The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

‘You did that well son,’ said Gaius Valerius, watching his co-consul go. They let the lingering senators depart from earshot before commencing to walk outside towards the emptying courtyard of Victory Square, below the steps of the Senate house. ‘He used to carry the backing of two legions but unbeknownst to him, the Syphaxan legion he has worked so hard in securing as allies have already turned against him.’

  ‘How is that possible? He effectively secured the Syphaxan levy legion when he betrothed his daughter to Prince Hannibal,’ said Corvinus.

  ‘That is true, but I found something the Prince of Syphax valued more,’ said Gaius. ‘I am positioning the Syphaxan legion against that of my fellow consul, but nevertheless, Zeno is not to be underestimated. Old as he is, it is wise to remember the man still holds tremendous power in Arcem. He is a symbol of the Republic to those stark supporters of the Senate and shall no doubt lead the resistance against us. After all, his legion did not earn the name Ironclad by sitting idle in times of tyranny.’

  All in Arcem knew the story of how the young Zeno and his legion had earned their name on the fields of Campus Ferrum. Twenty-six years ago, he had stood with a single legion and defeated those of the tyrant dictator, Julius Terra.

  ‘It saddens me to know that he will never yield his support to our plans and will likely not survive because if it,’ said Gaius, shaking his head. ‘But that is the least of our troubles, for now we must rectify the consequences of your actions.’

  ‘My actions, what could you possibly mean by that?’ Corvinus halted, clearly taken aback.

  Gaius leant forward, gripping his son by the arm. ‘Now the congratulations are dispensed with, we have serious work to do. While the feat of your accomplishment remains impressive, you have put our plans at great disadvantage,’ he said sternly. ‘Did you not receive my letter? Your orders were clear; remain defensive, stand by and let the other legions do the hard work.’

  ‘Your words were late, by the time I received them I was already victorious in the field.’ Corvinus snapped, ‘I then proceeded as I thought was best.’

  ‘You proceeded according to your ego. Did you ever stop to think how you might impact my plans?’ Gaius asked, releasing his son’s arm. ‘The Gaur Mons is one thing, but marching north to Caldinium has disrupted everything. Our legions have suffered more casualties than expected and we have lost crucial time. We will struggle now we have twice the distance between our legions and the capital with winter already setting in. The prospect of achieving surprise for a quick and bloodless victory is now at risk.’

  The moment dragged on in silence and Gaius felt it grate at his patience as he locked gaze with his headstrong son. Finally, Corvinus bowed his head, breaking their stare. ‘I am sorry father, I did not think,’ he admitted.

  Gaius sighed.

  ‘Do not be distraught, I am also to blame,’ he whispered, lifting his son’s head. ‘I raised you on the tales of Romanus the Great, to be unrelenting in the field, and bold in command, but you need to be smarter if you are to succeed me one day. You must lead with your head, both on and off the battlefield. There will be time enough for glory afterwards, but now more than ever we cannot afford to be reckless.’

  ‘Yes, father,’ said Corvinus, as they continued in their walk across Victory Square. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I have already sent orders to recall the Fourth Legion from Caldinium to Ultor, under the guise of hunting some surviving Evastii still roaming the Arctos Mountains. That should get them close enough to regain the head start we need to march on Monarx.’ Gaius said, his usual calm demeanour already returning. ‘I do not want to draw too much attention so I shall send for your legion to head south in a few days. That is, if I can trust your legion in this?’

  ‘Indeed, the campaign against the Evastii has surely cemented the bonds between us, with spoils enough to sweeten the deal.’ Corvinus smiled. ‘The men of the Third are from Ultor, the same as yours, I believe they would follow us in anything. You in particular are their inspiration – the man who rose from the lowest of ranks to become consul, they know you to be honourable and a true son of Ultor. Yes, they would choose our family over orders from aristocrats here in Monarx.’

  ‘When the time comes, remind them we plan to outmanoeuvre those loyal to the Senate in a bloodless transition,’ said Gaius. ‘That should ease the weight off their consciences.’

  ‘I shall, but I must admit I have more doubts regarding those not from Ultor,’ said Corvinus, hesitantly.

  ‘You speak of your new tribune, Bantius is that his name?’ asked Gaius.

  ‘No, Bantius is little more than a glory hunter, he can be depended on if the spoils are enough to satisfy his ambition,’ said Corvinus, ‘I worry more about Tribune Fulvio. He is too conceited to be trusted-’

  ‘Like your man Bantius, Fulvio can be trusted because of his vanity – we just have to offer him the right price,’ said Gaius. ‘What’s more, we need him; Fulvio is a Tarquin and as such he carries a name that would lend great weight to our cause. While it’s true my name has the support of the lower classes, Fulvio’s can sway the aristocracy into acceptance. Whether we like it or not, we must risk his involvement. I’ll send word to him, offering the consulship and commercial rights to any trade monopoly he desires. That should be generous enough to buy a Tarquin.’

  ***

  The trickle of a water fountain was the only sound to be heard in the private garden. A small square of serenity between cobblestone walls riddled with vines, few people enjoyed such tranquil luxuries in a city so hard pressed for living space. Only the upper-class district on Septem Hill could boast such treasures within the walled confines of Monarx, which was perhaps the reason Octavia enjoyed it so much. The stillness of the place was poignant and a perfect spot to catch the afternoon sun. It functioned as both an area to entertain guests and a private retreat from the bustle of the streets.

  ‘Domina,’ a slave whispered to her. They were always careful when waking the mistress of the house from her rest. Octavia sat up off the couch to see the bald head of the doorman as he bowed his apologies.

  ‘What is it, Teos?’ she said.

  ‘Domina, forgive me but there is a messenger at the door. He comes on the behalf of Decius Hannibal Barca, my lady.’

