Empire of Avarice

by Tony Roberts

  The bodyguard began cantering up the slope, still wide but now angling back so that they would cross over in front of the panting spearmen. The archers now turned and ran for safety, the imperial spearmen having endured three volleys and got through without too many losses. Their shields were thick with arrows, and more stuck out of the snow. Fifteen men lay on the slope, either still or moving feebly, crying out in pain.

  The two spear companies paused, straightened their lines and then swung to engage the rebel militia, standing in a line at the top of the slope. Outnumbered almost two to one, the rebels looked fearful as their enemies closed in, faces determined and full of vengeance, intent on getting even for their fallen comrades.

  Thetos swerved his men around the rear and up in a wide arc. The archers, who he could now see included their commander, Anfos Duras, had halted and were loading up again. “Charge!” Thetos yelled and led the charge, his sword high. The archers hesitated, then realised they had nowhere to run. They scattered but the armour-clad bodyguard were already at them, swords plunging down mercilessly. Thetos roared and slashed down again and again. The archers weren’t putting up any fight; they were desperately trying to get away from the thundering beasts and their murderous riders, but they were caught on a hill top with nowhere to go. Thetos’ anger grew. Duras was an idiot; he had the tactical brains of a pile of droppings. His frustration at wasting his time and the lives of some of his men increased.

  “Stupid cattle!” he roared, waving his bright red blade high in the air. “You don’t deserve to live, any of you!”

  The spearmen, meanwhile, had crashed into the militiamen who had staggered back under the shock of the blow, and now caved in like a pack of cards. They ran backwards but with nothing but hundreds of paces of nothing between them and the nearest shelter, a stand of trees, they were utterly exposed. Duras roared at them to stand and somehow they pulled themselves together, perhaps more frightened of their commander than anything else, but the end wasn’t long in coming. Another charge by the imperial spearmen, hollering at the top of their lungs, un-nerved the rebels utterly and they flung their spears away and fled as fast as their legs could carry them.

  “They’re running!” Thetos exclaimed. “Run down those worthless peasants!”

  His bodyguard charged in a wide line, swords rising and falling, leaving bloodied shapes lying in the snow in their wake. Anfos Duras screamed in terror and flung himself to the ground as a dark shape loomed above him, and a steel point pressed against his back. “Get up you eater of dung,” Thetos snarled.

  The spearmen came crowding round and Duras was hauled to his feet, ice crystals smothering his hair, eyebrows and mouth. He gibbered in terror. “Please spare me!”

  “Spare you?” Thetos roared, “why in Kastan should I do that? You raised the standard of revolt, and threatened to cut off food supplies to my city! You miserable wretch, I ought to remove your manhood and march round Turslenka with it on a pole!”

  The survivors had been rounded up, all weapon less and looking cold, frightened and small, and the well-clad imperial troops roughly dragged them to the edge of the cliff. By the time they got there the casualty list had been presented to Thetos. He’d lost forty-eight men; nineteen from company one and twenty-nine from company two. Duras’ force had lost over a hundred and twenty dead and nearly that number taken prisoner.

  Theros dismounted and strode slowly to the shivering Anfos Duras, held securely by two hefty spearmen. “You pox-ridden gutter dweller; nearly fifty of my best men are dead. Fifty! All because you defied the emperor. Don’t you understand we’re sick to death of your kind and your family? We don’t want you Duras back in power again. Ever!” He grabbed the squirming Duras by the neck and lifted him up. The spearmen let go and backed off.

  Thetos twisted his face into a mask of hatred. “Good men have fought and died to preserve the safe lives of the good citizens of Kastan, and you would have had them starve. Well, Duras, go to the flames of damnation!” With that, he flung the sobbing man off the cliff edge and watched as he plunged with a scream to his death at the rock-strewn bottom.

  Thetos slowly turned and surveyed the remnants of Duras’ army. “And as for you……”

  “Please lord,” one of the men, probably a squad leader but wearing no insignia to denote it, fell to his knees. “We were foolish and listened to the Duras lies. Spare us, lord; we will serve Kastania loyally!”

