Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  “Master Vedrix?” Godewyn said.

  “Hmm… what’s that?” Vedrix rubbed at his face and sat up in the chair. “My apologies. I am really not used to this much fresh air and travel.”

  “Are your preparations ready for the coronation?” Bordan asked.

  “Of course,” Vedrix said. “I’ve been in communication with the Gymnasium and preparations, such as we can make, are complete. Some fireworks and displays to celebrate. They will look spectacular.”

  “In that case,” Godewyn said, finishing the last of his wine in one swallow and placing the empty cup upon the table, “I think I will retire also. Tomorrow is looking to be a busy day.”

  “And then there were two,” Vedrix said after the tall priest had left the tent. “Have you made some decisions?”

  “About?”

  “Your future,” Vedrix asked.

  “Retirement,” Bordan answered.

  “And Kyron?”

  “He will remain a magician, will he not?”

  “He can,” Vedrix agreed. “We can find a new master for him, though in truth he is not far from completing his training. Padarn did an excellent job of unlocking his abilities. Travel was just the thing, it seems. It is a shame he is not around to finish Kyron’s training. He would be proud of what the boy’s become.”

  “You are suggesting he might decide to do something else?”

  “Would you invite him to come with you?”

  “Into retirement?” Bordan pondered the idea for a moment, a sad smile crossing his face. “No. He has his own life to lead.”

  “Good,” Vedrix nodded. “He would go with you if you asked.”

  “I doubt that,” Bordan replied, dismissing the thought.

  “Then you misjudge him, General,” the Master Magician replied. “It is time for me to retire also, I feel. I will leave you to your thoughts, though I’d recommend you turn in soon. As the High Priest has said, tomorrow is likely to be a busy day.”

  Left alone, with only wine and the illusion of silence for company, Bordan sighed. The oil lamps and torches flickered in their sconces and pots, casting dancing shadows against the tent. Outside, the sounds of an army camp were muted by the late hour, but it was never truly quiet. Over the years of campaigning, those sounds had been a comfort, an aid to sleep. Tonight, the whispers sounded harsh, the noise of armour being cleaned with sand and oil was discordant to his ears. It was wrong, though he could not say why.

  From his pack, he drew out sheaves of bound paper and a small pot of ink. Turning to the next blank page, he dipped the stylus into the black ink and began to write. The familiar lines of his handwriting appeared on the rough surface of the paper. His own coded language, his own thoughts, for him alone.

  LII

  The Magician

  Four years ago:

  “I can see colours,” he said, though his eyes were closed.

  “Good,” the woman replied. “Now, I want you think about one of those colours.”

  “They are all mixed up, like little bits of sand or chalk dust, but different colours,” he said, trying to explain.

  “Just pick one of the bits of coloured sand,” she said. “Concentrate on it.”

  “I’ve picked one.”

  “Now try to move it into your hand,” she said. “Just think about moving it and keep your hand still.”

  “Not long now, lad,” Borus said, coming up beside him as the soldiers marched past the stone columns which rose either side of the road. On each was a carved inscription detailing a victorious battle or extolling the virtues of a hero from myth, a past Emperor, or soldier who won glory for the Empire. “My favourite bit of road.”

  Underfoot the cobbles were smooth and the camber of the road led in a soft arc to the rain gutters at the edges. Beyond the road the farmland began to give way to villages and inns, trading posts and barns which would fill with produce as the summer progressed to autumn.

  “Why?” Kyron asked, looking around for something which stood out and finding only those things he had always seen.

  “Home, Kyron. It means we are almost home,” Borus answered, waving his hands around to indicate the clarity of his vision. “Not just the farms and buildings, but the columns, lad. Look at them. The whole history of brave deeds and battles. They’ll build one to us, one day.”

  “To us?”

  “The honour guard,” Borus clarified, “I doubt we will actually get a mention, but my descendants will know I was part of it.”

