Seven Deaths of an Empire

by Matthews, G R

  The eastern gate was open, and the troop passed through without pause. Glancing back, he saw a crowd of city folk had followed them through the streets. As far back as he could see there were people, an ocean of them, a flock of starlings which wheeled, twisted and turned, following the leader.

  The road rose to the small hill upon which traitors were executed. Atop, Bordan could see the High Priest, the Master Magician and, in the centre, Aelia. A small crowd of workers, carpenters who had built the cross, and others who dug the hole it would sit within, milled about. The base of the hill was surrounded by a double rank of soldiers who would keep the crowds back.

  The line of soldiers parted and those with him, except the original four, peeled away to add their numbers to the ranks. Underfoot, the cobbles of the road, worn smooth by feet became more rounded, slippery, and sought to send him to his knees. He steadied his legs and focused upon each step, even as he pushed the pill into his cheek to prevent an accidental bite.

  Godewyn’s face was impassive as Bordan crested the hill. Dressed in full regalia, a beacon of faith as much as the flame which burned in the bowl behind him.

  Stood apart, Vedrix, Master of the Gymnasium of Magicians, looked at him with sad eyes. The man’s beard had been combed and his robes were a colourful rejection of the simple white which Godewyn wore.

  Aelia stood, shifting from one foot to the other, in her bronze armour. Ornate and burnished to a high gleam with the red cape rippling in the breeze. A gladius hung on her hip and a pugio sat in a matching sheath on the opposite side.

  Through the small group and laying on the ground was the cross. Thick timbers carved and planed to a smooth finish. The upright looked to be twice his height and the cross beam was as thick as two arms. It was an effort of will to tear his gaze from it.

  The new Emperor took a deep breath and Bordan saw the woman’s hands clenched at her side. “A traitor’s death for you, General. Upon a cross for everyone to watch.”

  Bordan glanced at Vedrix and Godewyn. Both met his gaze but offered no help, no words, and their faces were unchanged, unmoved.

  “I am no traitor,” Bordan said, pitching his words so only the three could hear. One of the workmen paused in his task, sparing Bordan a look before returning to his task.

  “Denial?” Aelia tilted her head as if looking at the General from a different angle would help. “You’ve been set against me ever since Alhard was killed. You made him a hero to the people, General. The great warrior who put down a rebellion in the countryside. But we know my brother had little between his ears. You knew you could control him and be the Emperor in everything but name.”

  Bordan gaped and looked once more to his two friends.

  “The man who stole the glory from even my father. It was your plans which sent him north to conquer the tribes. It is you the soldiers always look to. My father knew that. Who controls the army controls the Empire, he told me once,” Aelia ranted, pacing back and forth, tapping her chest. “I know what he meant now. His wisdom guides me.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Silence,” Aelia screamed. “A traitor’s voice seeks only to turn the hearts of others from the truth. Alhard resisted your manipulations. He wanted to be Emperor alone. Your clever words could not sway him, so you killed him.”

  “Godewyn,” Bordan said, holding out his manacled hands.

  “No,” Aelia snapped, stalking forward and battering Bordan’s hands down. “My mother knew, suspected, so you had her killed. You had me fooled though, didn’t you? You had me going along with your plans, your schemes. You foisted all the blame on Abra and killed him before he could be brought to justice. Even so, you gave him time to organise an army, to try and steal my father’s body and the throne from me. He would have handed it all to you and your army would be there, ready to turn on me.”

  The Emperor’s hand went to the sword at her waist and half drew it in a fit of rage before slamming it back into the sheath. “You’d like me to kill you now. A soldier’s death, General. One with honour. That you will not have.”

  Aelia turned away and moved in staccato steps to the cross which lay upon the grass. Before Bordan could speak again, the young ruler rounded upon him.

  “I saw through your delays,” the Emperor said, her voice now a hoarse whisper. “Why did you want to wait for supplies? Why hold us back? Why not attack as soon as you can? Why all the worry over the soldiers whose job it is to fight and die at the Empire’s command? All to delay. All to give Abra a chance. Such timidity and fear at the bridge, General. Such an unwillingness to attack.”

