Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

“Cohort,” he said, coughing the smoke from his lungs and spitting it onto the bridge stones, “get a gang together and clear the carts. Tip them over the side if you need to, I don’t care. I want that bridge clear and open as soon as possible.”

  She saluted. “Yes, General.”

  Turning back to the battle, Bordan surveyed the scene. The stone bridge and cobbled road were strewn with the detritus of war: blood, bodies, and weapons. Following the path of the road as far as the rain would allow, Bordan saw it rise up the hill to the north and along it, mercenaries were fleeing the battle. His own troops, he was happy to see, did not follow and were focused on ensuring that no enemy warriors were faking their own deaths by the simple expedient of stabbing them. It was gruesome work, but they did not have time to take prisoners and these mercenaries were traitors to the Empire. There was only one punishment and it was much worse than a clean sword through the neck.

  “General,” Sarimarcus called as he trotted up, the wound on his leg not seeming to slow him down, “the archers say the rain is clearing from the north.”

  “Not now. Not now,” Bordan muttered. “For once, I wanted it to rain, to give us cover as we brought the army across. How many do we have this side?”

  Both men looked around, estimating and counting those soldiers they could see.

  “A quarter to a third?” Sarimarcus guessed.

  “Closer to a third, I think,” Bordan agreed. “Abra, if he has any sense, will attack as soon as he can. Break us against the bridge. He’ll know those coming across can do little if we cannot push forward.”

  “We need to clear the bridge,” the Spear said.

  “I’ve got a Cohort on that,” Bordan said, “and soldiers are coming across as fast as they can. I think it is time to be bold, Sarimarcus. Abra isn’t a soldier and the mercenaries that return to his line will tell him what is coming. Better still, they’ll treble the count of our force and even if their commander halves that, Abra will be worried. We need to use that time of indecision.”

  “Yes, General,” Sarimarcus said, waving the Aenator over to his side. “Your orders?”

  “We form up to attack,” Bordan said, squinting at the land around him, “and give ourselves room to bring the troops across. Three ranks, veterans at the front, and let’s stagger the maniples, create some gaps the mercenaries are likely to head towards. If they fall for it, we can close up and deal with them in pieces.”

  “You think they will?”

  “If it was a practised leader, no. Abra, though, I am not so sure,” Bordan shrugged. “Either way it gives us a little more time while they decide upon their own tactics. Keep archers in the tower. We will set the ranks just back from their bow range.”

  “It will leave our flanks exposed,” Sarimarcus pointed out, “and the mercenaries may be able to get around us to the bridge during the battle.”

  “To be met by more of our soldiers coming across,” the General answered. “We set up to attack, but don’t advance until we have to. Let’s use the fact that we are getting constant reinforcements from the other bank to our advantage. Keep them guessing and worried.”

  “As you order,” Sarimarcus said, issuing his own orders to the Aenator who blew the signals from his bugle.

  “General,” a familiar voice called from behind. “You promised to take the bridge and you have done so.”

  Bordan sighed as fresh soldiers began to stream past him, taking up positions at the base of the towers. “Godewyn, what are you doing here? It isn’t safe.”

  “Safe enough for the Empire’s General,” the priest said with a smile as he stepped alongside Bordan. “And I am not so naïve as to come without some protection.”

  The priest parted his robs and the grey metal rings of a hamata shirt appeared.

  “You know that won’t stop an arrow,” Bordan said. “Why are you here? Why does everyone seem to want to put themselves at risk?”

  “Better me than Aelia,” Godewyn said, peering past Bordan towards the rise ahead. “It took a lot of convincing for me to stop her coming.”

  “But you did?” Bordan glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the soldiers were the Princess.

  “I did, but she is not happy about it,” Godewyn smiled. “I promised to bring her back news of your victory.”

  “Godewyn,” Bordan said, “is that a sword at your waist?”

  “My old gladius,” the High Priest replied, patting the leather-bound grip. “I’ve not worn this in over a decade.”

  “And you couldn’t resist belting it on while you came down to determine the fate of the battle?”