  “What did we do that’s worth one of these?” Kyron asked, and next to him Emlyn grunted. He ignored her as a thought occurred. “When was the last one erected?”

  Emlyn stifled a laugh.

  “We passed it a while ago, it was still pristine and sharp. All these,” Borus pointed to a column on his left, “are old and worn down by the rain and wind.”

  “But when was it,” Kyron paused, glanced at Emlyn who responded with an impish grin, “built.”

  “Not entirely sure,” Borus confessed, biting his lower lip. “I think it commemorates one of the Emperor’s first victories over the tribes.”

  “Is that what we do?” Kyron asked, puzzled. “Is every column to do with war?”

  “I think so,” Borus answered, looking back over his shoulder. “They tell us of our past and the road leads away from the capital into the future. All those soldiers who gave their lives for the Empire. Even if a column is dedicated to just one hero, it stands for every soldier who fought.”

  “Do you have any statues or columns to which celebrates something other than killing?” Emlyn asked, leaning forward to look past Kyron and catch Borus’s gaze.

  “What?” Borus grunted. “Well, we’ve got the Colosseum.”

  “Where you play games?” Emlyn said, stepping over a pile of horse dung which steamed in the late morning sun. “Isn’t that what you said before, Kyron?”

  “Battles,” Borus said. “Duels between gladiators.”

  “Gladiators?”

  “People trained to fight and who make their living on the floor of the arena,” Kyron explained.

  “It glories in violence again,” she stated and the certainty in her voice grated on Kyron’s sense of national pride.

  “No one is killed,” Kyron pointed out.

  “Not often, anyway,” Borus added.

  “But your crowds go to watch it,” Emlyn said. “They enjoy the spectacle of men dealing violence upon one another. The blood and sweat.”

  “It’s honest,” Borus said with no hint of anger or shame in his voice. “The gladiators choose that life, train for it, and can earn a fortune if they are successful.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  Borus shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t follow the losers. I suspect a few join the army and put their skills to some use.”

  “And some probably spend their lives crippled and in pain?” Emlyn said.

  Kyron spared her a glance and tried to read the expression on her face but as always she confounded him. Hating himself, but unable to give up the opportunity to show off his learning, he said, “It used to be slaves.”

  “What did?” Borus asked.

  “Who fought in the arena,” Kyron said. “Used to be captured slaves or those sold into slavery. They could earn their freedom if they survived twenty-five fights.”

  “You said you had no slavery,” Emlyn asked, shocked.

  “Not for centuries,” Kyron said. “Longer, maybe, but my tutors in history at the Gymnasium did talk about it.”

  “At least they had a chance,” Borus said, “to earn their freedom. Though I bet not many of them did. Skill will get you so far, but you need luck to.”

  “I don’t know how many were freed,” Kyron agreed. “I do know there was a rebellion led by a slave-gladiator on the southern continent, back when the capital of the Empire was there.”

  “Is that your capital?” Emlyn pointed and changed the subject.

  They looked forward as the horiz
on south was broken by a hill topped by a grey smudge of walls.

  “Sudrim,” Kyron said. “Home.”

  “Not mine,” Emlyn said.

  “You could have gone back,” Borus pointed out.

  “My parents will be freed,” Emlyn said. “I may not like your legion, but I wanted to see your city. We are taught to travel, to experience new things and bring the knowledge back to the forest.”

  “Padarn travelled,” Kyron said, remembering the fire and conversation.

  “It must be in the blood,” Emlyn answered.

  “What’s blood got to do with it?” Borus asked, his brow furrowing.

  “Wanderlust,” Kyron replied before Emlyn could open her mouth and give anything away. “It is in the blood. Some people are born to wander. Perhaps that’s why you stayed in the army, to see the world.”

  “I stayed because the pay was good, better than being a porter at the docks like my father,” Borus explained.

  “What will happen when we get there?” Emlyn asked, staring at the city.

