The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘A sign no doubt, of a perfect harmonization within you,’ concluded Xaphia.

  The image of her, still wearing a bloodied surgical apron and mask, was not a warming sight for Marcus. However the implication of this news was stimulating.

  ‘Indeed. Much credit to your tireless efforts Xaphia,’ said Gaius with a brief nod.

  ‘How long have I been out?’ Marcus inquired, slowly testing the movement of his shoulders.

  ‘Days,’ Gaius said, his smile fading to seriousness. ‘Though your healing was much quicker than planned, it has still been too long for my liking. The Praetorians are searching these catacombs with startling pace and shall discover this place soon enough. If you are able, we must be away.’

  ‘And how goes the plan?’ Marcus asked as he slid to the edge of the surgery table, testing the strength of his legs. With unhurried care, Xaphia began removing the various tubes and needles from his body as he did so.

  Gaius briefly gazed up at the reinforced concrete roof as if he could see through to the city above, still hearing the bells that had sounded days before.

  ‘The Senate has launched a full inquiry of all members of the aristocracy. As custodian, Elder Liberius leads the investigation whilst the Praetorians are his bloodhounds. He has made it clear no one is above suspicion. All those who were privy to the artefact’s location, myself included, have been marked – though of course no evidence has yet to be found.’

  ‘What of my absence father, has it been noticed by anyone in the Senate?’ asked Marcus, cautiously.

  ‘As far as anyone knows, you have been at home in Ultor saying your goodbyes to the family estate, readying for your journey here and the formal entering of public life,’ Gaius said with a comforting smile. ‘Though I fear Liberius may even extend his suspicions to uninitiated members such as yourself before long.’

  Standing on his feet again and confident of his balance, Marcus reached for the robes handed to him by Xaphia. After quickly pulling them on, he turned to his father.

  ‘Then let us be away.’

  ***

  Xaphia watched her new master rise from the operating table on renewed limbs, noticing his natural swagger return with more confidence in each step. The days in surgery grafting the Spolia Opima to the young master’s frame had been arduous.

  The process of implanting the living metal of such an artefact had required meticulous care on her behalf and had been painstakingly slow because of it. Now the surgery and its proper rites were complete, she too could finally have some rest.

  Her new master was a curious one; he carried himself with the same air of duty as his father and yet somehow his stride was now greater.

  Though none could see, Xaphia’s grey lips smiled beneath her surgical mask as she thought of the next stage in the humans’ coup.

  ***

  Just three days later, Marcus knelt on the marble floor before the head priests. The movement was no longer painful after an unnaturally quick recovery since leaving the surgery theatre. The healing power of the Spolia Opima was nothing short of miraculous and Marcus had often found himself marvelling at his altered physiology. Since leaving the depths of the catacombs, the pain was gone and his muscles now moved freely, feeling stronger than ever. Most surprisingly, he bore no marks of the surgery. When he had eventually removed the other bandages from his chest, arms and legs, he found only perfect skin. Not a single scar from the surgery. Even those from wounds he had suffered in his years fighting in the legions had reduced, much to his amazement.

  The device truly was a blessing of the gods. But that only lead Marcus to realise he had been transformed into something more than human. The limitations of age and the flesh that enslaved ordinary men had somehow been surpassed by the device’s arcane power. He had survived the process and come out greater than any other.

  The gods had blessed him and for that, it was only right that he should honour them by committing his new strength to better Arcem – the nation favoured by their grace. No less could be expected from the son of a great house.

  And so, Marcus knelt. Commencing the rites into the next chapter of his life, as all sons of upper nobility did once of age. Under the scrutiny of the temple priests Marcus presented himself to be judged worthy.

  In the centre of the foremost altar room of the great temple, a room reserved for grand sacrifices and the ceremonies of Arcem’s elite, the observance took place. Seven priests, the sacred number of Taranis, surrounded the kneeling Marcus.

