” Vedrix said, nodding. An absent-minded gesture, Bordan would have described it as before, now he was not so sure.

  “Sarimarcus,” Bordan shouted as the old magician vanished into the rain. “Have the third group gone onto the bridge yet?”

  His question was punctuated by an explosion of flame from the bridge and the shouts of warriors.

  XLIV

  The Magician

  Five years ago:

  The market was crowded, and the sun was warm upon his head. Grammaticus Flaccus was speaking, but he found it hard to concentrate on the discussion of poetry and legend. All around him the fruit, herbs, and spices were giving off the most wonderful scents. His eyes were drawn to the bright yellows, dull oranges, vibrant reds of the fruits and in his vision they merged into ocean waves of colour which rolled towards him.

  He stood, wonder and awe, fear and trepidation, coursing through him as the waves crashed over him.

  Kyron looked over his shoulder. The Emperor’s waggon was struggling through the mud, pulled by those few horses which had the strength to do so. The driver would change them soon, to preserve their strength, but already seven horses had been injured so badly that they had been slaughtered over the past three days. The meat had been welcomed by those troops fortunate enough to be chosen, but it surprised him how few a horse fed.

  The three remaining priests, with Livillia at their head, tramped through the mud, sloshed through puddles, using their staffs to keep themselves upright. A tight smile flitted across his face as he caught sight of their robes, sodden, dirt smudged, and torn. The Curate looked up, caught his eye and sneered.

  Behind the waggon came the injured, guarded on the perimeter by those still able to wield a gladius. Astentius and his staff had gathered the supplies Borus had secured from the village—not as much as they had hoped—and distributed it as fairly as possible. Kyron had heard some grumbling from the soldiers, but Borus had told him that was a good sign. The injured were fed, as were the soldiers. However, the rations were less than before and their pace had slowed further.

  The remaining soldiers carried their food, but more and more they were laden down with the injured who could no longer walk. Only the horses seemed to find enough to eat in the new spring grass and shrubs by the side of the track. They were given time to eat as the column staggered forward. If the horses could pull no more, the carts would have to be left behind with those too hurt to walk. Everyone knew, and it weighed heavily on over-burdened shoulders.

  “How many more days?” Borus asked as he slogged through another puddle.

  “At this pace, we will be there by tomorrow afternoon,” Emlyn answered. “If we slow much more, we’ll be spending another night under the trees. If the rain keeps up, that might not be a bad thing.”

  Kyron stepped around the lake of liquid mud in his path. “It isn’t far from the edge of the forest to the bridge, and it’s farmland with proper roads.”

  “Why does the Empire have such a fascination with roads? You build them, I’m told, everywhere,” she replied, drawing her cloak tighter about her.

  “To enable the army to move swiftly about the Empire. Merchants also like them. They can get produce to market more quickly and command a higher price,” Borus explained.

  “It is not about stamping your presence on the land?”

  “Probably a bit of that,” Borus replied. He looked up into the sky. “Can’t see the rain stopping.”

  “No fires tonight,” Emlyn agreed. “All the wood will be sodden.”

  “There is some dry under cover on a cart,” Kyron said. The Spear had ordered wood gathered when the cold wind gave way to rain.

  “Not enough,” Borus answered. “We’ll be having a cold meal tonight. Unless?”

  Kyron caught the questioning glance from the corner of his eye and turned to Borus. His eyes off his path, his foot splashed into the large puddle, cold water spraying up his legs. “I can dry some wood or heat up stones. Enough for a few groups, but not everyone.”

  “I’d settle for dry boots,” Borus laughed, lifting his own mud-caked boot from the dirt and shaking it. Water flew from the leather and clumps of mud fell away.

  “Halt.” The cry came from the front of the column. “Rest.”

  The creak of the waggon’s wheels, a sound Kyron had come to take as part of the forest soundscape, stopped and a great sigh went up from the bedraggled army.

  “Let’s move under the trees,” Emlyn said. “The leaves will keep a lot of the rain off our shoulders.”