  Kyron turned away from the sight of home and looked at her once more. There was a hint of something in her eye, sadness, loss, or something else. He cursed himself for not understanding and not knowing what to say.

  “The army will escort the Emperor’s waggon to the palace before heading to the barracks,” Kyron said.

  “The Princess?”

  “She will go too,” Kyron nodded. “To get ready for the coronation which Vedrix says will be tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “An Empire needs an Emperor,” Borus said. “There’ll be a parade through the streets first. When we get there, I mean.”

  “And the funerals of the Prince and Empress?”

  “After the coronation,” Borus answered.

  Before Kyron could add anything, the order came through the lines and the army stopped, every soldier retrieving their red cloaks and swinging them around their shoulders.

  “We have to look our best,” Borus explained as the army resumed its march. “Can’t imagine we’ll stop for food before we reach the capital. It is going to be a long day.”

  True to the prediction, the army marched through the morning and afternoon. The hill upon which the city sat rose before them and they climbed the road to the main gates. Atop the walls Kyron saw the populace and heard their cheers and whistles.

  “What are they throwing?” Emlyn asked as the gate came closer.

  “Flowers and petals,” Borus answered. “It is custom. I don’t understand it much myself. I’d prefer coins.”

  “They smell sweet,” Kyron said with a sigh. “It is supposed to mask the scent of blood and battle.”

  “Really?” Borus asked.

  “Yes. Men returning from battle did not always stop to bathe before seeking their wives or,” he felt his cheeks aflame, “the company of other women. The petals symbolise a perfumed bath which those women would make the men take before they… well… you know.”

  “Had sex,” Emlyn said. “Makes sense. As strange as anything else in your Empire, but it has some sense to it. I wouldn’t want to lie with a man stinking of blood, guts, and sweat.”

  Borus laughed while Kyron’s eyes widened, and he was uncomfortably aware of just how warm it had just become. Emlyn smiled and bent down to pick up one of the petals, bringing it to her nose and inhaling the scent.

  Inside the walls, the cheering was cacophonous and echoed from the tall buildings as people leaned from windows to shout and scream. The petals soon stopped falling, but nothing could drown out the noise. It was almost a shock to realise how little breeze there was coming down the street and how often they walked in shadow. It was a forest of stone, full of baying and howling animals. For the first time Kyron could recall, he felt uncomfortable in the city.

  Moving along the crowded streets, following in the wake of the Emperor’s waggon, hemmed in by the soldiers’ perfect marching and the buildings, he was lost. The roads he knew, and the cobbles beneath his feet were as familiar as the soles of his boots. Shops, restaurants, merchants and markets were recognisable and sparked memories which cascaded through his mind, but as though they belonged to someone else.

  The bath house, the communal facilities provided, at a cost, to the people of the city passed by in a half-seen daze. A hazy memory of visiting, of sweating in the caldarium, before plunging into icy water. On his arm, small goosebumps rose, and he felt the chill of the frigidarium in his bones.

  “You all right, lad?” Borus asked, laying a hand on Kyron’s shoulder. “You look a little pale.”

  “Fine,” he stammered, his stomach queasy and a shiver running through him.

  “No, you’re not,” Borus said, dragging him to one side out of the main flow of soldiers. “You’ve been through a lot, especially as you’re not a trained soldier. Even the novices get sick of the fighting and death. It’s when you get back home you feel it the most.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Kyron protested.

  “What’s the matter?” Emlyn asked, struggling free of the parade.

  “Young Kyron’s not well,” Borus said. “I’ve seen it hit a lot of soldiers over the years. Overcome by it all. Recognition of home does it. Suddenly realising it is over and you survived, that kind of thing. He needs a stiff drink and good rest.”

  “Where?” she said, ignoring Kyron’s looks and words of protestation.

  “Probably the Gymnasium,” Borus said, bending down and looking into Kyron’s eyes. “Is that where you’re staying, lad?”

  Kyron tried to swallow and speak, but when no words came, he settled for a nod.