  Beneath the hoods of their purple robes each was a hunched old man, wizened by the lifetime of devotion required to attain their senior rank in the veneration of Arcem’s principal god. Raised to the College of Pontiffs they were the masters of faith, diviners of omens and powerful beyond measure. Commoner or nobleman, no man in Arcem could go against their judgement. A general would not march to war nor would a family move house without their blessing. It was these priests that consecrated the Senate house each year and it was they who guided the spirituality of the nation. Though they led the religious facet of the Republic and the Senate led the political, in Arcem the two institutions were often inseparable. The Senate was holy and the priests were political – a fact the commoners often failed to realise. Any position in one institution frequently became a stepping stone into the other. In Arcem the decree of either institution was law.

  Behind the pontiffs, gilded braziers crackled as they burned sanctified incense and filled the altar room with their fragranced smoke. Somewhere further back would be standing a crowd of permitted onlookers from the aristocracy to witness the ceremony. His father would be among them, though Marcus was too preoccupied in making sure he did not falter to turn around and look.

  Though he knew every part of the ritual, he could not shake the lingering sense of anxiety. Even the smallest of mistakes could be taken as an ill omen and give the pontiffs an excuse to deny him. Marcus prayed that did not happen. All would be ruined if it did: his career, his father’s plan and the family name would be dishonoured. It would be the talk of the entire city. He could not fail.

  ‘Citizen,’ said a voice from among the pontiffs. Beneath their hoods Marcus could not be sure which priest had spoken. ‘You come to the most holy of places to receive our blessings. Speak now if you come with any stain upon your honour or crime against our laws.’

  Marcus held his tongue.

  ‘You know the laws and the penalty for any falsehood?’ said the voice.

  ‘I come before the gods pure in name,’ Marcus lied.

  One of the priests broke step from the circle around him to stand before Marcus. From the gold trimmings of the man’s robes Marcus could tell this was the Pontifex Maximus – the chief priest of the temple. It would be this man to lead the rite.

  ‘Almighty Taranis,’ said the Pontifex, raising his hands high to the domed roof soaring above them. The six other priests bowed their heads and upturned their hands in identical fashion.

  ‘Father of the gods and Ruler of the Heavens, we pray you look upon this boy,’ the Pontifex continued.

  ‘Marcus Valerius,’ said Marcus loudly, recognising his part.

  The chief priest looked down at him but Marcus did not shirk and continued to stare at the altar straight ahead. From the shadows of his hood the priest’s hawkish features searched for weakness. Marcus stayed composed, revealing no sign of the fear that churned in his stomach. He prayed the man could not see the faint silver lines of the alien metal beneath his skin. It would only have been a second but it felt like an age beneath the priest’s piercing gaze.

  ‘Son of the Valerii, descendant of noble Romanus and citizen of Monarx; the hallowed city founded in your honour, look upon him with good fortune,’ said the man finally.

  The chief priest turned away and walked to the altar where a great bull lay dead, its throat sliced earlier that morning for the ritual’s sacrifice.

  The Pontifex reached out and collected a bowl into which the blood from the altar had been dr
ained. He then bowed to the great statue of Taranis behind the altar. Seated on a golden throne, clutching bolts of lightning to his chest in one hand and a spear in the other, the marble deity towered above all.

  The Pontifex returned to his position before Marcus.

  Dipping his hand into the bowl, the chief priest smeared a line of blood down Marcus’ face from his forehead. The sticky red liquid was still warm and ran down his nose, dripping to the floor. It was meant to symbolise rebirth but also bind him to his oaths, for there was nothing more binding than blood.

  ‘Bless him with honour,’ said the Pontifex loudly.

  ‘May his deeds be worthy to carry the legacy of our ancestors,’ intoned the six surrounding pontiffs.

  ‘Bless him with courage,’ the Pontifex continued.

  ‘May he not shirk from his duties to the sacred Republic,’ the pontiffs said as one.

  ‘Bless him with strength.’