  “I am not a traitor,” Bordan said the moment Aelia ran out of breath.

  “Lies. Lies. Lies.” Aelia’s face screwed up as if she had just tasted something unpleasant, something bitter and poisonous. “We knew you would lie. Knew you would say anything to save yourself.”

  “Your Majesty,” one of the workmen said, looking up from the cross. “It is ready.”

  “You see,” Aelia pointed to the wooden beams. “This will be your death. The one reserved for traitors. Abra should be there beside you. Two traitors scheming for the throne and power. It was never yours to have, General. We talked,” Aelia stepped around the cross and looked down upon it, “talked on the journey. It all became clear. Every action you took, you took to strip my family of power and put yourself on my throne.”

  Talked to who, Bordan wondered. Vedrix looked confused, worried, and despite the grey skies there was sweat upon the man’s brow. Stood a little apart, Godewyn wore the expression of a priest. Serene and at peace, and when he met Bordan’s eyes there was little to read in them.

  This cannot be right, he wanted to shout at them. The Emperor has lost her mind to grief and anger, and you are going along with her.

  Start a civil war. The words in his mind were uttered in Vedrix’s voice and the chance was still there. Call out to the soldiers, order them to save him, and they would. Enough would, he knew, but some would not, and the war would begin. Hundreds would die. Cities and towns would burn. The Empire would tear itself to pieces. All that he worked for, all that service and duty, would be ground into dust beneath his feet.

  There is nothing he could say. Nothing he could do.

  General Bordan brought the pill between his teeth and bit down. He heard it crack through the bones in his jaw and the taste of dust filled his mouth. Swallowing, he brought more saliva to his mouth to mix with the dust and form a clag which he could force down his throat.

  He turned to look out across the crowd. From the ring of soldiers at the base of the hill, over the crowd which had gathered, to the city walls and gate. Above them all the palace towers and spires of the church.

  A warmth spread from his stomach along his limbs. They felt light, distant, as if they belonged to some other man. The grey light falling through the clouds brightened and the grass of summer beneath his feet became a vibrant green. He was floating yet standing still.

  In his chest, every beat of his slow heart thrummed through his body, each pulse meandering its path along arteries and veins. He could hear the crash of the sea in his ears as the voices of the crowd faded away.

  “Place him upon the cross.” The words came to his ears from a thousand paces away, a bare whisper which was chased away by the sound of the breath in his lungs.

  He felt himself lifted, but it was happening to someone else, and carried. Above his head the clouds swayed and billowed against each other. Subtle movements on the edges, blurred by distance and merging into a smear of muted greys.

  Lain down, he felt the hard wood against his spine, but it was comfortable, like slipping into his own bed after a long day. Feet aching with the day’s efforts, legs heavy and welcoming the soft give of the cloth stuffed mattress.

  Something pinched his heels, drawing a short gasp from his lips and a chill ran up his legs and through his chest. The clouds moved above him, driven by a breeze which he thought he could see in the eddies which turned the grey cott
on in upon itself.

  His arms were lifted and stretched to the side. They were pulled and pushed like the finest massage in the public baths. When had he last visited the baths, the thought slipped in for a moment, before drifting away on the winds of Vedrix’s pill.

  There was a pop, like the bursting of a soap bubble which he both heard and felt. It was pleasant, a release of pressure he had not known he was feeling and his arms were warm.

  Now the sky wheeled and danced. His stomach dropped and there was moment when he was free of weight. The city came back into view and below its roofs, the walls, the gates. Arrayed around him, a crowd and soldiers, but blurred and indistinct.

  He tried to wipe the mist from his eyes, but his arms would not move. Turning slowly to the left and right, he saw his arms running red and the heads of large iron spikes jutting from his flesh.

  Not his flesh, though. A stranger’s. It was not his body he inhabited. He was numb to it. Unfeeling. Distant. Absent.