  Thetos looked along the line of frightened men. He had considered having them all hung from poles along the cliff top as a gruesome reminder to anyone else who was thinking of rebelling what their fate would be, but seeing these wretched men now made him lose the stomach for further bloodshed. He was just angry at the futility of it all. “You will serve Kastania well. Yes, very well. Makenia needs good workers to produce its wealth. We are fortunate in that in our province we have two mines. The sulphur mines need a constant stream of men to work it. You will go there as punishment for your folly! Take them away.”

  The soldiers grabbed the snivelling prisoners and dragged them off the hill. They would be taken to Turslenka and bound together and then marched by road to the sulphur mines. Undoubtedly within ten years all would be dead; either worked to death or killed by inhaling the thick, cloying dust that covered everything there.

  The dead on the battlefield were the lucky ones.

  Winning a battle is not the end of matters. The imperial dead were brought back for a decent burial and mourning by their loved ones; the rebels were piled together, covered in oil and set alight. Nobody cared for them. Thetos wearily collapsed into his chair back in his office and called for his body slave to attend his needs. He’d picked up the slave during his time in Bragal before being wounded. She was Bragalese and had no morals and fewer cares than that. Thetos didn’t give a damn that slavery was officially banned in Kastan; he needed care and attention and demanded it. So the slave, a woman whose original name had been too difficult for him to pronounce had been re-named as Metila. Metila cared not. She was of use here and lived in luxury and had food, a roof and safety, none of which had been guaranteed in Bragal. So what if she had to pleasure this ugly, fat, rude and loud man? He had strength and power, both of which were respected in Bragal, so she had been drawn to him anyway.

  He had tried to humiliate her at first, using his size and strength to dominate her, but to his amazement and frustration, she had enthusiastically gone along with it, and, moreover, demanded more. He had become more outrageous and imaginative, but she had always taken to each new humiliation with delight. Finally Thetos had accepted the inevitable and bound her to him, having her branded with his initials.

  Metila always made herself available and Thetos usually ordered that nobody was permitted into his quarters when she was there. Visitors would not be amused if they were allowed in to find the short, lithe, dark haired and dark skinned Bragalese woman performing some extremely kinky act with the governor. Anything went; ropes, thongs, whips. Pain was a normal part of their everyday life, as was the letting of blood, and Thetos had grown to like the way she lapped up his bleeding wounds after a brutal bout of sex. She was not human. She was animal.

  “You want?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the desk, wearing nothing under her short dress. She had no care in the world in parading herself to him. She always made sure, however, that the room temperature was acceptable enough to do that. Winter could be really cold in Makenia and so she always had the fires stoked up nicely.

  Thetos grunted. He had frustration to blow off. “Soon, you Bragalese whore. First I must write a report to the emperor.”

  “Battle good?”

  “Battle damned bad! Stupid people wasted my time and killed good men.”

  “Kill them all,” Metila said. “You strong man; you win battle.”

  “Yes, I won the battle,” Thetos said with a smile. “And then I shall beat you.”

  “Yes, you beat me hard. Make me passionate. You know how. Nobody else know. They stupi
d.”

  “Yes. Remember that, my Bragalese witch. Now get me food and a drink. I hunger.”

  Metila stood up, standing above him showing her lean, feline-like body to him. “You always hungry. I get. Then we do love. I want.”

  “Yes, you witch. I’ll do that, but only after I eat. Now go!”

  Metila snarled at him, running her tongue over her teeth. She slid off the desk, and vanished out into the passageway. Thetos drew in a deep breath and looked at the clean sheet on his desk. Astiras always liked reports neat, concise and without any flowery prose. Just the way he wrote. At least the danger to Turslenka and Astiras’ army had been removed. He would send the report off before eating, then he would see to Metila. He wondered about her sometimes. Witches were something of a legend, a tale to frighten children. But there had been tales of witches in Bragal for many years and he had suspicions that she performed ritualistic rites in the secrecy of her own quarters. They were full of odd symbols and herbs.