  ‘May he safeguard the Senate and its peoples,’ the pontiffs said before raising their hooded heads to see the kneeling candidate.

  ‘Let the gods smile upon him and his enemies quiver in fear. Look upon him, for now stands a man of Arcem,’ said the Pontifex.

  Marcus stood as instructed, the sacred words having been sworn upon him. But it was the next part that would be most important to hear, for it would define the rest of his life. The Pontifex was about to name him.

  ‘Behold, Marcus Valerius Corvinus, Senator of Monarx,’ the Pontifex proclaimed.

  ‘May the Chronicles remember his name,’ concluded the six pontiffs.

  And with that Marcus ceased to be, he would henceforth be known as Corvinus to all but his family. Corvinus – no doubt in homage to his father, Gaius Valerius, The Corvus.

  It was an unofficial third name, a popular convention used by the commoners to recognise Gaius’ past military exploits. Technically, he had never formally received the rites of ascension into the upper nobility, a fact some of the older aristocratic families still begrudged. But they were few in number and largely kept quiet about their grievances. It was a rare thing for a common soldier to rise through the ranks into politics, to become Tribune of the People and then elected Consul of Arcem, mustering enough loyalty among the lower classes to overcome the priority votes of the aristocracy. In the face of such popular support the older gentry were wise enough to not to force the issue.

  It remained a source of pride for the family. The rise of the Valerii was unprecedented in Arcemite history, from commoners to consuls within a single generation. Now with today’s initiation, their name would be firmly secured among the nobility. No one could doubt their legitimacy now.

  The altar room echoed with the applause of those looking on. With the ceremony complete, Corvinus turned to see the crowd. His father and several of his supportive aristocrats were there, each congratulating him as a newly promoted senator to their ranks.

  Corvinus smiled.

  The Temple of Taranis was the largest single structure in Monarx besides the inner citadel. An awe-inspiring construction of marble and gold venerating the principal god of Arcem, its gleaming height could be seen all throughout the city. Supporting its great domed roof, immense stone columns lined its exterior, each as wide as a man was long. Engraved on these pillars were the various scenes of Arcem’s proud history.

  A marvel of engineering, raised on a world that had been utterly devastated four centuries before, it was a colossal feat and as much a triumph as the history depicted on its pillars.

  Testament to the power and magnificence of Arcem, the Temple of Taranis filled its citizens with pride and symbolised their standing in the world. Its sight embodied the Arcemite spirit which had driven its ever-expanding dominance over the many enemies surrounding its lands. When foreign diplomats witnessed such imposing sights, few could help but feel a sense of admiration and fear. For surely any people capable of building such monuments were not to be crossed lightly. Rivalling even the Great Pyramids of Syphax, it truly was the envy of every foreign king and city on Tumultus.

  Exiting the temple’s great bronze doors, Gaius and Marcus Valerius, father and son, began their walk across the city Forum and the busy streets of Monarx towards the Senate house. The Forum was always a place buzzing with activity. Its expanse was the preferred meeting place for business or a leisurely stroll. Old men sat on the temple steps lining one side of the plaza and debated anything from politics to the weather while market stalls lined the opposite. In the centre of the Forum was a stage used for public trials and executions and though it stood vacant that day, it became clear to the two senators that the Forum was particularly lively as they walked its length. The unusual warmth of the autumn day had brought out the citizens of Monarx. Its streets were filled with chatter. The shouts of vendors going about business and the gossiping of those passing by mixed into a hive of activity.

  Among the commotion could be heard the tongue of countless peoples, for Arcem’s great city attracted merchants from all across civilised Tumultus. Almost anything could be found in Monarx. The gems and spices from Syphax to the south, fabrics from the free cities of Eous in the east, even horses from beyond the Great Plains. The wonderful blend of cultures and trade in Monarx created a place like no other on Tumultus.

  Corvinus looked around, enjoying the feel of his newly bequeathed toga against his skin. He hoped in time he too could have the purple stripe of the consulship sewn into its fabric like his father beside him.