  Thoughts drifted and meandered through his distant mind. None stayed long and few could be grasped or held up for inspection.

  Dying, a thought, a word came through, but was carried away on the stream of wonder that was the sky and crowd.

  A figure, a movement on the edge of the crowd came into focus for moment, but the vision ran through him like a cold stream. It chilled him. Scared him.

  A moment of reality, a scream of pain, a figure he knew carrying something dear to him.

  “No,” he muttered, finding the use of his tongue once more.

  LX

  The Magician

  Three years ago:

  He stared up at the high ceiling in the dormitory. They had given him a bed, a chest in which to keep his things, and a new robe which swept the floor when he walked.

  “You’ll grow into it,” the magician said.

  “What do I do now?” he asked, lost and alone again.

  “Sleep,” the magician said. “Lessons begin in the morning and you’ll have a chance to meet your classmates.”

  The other boys who had come in later, had glanced to his bed, but no one had spoken to him. A tear trickled down his face and soaked into the pillow.

  The crowds were gathering when Kyron, followed by Emlyn, left the Gymnasium in the morning. These people were not celebrating, and all the muttered talk he heard was of the execution. Some were headed to the palace to get a first look at the condemned man and others towards the hill outside the city gate to make sure they got a good spot at the front. Here and there he spied small stalls or street sellers hawking wares and souvenirs, small wooden crosses, hot food, and illustrations of the crucifixion hill lit by bright sunshine on squares of parchment.

  Keeping the book tight under his arm, Kyron pushed and elbowed his way through the people. Many turned to glare, to complain or rage at him. He did not let them stop or distract him. Their eyes saw only his departing back and their words fell on deaf ears.

  He ducked into a gap in the crowd and skipped out of the way of a bigger group heading his way. Lowering his leading shoulder a little, he pushed forward eliciting a shout of anger from the man he knocked out of the way.

  “Are you determined to make everyone angry with you today?” Emlyn asked, catching his elbow and slowing him down.

  “I have to get to the palace,” he explained, wrenching his arm free.

  “But not with a whole crowd of angry people following you,” she said. “They won’t let you in to see Vedrix if you’ve got to argue with two hundred people first.”

  Kyron grunted and tried to slow his feet. The energy running through him, speeding his heart and pulse, forcing his mind to constantly twist and turn the possibilities over until no course of action seemed right, kept driving him to a faster pace. Only Emlyn’s hand on his forearm kept him slow and careful.

  Rounding one corner, the towers of the palace came into view and the spires of the church rose over the homes on his right. Here though, the crowd thickened until forward movement was all but impossible.

  “Excuse me,” he tried, tapping a woman on the shoulder.

  “If I’m not going forward, neither are you, lad,” she turned and said, not unkindly.

  “I need to get to the palace,” he said.

  “You’ll be lucky,” she answered.

  “Try this way,” Emlyn said, tugging on his arm and pointing along the street. There was a small alley of space between the building and the crowd of people trying to get to the front.

  “I just need to find a guard,” Kyron called as he followed her along the edge of the crowd which ebbed and flowed like the tide across the small beach of empty space. Occasionally it crashed up against the cliff of the buildings and they had to wait for the crush to ease a little.

  “There,” Emlyn said, pointing at a small gap which had opened in the mass of people.

  Kyron dove for it, keeping his elbows out to dig into the ribs of any who tried to block his path. Amongst the people the temperature rose and the stink of unwashed bodies made him gag. It was difficult to stay upright, but he staggered forward.

  “Let me through,” he shouted. “Official business. Palace business. Messenger.”

  Any important sounding words and phrases he could conjure from the confusing mess of fear and panic in which his mind swam, he said, shouted, and screamed at the people around him. Quite a few moved aside, pushing others out of the way. One or two grumbled and an angry-faced man grabbed Kyron by the shoulder as he moved past him.

  “Hey,” the man shouted as he pulled Kyron around. “Stop pushing your way through. We were here first. You should have got up earlier.”