  She did use some herbs in his food and drink which aroused him mightily. He had no idea what they were but by the gods it gave him energy and staying power. Metila sometimes used them herself, and it made her a woman possessed. He wondered whether she would partake this evening. If so he’d best have some medicine handy. He often had deep wounds afterwards.

  With a deep sigh he got down to writing to Astiras. Before he got distracted.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Argan heard that Amne had got back to the palace during his afternoon sword practice with Panat Afos. Vosgaris stuck his head through a doorway and called out that Amne was back and Argan whooped in delight, throwing down his sword and running like a demented herd-beast for the open door, narrowly avoiding trampling Vosgaris in his haste to see her. Panat was left bemused in mid-strike, hoping to show Argan a classic parry.

  “Tactical retreat, shall we say, Panat?” Vosgaris grinned.

  Panat shook his head in exasperation and nodded. The rest of the day would be a waste of time, so he called to Kerrin who had been practicing with a swing-weight. “Princess Amne has returned, Kerrin.”

  “Princess Amne, father? Argan’s older sister?”

  “Yes. She’s been away in Bragal and Valchia these past couple of years.”

  “Oh yes, Argan told me about her a few times; she’s back? Will we see her?”

  “I expect so. There will be a banquet. If you ask Argan nicely perhaps he could get us places at the table?”

  Kerrin clapped his hands in delight. “Oh that would be great, father!”

  Argan barrelled along passageways, shouting out his sister’s name. Servants scattered like waves before the prow of a ship in full sail. Argan’s progress was pursued by an increasingly anxious Vosgaris. The young man was getting faster! Soon he would be hard pressed to keep up with him! Argan’s headlong dash through the passageways of the palace came to a stop as he rounded a corner and almost crashed into a knot of people walking towards him. Amne was in the centre, still wearing her riding outfit, and Isbel was on one side with a group of other people on the other and behind.

  “Amne!” Argan shouted and leapt at the surprised woman. He threw his arms about her and clamped his legs behind her waist. Vosgaris rounded the corner, red-faced, and came to a sudden halt, seeing a tangle of arms in front of him and the empresses’ disapproving look.

  Amne held onto Argan, bracing herself against her younger brother’s weight. She hugged him, then encouraged him to get off her. Isbel was fussing, tutting mightily at Argan’s over exuberant display of affection. “Well, Argan, let me look at you,” Amne said, a pleased look on her face.

  Argan stepped back obediently and stood, his hands behind his back, looking up at her. Amne noted he was no longer at waist height. It wouldn’t be too many years before he was taller. “Your skin is dirty!” Argan exclaimed.

  Amne laughed. Isbel looked outraged. The palace staff kept up a neutral look. “Argan!” Isbel scolded him, “that’s rude! Apologise to Amne at once.”

  “It’s alright, mother,” Amne dismissed it as of no consequence, which in fact it was. “Argan, this is not dirt, it’s the sun. My skin is darker for being outside all this time. You should have seen me in the summer; it was much darker then!”

  Argan looked interested. “What are those spots on your face?”

  Amne stroked her face, puzzled. “Mother?”

  Isbel took in a deep breath. “Freckles, Argan. The skin sometimes does that, especially if the person is like Amne and has pale skin normally. Don’t worry, this will fade in time now Amne’s back in the palace.”

  “Don’t think I’m going to hide away inside all the time, mother,” Amne said. “I’ve got a taste for the outdoors.”

  “We’ll talk about that, Amne,” Isbel said ominously.

  Argan grinned widely. “I’m happy you’re back at last! You’re not going to go away again, are you?”

  “Not in a while, Argan. You and I have got a lot to talk about and catch up with each other. You’ve grown! What about Istan?”

  “He’s a greedy porcine,” Argan said.

  “Argan!” Isbel snapped.

  Argan hung his head, red staining his cheeks. Amne giggled behind her hand. “Oh, Argan, you’re just the same as I remember. We must talk about what you’ve been doing.”

  “Yes, Amne. Where did you go? You must show me on the map!”

  “The map? You mean in the Council Chamber? You’ve been in there?”