  The noon sun shone down on them vibrantly as if pleased from their sacrifices in the temple that morning. It was impossible to be anything but cheerful in such a bright atmosphere. Together they walked tall, feeling like kings.

  Corvinus smiled, the lingering fear of their treachery being discovered easily forgotten. Today was his day and he would remember it.

  ‘Looks like the plebs are out in droves today,’ he said, chuckling.

  His father paused in his step, looking his son in the eye. ‘Be careful in your judgements. You may have been raised to manhood among the legion camps and I take responsibility for that after the loss of your dear mother, but this is the capital now and you have much to learn about politics besides soldiery.’ Gaius warned. ‘What are our words?’

  ‘The People. Family. The Gods.’ Corvinus answered.

  ‘Exactly. In that order do our allegiances lie,’ Gaius said, nodding. ‘Do not forget your roots. Our family may be honoured now but we had no name before me, never forget that. We have neither the benefit of wealth nor lineage to allow ourselves to become complacent like the other noble houses. These citizens are not simple plebs, they are your people and their favour is the truest ally you can have as a senator, always remember that.’

  ‘I will father, apologies.’

  Seeing his embarrassment, Gaius put his arm around his son. ‘Do not worry Marcus, this is your day after all. Or should I say Corvinus?’ he said, ruffling his son’s hair as if he were a boy.

  ‘Seeing as we are in public you would do well to address me as Senator Corvinus, thank you very much,’ said Corvinus, throwing his father off with a playful push.

  ‘Senator Corvinus? I quite like the sound of that, doubtless it’s because you’re named after a great man. The Corvus, Saviour of Parum, Defender of Cras,’ said his father, posing like a conquering hero to be sculpted in Victory Square.

  Corvinus laughed at his father’s antics, for they were rare these days. The severity of their plans had not allowed them.

  It was not long before his father also joined in laughing and the two resumed their walk along the busy street.

  All throughout their journey an accompaniment of Praetorian Guards had led the way and kept the bustle of the city from disturbing the two senators.

  When these soldiers were not listed to garrison the citadel and Monarx’s other sacred places they were allocated as bodyguards to senators – though some members of the nobility preferred to use their own men.

  Rendered identical beneath their
full-face helms and furthered by oaths of secrecy, the Praetorians were founded to be incorruptible. No one knew their identities save for Atratus their leader and as each was constantly rotated between different politicians, no bond of allegiance could befall one to a single master other than the Senate itself. Not that their charge would notice the rotation take place due to the uncanny uniformity of each guard.

  Fourteen in all escorted Corvinus and his father; ensuring citizens gave their senators the proper respect and safe passage through the crowds. Two Praetorians had been allocated to Corvinus from the Temple garrison and the other twelve assigned to his father due to his rank.

  Having the Praetorians so close was quite unnerving for Corvinus, as they were after all the men hunting those responsible for the theft of the Spolia Opima. Corvinus briefly glanced at one of the armoured guards. Had they realised the men they were looking for were right beside them, Corvinus and his father would be cut to ribbons in seconds. The thought did not sit well with him, but as his father had often said; we cannot be seen to have anything to hide so we must use their services. Besides, they made for a far more dramatic show of status compared to the city’s merchant and criminal bosses that also walked the street with their guards.

  More than once Corvinus noticed the interest of traders divert his way as he passed their stalls. Though some citizens smiled and waved, recognising the two senators, most of the attention was for his father.

  Bands of small children also followed their procession through the crowds, more interested in the armed soldiers by their side. Weaving through the bystanders they ran to better glimpse the hallowed Praetorian Guard, the elite defenders of Arcem, the legendary First Legion. These fascinated children soon gave up chase however, disappointed as the guards paid them no heed. To the Praetorians, duty was everything and they led the way with all seriousness.

  If they were uncomfortable in the press of bodies and heat beneath their splendid armour and long white cloaks they did not show it. The Praetorians were as stoic as the helms that masked their faces.