  Kyron drew in a sharp breath to respond, his own anger setting fire to his throat, hot words ready to burst forth like dragon’s flame.

  “My apologies, sir,” Emlyn said, pressing a coin into the man’s palm. “Official palace business.”

  The man looked down at the silver coin in his hand and then up to Emlyn. “That’s fine. Sorry to stop you.”

  Kyron did not stop to enquire where she had found the coin but pushed forward. Broaching the front line of onlookers and coming up against the wooden barrier which kept the avenue clear, he went to duck underneath.

  “Now then,” said a voice, “where do you think you’re… Kyron?”

  The apprentice looked up into Cohort Borus’s face and for the first time felt that there might be a chance.

  “Borus,” he called, reaching over the barrier to clasp the man’s wrist, “I need to see Master Vedrix in the palace.”

  “Can’t get into the palace, lad,” Borus said, shaking his head. “I know what today means to you. I’m sorry.”

  “I have to get in,” Kyron complained, feeling the frustration begin to bubble over. It was a strong effort of will to hold himself in check.

  “You can’t, lad,” Borus said. “No one can. Whole place is locked down because of… well, you know.”

  “I need to see Master Vedrix,” Kyron cried, bringing the palm of his free hand down upon the wooden barrier, welcoming the momentary flash of pain. “I have to see him.”

  “He isn’t there,” Borus said, covering Kyron’s hand with his own. “You’d best keep calm today, Kyron. A cool head can solve a lot more problems than a hot one. You’ve stood in the line, you know what fear and anger will do to a soldier.”

  “Vedrix isn’t there?” Panic welled in his throat, choking his words and numbing his tongue.

  “He left earlier with the Emperor and High Priest,” Borus said. “They’ve gone to the hill to get ready for the… I am so sorry, lad. If there was anything I could do.”

  Kyron did not stay to hear all of Borus’s kind words but pushed back through the crowd and turned towards the gate which led to the hill.

  As he crashed through the onlookers there was a sudden hush which swept like an ill wind along the avenue. The people stood stock still and it felt as though everyone held their breath at the same moment. Kyron tried to crane his neck to see ov
er the heads of all those he had just barged out of the way.

  In a momentary gap, as one in the crowd tilted their head to the side and another stepped in the other direction, he saw the reason for the sudden silence. Flanked by soldiers, his grandfather, the General of the Empire, stood in the gateway to the palace.

  He wanted to shout out, to barrel forward and drag the old man to safety. With a crowd of city folk and a wide avenue between him and his grandfather, he had never felt more impotent in his life.

  The gap closed and the crowd began to move towards the gate. There was nothing to do, no way to push through quicker and all he could do was tighten his grip on the journal and go along with it. A hand grabbed his free arm and he looked back over his shoulder, pulling Emlyn to his side as they were swept along.

  “I saw him,” Emlyn called as the silence vanished into a mass of conversation and speculation.

  “So did I,” Kyron answered, stepping around an old man who was using a cane to limp along with the crowd. A scar ran across the man’s nose and Kyron noticed that he only had three fingers on the hand holding the cane. “Are you all right, old man?”

  “Fine,” the old man grumbled, looking up into Kyron’s face, the wrinkles around his eyes made them seem small, hard, and dark. He nodded towards his hand and cane. “Old wound from my time in the ranks.”

  “Be careful getting through the crowd,” Emlyn said. “Best to stick to the side.”

  “He wouldn’t do it, you know,” the old soldier muttered. “Too much honour and too stupid.”

  “Stupid?” Kyron almost stopped as the old man’s word caught him off guard. Honour was a part of his grandfather as much as breathing was, but no one had ever accused him of stupidity.

  “They’d follow him, you know,” the old man lifted his cane, and the woman who was passing him on the other side was forced to duck out of the way, “the soldiers. In a heartbeat, without question. Stupid not to give the order.”

  “He fears a civil war,” Kyron said, and when he noticed the sharp-eyed glance the old man gave him added, “probably. There would be a lot of deaths.”