  “I choose to call it prudent,” Godewyn said with no trace of guilt. “You won, Bordan. You should be happy and relieved. I know Aelia will.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” Bordan grunted.

  As if to punctuate his words, a call rose from the top of the eastern tower, and Bordan squinted into the rain to see an archer stabbing his hand towards the north. Moments later, the dark smudge of an army appeared at the top of the rise.

  “Now we know where they are,” Bordan said and at his side it was Godewyn’s turn to grunt.

  “They’re flying the flag.” Sarimarcus pointed up the slope.

  “You’ve better eyes than me,” the General grunted. “I haven’t got a clue what he wants to say, but if it buys us a little time. Raise the white flag and get me that Cohort and five soldiers. I’ll go meet him.”

  “General,” Sarimarcus began, “better for me to go.”

  “No,” Bordan answered, waving away the concerns he knew were coming. “I know Abra and he knows me.”

  “And I’ll join you,” Godewyn answered, untying his robes and slipping them from his shoulders. He handed the garment to a passing soldier who stood in awe of the cloth he held. “I would dearly like to see Abra’s face now he knows what judgement his traitorous ways have brought upon his head.”

  “Godewyn,” Bordan began, then became more formal, noting the presence of soldiers who had gathered around. “High Priest, it is not prudent to join this meeting. Two of the Empire’s Ruling Council would be a great prize for Abra.”

  “It is a flag of truce, General,” Godewyn said, nodding towards the ridge. “He will not break it. Certainly, the mercenaries would not—it is their usual means for avoiding conflict and saving their own lives.”

  Bordan looked into the High Priest’s eyes, saw the younger man who had stood the ranks with him, and exhaled a long, slow breath. “If this goes wrong, she’ll have us crucified.”

  “Have faith, Bordan,” Godewyn said, tightening the buckle on his sword. “Can someone lend me a shield?”

  He waited in the front rank for the soldiers to assemble, nodding to the Cohort who carried the white flag when she arrived.

  Cohort Cypria nodded towards the approaching mercenary group. “They’re coming.”

  “We had best go meet them,” Bordan said, striding forward, Godewyn and the soldiers following.

  Stepping away from the front ranks was an exercise in trust. The white flag of truce had a long history and not all of it good. War had rules, but rules were often made to be broken. Desperate people do desperate things.

  Cypria stepped up beside Bordan and the five soldiers, swords sheathed but shields ready, followed them into the dead land between the two armies.

  “Do you want me to kill him, General?” Cypria asked as they walked.

  Bordan glanced to the side to see a grin split the woman’s face. “Tempting, but I think this will be a short conference and as our esteemed guest has pointed out, they will not break the truce of the flag.”

  “And the longer it goes on, the more troops you can bring across,” Godewyn added.

  “Then why the parlay?” Cypria asked. “To kill you?”

  “Possibly, though unlikely.” Bordan pondered. It was customary, before a battle, to have a conference of opposing leaders. A setting of rules, a show of respect. Abra was a traditionalist in many ways, but the merc
enary leader would have—should have—counselled against wasting this time. Although, Bordan conceded Godewyn’s point, the mercenaries might be looking for a way out. When you fight for money, you know your life’s exact worth. “Something else is going on. Keep your ears open and swords loose in their sheaths.”

  Bordan arrived first and Cypria stabbed the earth with the pole to which the flag was attached. Bordan looked at the square of white cloth, sodden and hanging limp in the rain, and smiled. The Cohort had chosen a spear to tie the flag to and the sharp point pierced the clouds above. Trust, the flag said. Only so far, the spear point cautioned.

  “My dear General,” Abra said, sketching a bow as his own group stopped a short distance away.

  “Abra,” Bordan nodded.

  “Ah,” Abra replied. “Well, to be expected. Allow me to introduce Princess Hanno. She leads the army you see gathered upon the ridge.”

  “Princess Hanno,” Bordan favoured the mercenary with a nod. “I confess, your fame has yet to reach my ears.”

  Hanno spat on the floor at Bordan’s feet. “I’ve heard of you, General.”