  “He attended a Council session when the Fokis challenged your father.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “It was scary,” Argan said before Isbel could open her mouth. “Lots of shouting!”

  “Argan. You must let Amne settle back in. We will have a big celebration dinner this evening for Amne’s return. You can speak to her after that. She’s tired and has travelled a long way. I’ve got lots to speak to her about first, important things, Argan. Now you go back to your lessons. Captain, make sure he gets there.”

  Argan pouted at his mother. “Grown up boring things,” he mumbled.

  “What was that?”

  “Yes, mother,” Argan said, swinging about and marching stiffly past Vosgaris towards the corridor junction. Amne was shaking in mirth, trying to hold onto her sides. Isbel looked decidedly unamused.

  “Ma’am, Princess,” Vosgaris said and withdrew, hot on the heels of his young charge.

  “Don’t encourage him, Amne. He gets too full of himself at times.”

  “Oh, mother, don’t be fussy! He’s a bright lad, and very amusing. I’d forgotten just how much he makes me smile. We need people like that in a morgue like this.”

  “Morgue?” Isbel was outraged.

  “Yes, mother. Morgue. I wouldn’t be surprised if a law had been passed banning laughter. It can be so dreadfully depressing at times living here. Everyone’s far too serious!”

  Isbel indicated Amne to carry on up the wide staircase that opened out in front of them. “Seriousness is the order of the day here, Amne. We face serious times and levity won’t help.”

  “I’ve seen seriousness outside in Bragal, mother. I’ve seen people enslaved and sold at auction. I’ve seen death, starvation, war, famine. Compared to that you’ve got it easy here. So don’t lecture me about seriousness.”

  “Let’s get to your room before we continue this, Amne.”

  Amne nodded and they got to her room on the first floor. Two young women entered the room with Amne and Isbel while two men, one of whom was Lalaas, stood outside on guard. The two other palace staff went to their offices to write the diary and to arrange the banquet for the evening.

  “Who are these two, mother?” Amne looked at the two young women. One was tall, thin and blue eyed while the other shorter, more voluptuous and dark haired.

  “Your handmaidens. This is Selana,” Isbel indicated the tall one, “and this is Kiri.”

  Amne thought for a moment. “Mother, I’ve learned to be self-sufficient over these past co
uple of years. You won’t believe what I can do for myself now.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Isbel replied coolly, “if what your father tells me is true. It was interesting reading, I can tell you. But you’re a princess, and have to look your best at all times. Flouncing around in riding gear isn’t what I call your best.”

  “I am going to ride in Kastan, mother, so don’t try to stop me. Very well, these two can be my handmaidens, but I’m no longer a pampered doll. I can do quite a lot myself.”

  “Nevertheless, Amne, you are to keep up the appearance of being a member of the imperial House. And I’ve arranged for your future husband to attend the banquet this evening.”

  Amne affected a look of surprise. “Have you now? And who else have you invited? Priests, governors? Foreign dignitaries?”

  “Don’t be flippant, Amne!”

  “Mother, if I’m to be an object of curiosity, then please let me know before you plan anything whom you intend inviting. I have a say in matters here, too.”

  “Your father mentioned this new defiant streak; I care for it not.”

  “Get used to it, mother,” Amne said, peeling off her riding top and throwing it onto the four-posted bed in the chamber. “Oh, wonderful!” she said, seeing it properly for the first time. “I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to sleep in one of these!”

  Isbel waved her hand at Selana. The servant picked up the jacket. It smelt of equine and sweat. She held it away from her face. Amne loosened her belt and wriggled out of her trousers, kicking them off. “Amne, I am talking to you,” Isbel said with great restraint.

  “And I’m listening, mother. Living here isn’t doing you any good; you’ve become awfully stuffy. This place badly needs some cheer and colour to spice it up.”

  “I don’t need your comments, thank you, Amne. You’re to meet your future husband tonight and I trust you’ll behave in a manner proper to your social position. We do not want you acting as if you’re out in the wilds of Bragal or wherever. What would the Pelgion family think, for Kastan’s sake?”