  He followed her off the trail with Borus and a few soldiers into the shelter of a large tree. All along the column soldiers, the healthy helping the injured, did the same until only the waggon and covered carts marked their presence on the trail.

  Kyron dipped into his satchel and pulled out a hard biscuit. Their ration of flour and wheat had been ground up, mixed with a little water and baked upon flat stones on the edge of the fire the first night. It had been Borus’s suggestion and Emlyn had agreed. Better to use the flour and wheat rather than risk it turning mouldy as they travelled. Since the rain had started, that advice had become worth more than all the gold in the Empire.

  Crunching down on the tasteless food, careful to catch every crumb, he watched the rain pummel the ground and fill every footprint and rut with water. The horses, left in the rain, pulled their carts to the side of the trail and began searching for things to eat.

  A call came down the line. “Cohort Borus.”

  “Here,” Borus called back.

  “Spear Astentius requires your presence.”

  “Great.” Borus heaved himself up. “Stay here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Emlyn replied.

  Borus grunted and took two steps before turning back. “I don’t suppose you’ve remembered another village close by?”

  “There isn’t one,” Emlyn answered. “At least, not one that has any signs out. From what I can see, the next village is close to the edge of the forest.”

  Borus nodded and resumed his walk to the front. The other soldiers who had come with him moved away a little to other trees to seek shelter and conversation with their comrades.

  And to be away from me and her, Kyron thought, his eyes tracking to Emlyn.

  “The magician and pagan.”

  Kyron’s head snapped up as an acidic voice burned away his train of thought. He swallowed, noting who had stepped into the sheltered area around the tree. Curate Livillia and the two remaining priests.

  “Curate,” Kyron greeted her, cursing the quaver he heard in his voice. “How can I assist you?”

  “You can’t,” Livillia answered. “You never could.”

  “The wards on t
he waggon are not due for renewal for another two days,” Kyron said, ignoring her words.

  “They were never important, Apprentice,” the priest said. “Preserving a body which should have been given to the Flame weeks ago. Worse still, defiling it with your magic and preventing him from joining with the Holy Flame is a sacrilege.”

  “I only do what the Legion required of my master and I,” Kyron replied, keeping his voice level and calm.

  “You may have cremated him, but he’ll never join the Flame. Nor will you,” the Curate said, stepping in closer.

  “And count themselves bloody lucky they didn’t,” Emlyn said, pushing off the tree where she had been leaning. “Who wants to spend eternity being burned to ash again and again? Sounds hideous. Cruel, too.”

  “You dare insult the Holy Flame?” Livillia snarled, rounding on the guide.

  “You don’t like my words? My pagan voice damages your faith, cuts your truth to pieces?”

  Kyron took a breath, noting the way Emlyn’s hand was hooked in her belt, close to her knife and those sharp sticks she whittled continuously. “I don’t think that Emlyn meant to insult the Holy Flame, Curate.”

  “Don’t tell me what I mean, Kyron,” Emlyn said, her voice cold and her eyes never leaving Livillia’s.

  “You’ve got yourself a pet,” the Curate said.

  “You’ve got an evil mouth and the mind behind it is a festering hole,” Emlyn replied with a smile.

  “You can’t talk to me that way,” Livillia screeched and Kyron noted the other two priests exchange a look before stepping forward.

  “I can talk to you any way I wish, Livillia,” Emlyn answered with a broad smile. “I am not a brainwashed boy and I’ve seen the truth of your religion. Invasion. Forced conversion. Bloodshed. Cruelty. All knowledge contained, corralled, and put into neat little boxes.”

  Kyron’s hand dropped to his own belt, not far from the hilt of the gladius Borus had given him. Under the boughs of the trees, the priest’s hands strayed to their own weapons.

  “This you can know. This you can’t. Don’t question this, but you can ask this. Here is an answer to a question you didn’t ask. Take it as the truth because a priest said it,” Emlyn continued. “If you’re representative of your whole religion, it is one based on fear and ignorance. Kyron’s magic, and Padarn’s, saved you and the soldiers. He has preserved your Emperor’s body so his wife and children can see him one last time and remember him for who he was. Do you thank or acknowledge?”