  “From Abra? All very flattering, I am sure,” Bordan replied, hooking his thumbs into his sword belt. “You are not from the Empire?”

  “This one?” Hanno gazed around, her dark eyes swallowing the landscape. “It is too wet for me. I prefer the warmer lands of the south.”

  “Perhaps it is time you returned there?”

  “Once my coffers are full, General,” Hanno answered.

  “Of course,” Bordan replied, ignoring the expression on Abra’s face. “Perhaps I could assist you with that. I’m sure I could match Abra’s offer and save you the trouble of dying for it.”

  “Money not to fight?” Hanno laughed. “That would ruin my reputation, General.”

  “What reputation, Hanno?” Bordan replied, his voice as cold as the rain that fell. “I’ve never heard of you, and when you die here, no one ever will.”

  “You insult me,” Hanno’s voice rose into a shout.

  “I tell you honestly,” Bordan countered. “If you chose it to be an insult, that is more on you than me.” He turned from the fuming mercenary to the treacherous noble. “Now, Abra, what is it you wanted with this meeting?”

  “I’d hoped we could talk,” Abra said. “Like the old days?”

  Bordan raised an eyebrow. “We fenced in council, Abra, and we are fencing here though with more men, more swords, and more chance of death. Your mercenaries are outnumbered and will run rather than die. Money is their master, Abra, not you.”

  “It was not supposed to be like this,” Abra said, though to whom Bordan was unsure.

  “Battles are always like this. I’ve fought in too many, and hoped never to fight another, but here we are, and I lay that at your feet,” Bordan said. “You turned traitor, Abra. You desired the throne and made your choices. When your blood is soaking the ground beneath your feet, I hope that’s small comfort.”

  “I was forced into this,” Abra suddenly spat. “You have no idea, General. Too blind. Too consumed with duty and service to see what is really going on.”

  “Abra,” Godewyn interrupted stepping forward, “talking to you is like holding an eel. Your words are slippery and coil around the truth until it is strangled.”

  The moment of shock on Abra’s face was almost worth risking the High Priest’s life just to see. A man who thought himself better than others, more intelligent and cunning, had been outmanoeuvred once again.

  “You—” Abra began.

  “You killed a Prince,” Bordan interrupted, intending to keep the former Duke off balance and himself in charge of this conversation. “Your assassins killed the Empress. You brought this on yourself.”

  “Me?” Abra’s voice was strangled by disbelief and the man glanced at the High Priest who stood in the rain with his hand on his sword, hair plastered to his head, and beatific smile upon his face. As Bordan watched, something changed in Abra’s eyes. A finality, a darkness, and a cold choice entered them. “Whatever you believe is wrong, but I can’t change that or you, General. We are where we are, and all I need for you to refer to me as Emperor is the amulet and a priest to perform the transfer. Luckily for me, you brought a priest with you. It’s always good to have a spare. The next time we meet, General, you will bow to me. And Godewyn,” Abra’s smile was that of snake, full of venom, “don’t get killed in the battle. You would be the perfect choice to perform the ceremony.”

  “The next time we meet, Abra,” Bordan spat, raising his hand to prevent anyone else from speaking, “you will die like all traitors. Princess Hanno, a pleasure to make your acquaintance; do you wish to accept my offer of payment?”

  “General,” Hanno nodded, chewing her lip, “I made the bargain with Duke Abra and will see it through. My reputation, such as it is, is built on trust and promises.”

  “I understand,” Bordan answered. “I think, Cohort Cypria, Godewyn, we are done here. Farewell, Abra, I do not think we will speak again.”

  “I do not think you would listen if we did, Bordan,” Abra answered.

  There was little point continuing the conversation so Bordan spun on his heel and marched back to the Empire lines. As he went, the rain lessened and the wind picked up, chilling him.

  “We have a problem,” Bordan muttered when he was sure Abra and Hanno were out of earshot.

  “I think it went quite well, Bordan,” Godewyn chuckled. “His face is one I’ll remember for many years.”