  “I can’t leave the parade,” Borus said, glancing towards Emlyn and then at the soldiers passing by, “at least not for long. You think you can walk that far?”

  Kyron nodded once more and Borus smiled.

  “I’ll make sure he gets there,” Emlyn said.

  “I was going to have you put up in one of the army rooms, least till you decided what you were going to do,” Borus said to her, “but I suppose the magicians can put you up just as well. You’re used to their company.”

  “Where is this Gymnasium?”

  Kyron pointed in the general direction.

  “He’ll get you there,” Borus said. “Might even find his voice on the way. If you get lost, just ask. Most folks will point you in the right direction.”

  “Right,” Emlyn nodded. “You’ll tell Vedrix where I’ve taken him. Not sure I want a whole building of magicians after me.”

  “They don’t run fast,” Borus chuckled. “Most are as fat as Vedrix. Padarn and the boy here are almost the exceptions. Look after him, he’s been a good companion on the road. I’ll try to check in later.”

  “Thank you,” Kyron croaked.

  “Don’t even think on it, lad,” Borus answered and Kyron saw the concern in his eyes.

  “I’ll send word if I can,” Emlyn said.

  “Get some rest,” Borus replied. “Coronation is tomorrow and you’ll need your energy for the celebrations.”

  With a last nod, the soldier slipped back into the parade, the troops making room for him without a complaint.

  “Which way?” Emlyn asked.

  Kyron pointed at a side street just ahead.

  “Come on then. Sooner we’re off this main street and with a bit of room to breathe, the better you’ll feel.” Emlyn caught him by the arm and began to half-drag, half-support him down the road, turning the corner on the side street and pushing her way through the cheering crowds. A few city folks complained, but one look in her eyes or at the pale, shaking Kyron next to her, and they moved aside.

  They made their way through the streets, the crowds thinning as they put distance between themselves and the parade. Some gave them strange looks, but most paid them no heed at all. The scent of food wafting from the thermopolia, the shops offering the city dweller a choice of hot food from across the Empire, made his stomach rumble even as another shudder raced through him.
/>   “Stop,” he said, leaning against the low wall of one of the many fountains and pools fed by the river and aqueducts which brought water from the far away mountains to the west. The white stone was carved to depict a great battle.

  “Left,” he mumbled. “Not far. Big building. You’ll see it.”

  To the right, he could see the Colosseum and as they stumbled along yet another street Kyron recognised the large blue doors which marked the entrance to the Gymnasium at the far end. The houses here were occupied by magicians and those who worked for them. In any other city, in any other place, the building would have been imposing and its majesty would have shone for all to see. It would be whitewashed to a shine and bright Empire red would have competed with gold paint which ran in strips around the building. Towers would have leapt to the sky from the roofs and there would be a bustle of learned people going to and fro on important business.

  That was the image in his mind, constructed from reading scrolls in the library and hearing stories from Padarn’s encyclopaedic knowledge of the Gymnasium’s history. It was clear, just looking at the building which now seemed to squat, hoping not to be noticed, amongst homes and businesses, that its best days were far behind.

  Kyron limped up to the door, Emlyn holding him upright, and knocked three times. A small window opened, and two suspicious eyes peeked out.

  “Kyron, Apprentice Magician,” he said, trying not to mumble his words.

  “And she is?” the voice which belonged to the eyes said.

  “A guide, a friend,” Kyron struggled to find the right words. “Master Vedrix sent her with me.”

  He felt the construct of a truth net flitter against his skin, and knew it read his words as true. Defeating the net by being selectively honest was a lesson every apprentice learned quickly or spent too many evenings in the kitchens scrubbing the pots.

  The door creaked open, sticking a little at its base and only giving way on a great heave.

  “Looks like the preservation charm is weakening,” the man who stood revealed in the late afternoon sun said. “I’ll have to get an apprentice to renew them, and then he can clean out the stables for letting them get this bad.”