  As they rejoined Sarimarcus in the lines Bordan said, “The parley isn’t the problem, Godewyn. I think the honour guard is about to arrive or has arrived at the edge of the forest. That is why he was happy to talk and risk us bringing more troops over.”

  “And he will get the amulet?” Cypria asked.

  “If he does, he will have a hold over us,” Sarimarcus said, a grimace on his face.

  “He said he has a priest too. The rest was just posturing and delaying. He could become Emperor. We need to attack now,” Bordan said. “Sound the advance.”

  The bugles blew.

  XLVI

  The Magician

  Four years ago:

  “Don’t, please,” he said as the old man lifted the jar of fresh leeches from his bag. “It isn’t helping.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” the old man said, sitting with a sigh on the edge of his bed. “The medicus does not know either, but you keep having the nightmares and the fits. I just want to help.”

  “I…” he started to say and trailed off.

  “You what, lad? Tell me, I want to help.”

  “I see things in the night, not bad dreams, but colours, sparks, and stars.”

  “Form up. Battle dress. Form up. Battle dress.” The cry flew like a falcon along the column, screeching into the ears of all who tramped wearily from the forest. There were cries as the wounded were set down, carts came to a halt, and capes were ripped from shoulder to be left on the earth or thrown into a nearby cart.

  Kyron followed Borus as the Cohort raced to Astentius and the gathering of officers. He felt rather than saw Emlyn in his shadow. The clatter of shields and swords echoed in his wake.

  “Get the soldiers into a rank, Borus,” Astentius said, wiping the last of the rain from his forehead. “Those look like mercenaries. They’ll be practised soldiers and they know what they’re facing.”

  Kyron heard the false confidence in the Spear’s voice, an attempt to raise spirits. Glancing over his shoulder, the tired soldiers, some of whom had been pulling carts of wounded for the past day, and all who had not eaten properly in the past three days, were drawing up into their ranks.

  “Why haven’t they attacked?” Kyron asked, looking forward to the line of mercenaries, their mismatched shields and weapons clear to see as clouds gave way to sunshine.

  “They were waiting for us to come further from the forest,” Astentius said. “If the rain hadn’t stopped, we would be out on the plain and an eas
ier target.”

  “And what do you intend to do now, Spear Astentius?” Livillia’s shrill voice cut through the conversation and Kyron felt his stomach sink even as Astentius’s face became fixed.

  “I intend to carry out my mission, Curate,” Astentius said.

  She changed tack and pointed at Kyron. “Why is he here? And her?”

  “This is a military conversation, Curate,” Astentius growled, “and they are here to offer advice. Kyron is a military magician and the guide is in my charge. If you have something particular to add, please do so. If not, can I suggest that you repair to the Emperor’s waggon and pray to the Holy Flame for our deliverance.”

  “Spear,” Livillia said, her voice lowering, “you had best pray to the Flame for our deliverance or I will see you crucified and buried, never to join the Flame.”

  “I am always praying, Curate,” Astentius answered. “However, I thank you for your concern.”

  Kyron held his breath, hearing the unspoken words in his answers and preparing for the Curate’s response. None came and when he looked he saw that her cheeks were flushed red and her eyes reflected the Flame she so fervently worshiped. After a silent moment, during which Spear and Priest stared at each other, the Curate finally turned her head away in disgust and retreated to the forest.

  “You’ll be paying for that soon enough,” Borus said as he rejoined the group.

  “She is the least of my worries, Cohort,” Astentius said. “Have you seen how many face us?”

  Kyron peered once more at the mercenary army which waited less than a league away. There was no doubt in his mind that they were outnumbered. He recalled the lessons his grandfather had tried to impress upon him and knew the battle would be short, bloody, and they were unlikely to win.

  “Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak,” he whispered, one of his grandfather’s sayings.

  “An old quote,” Astentius said, a small smile passing across his face, “but possibly the only card we have to play.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Kyron stuttered. “I did not mean to speak.”

  “Don’t apologise for good advice, Kyron,” Astentius said, “though that you know that quote is intriguing. Not many study the old manuals of war.”