  ‘Hannibal? The ambassador of Syphax?’ said Octavia, puzzled at the irregularity of it all. She supposed her husband must have been busy making new friends in the Senate.

  ‘That is what he said,’ answered Teos.

  ‘Show him in. I shall be with you shortly.’

  The house slave bowed again and turned to welcome the messenger inside.

  In the absence of her husband, Octavia stood in the atrium as lady of the house to formally receive her guest.

  The messenger – a tall man, bronzed from the desert sun – entered through the large wooden doors of the estate. Octavia could see the man’s well sculpted muscles beneath his loose, cream robes trimmed with gold. She smiled, knowing a soldier when she saw one. Like all the Syphaxan men Octavia had seen, the man’s head was completely shaved and he stood a foot taller than any Arcemite.

  The messenger looked down at Octavia, meeting her gaze, but she quickly forgot the impoliteness of it as she found herself distracted by the man’s enticing emerald green eyes, exotic and mysterious like his ancient homeland.

  ‘Lady Valerius. I am Sejanus Hathor. My master, the Prince of Syphax and General of the Thirteenth Legion bid me to pass on his greetings,’ said the messenger with a courteous bow. His accent was rich and inviting, so much so that Octavia had to consciously focus on her duties as hostess of her husband’s house.

  ‘It is welcomed,’ Octavia said with a polite nod. ‘To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?’

  ‘On behalf of my master and that of Syphax, I offer your noble house congratulations,’ said the messenger, offering out a small, polished bronze chest. Teos approached the man and accepted the gift. He walked it over to Octavia and carefully opened its lid.
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  ‘A small token of our friendship, in honour of your husband’s great victory and of those yet to come, we hope,’ the Syphaxan continued.

  Octavia, keeping to formalities, tried not to reveal her surprise as Teos opened the box.

  Inside sat a crown. A simple but elegant band of gold, engraved with ancient hieroglyphs around its length and studded with a large Syphaxan ruby in the crest. Octavia smiled at her reflection in the polished stone, wondering how expensive it was.

  It was common custom in Arcemite politics for ranking senators to receive gifts from those seeking their patronage. With Corvinus so early in his public career there had been few such favours – and mere trinkets at that – but this was markedly different and by far the most lavish of the gifts she had received since his victory on the Gaur Mons. Octavia could not help but wonder what made the Syphaxans so interested in the campaigns against the Evastii to bestow such finery.

  ‘Your master is very generous,’ she said at last, taking the chest from Teos. ‘Be sure to return our gratitude and tell Prince Hannibal that he may be confident my husband’s friendship will surely continue.’

  The Syphaxan bowed again and smiled, evidently pleased.

  ‘By your leave,’ he said before turning back towards the doors.

  Octavia watched as Teos escorted the messenger outside to the street. With the Syphaxan’s gift in her hands, she walked back to her garden to enjoy the last of the afternoon sun. Once there, she made sure no one was around and in the privacy of her walled garden, Octavia opened the box again. The crown glinted in the sun as she picked it up and placed it on her head.

  It was heavier than she expected and cool against her forehead. The feeling of its metal on her skin sent a shiver through her body.

  ‘Not long now,’ she smiled, placing the crown back in its chest.

  My husband must be very busy making friends indeed, she thought, wondering when Corvinus would return home again.

  ***

  First Centurion Victor Kaeso sat on a couch by the fireplace and suffered another night of his friend’s ranting. Past experience had taught him not to interrupt. Better to let the tribune vent his temper before trying to talk. But Fulvio had been at it now for some time already and did not look likely to finish anytime soon. The honours bestowed in the Senate assembly that day remained fresh insults in his mind.

  ‘Vicious upstarts, the lot of them!’ raged Fulvio, as he paced the black marble floor of his mansion’s inner chamber. His usually well-oiled hair hung loosely over his eyes in untidy curls and his face was tinged red from the expensive wine with which he had tried to drown his anger.

  Kaeso sat up and helped himself to the amphora of wine from the side table, hoping that another drink might pass the time and put some warmth back into him. The winter night’s chill had crept into the large room of Fulvio’s mansion, though the tribune did not seem to notice in his raving. The room’s grand fireplace had ceased to give off any heat, its blaze long since reduced to smouldering embers which cast a sinister glow across the darkness of the chamber. Kaeso wished he had thought to have the slaves restock its flames before dismissing them when the hours had turned their conversation towards more sensitive political discussions.

  Although the house slaves knew the cruel fate that awaited those caught spying, Fulvio was always cautious, even in his moods. The tribune had several agents close to other senators; it was only natural to suspect that they had the same.

  ‘How dare the Senate bend to them like sycophants? I swear someone should overthrow these pathetic old men and rid ourselves of the Senate. Weak, spineless cowards, we’d be better without them,’ said Fulvio, his bile rising. He took a large gulp of his wine, downing the expensive vintage as if it were tasteless water. ‘Republic they say? What a bad joke. As if the plebs know what is best for them. Let them have their way and we end up with people like that brat Corvinus being crowned the Sword of Arcem!’

  The tribune flung his wine goblet across the room in anger. Kaeso heard it smash into the far wall somewhere in the shadows behind him.

  ‘Unsettling as it is, the boy did earn the title in accordance with the Chronicles,’ he said delicately. ‘I saw the young general charge Ariogaisus myself.’

  Fulvio’s upper lip curled in response, as if sick at the idea. The tribune spat on the searing coals in the fireplace. Instantly evaporating, a thin wisp of steam hissed back at him.

  ‘It’s a disgrace,’ he said. ‘Their entire family are little more than plebs – and the father, since when did common soldiers rise to the consul’s chair? I tell you, Arcem deserves better; it must be saved from these fools.’

  Kaeso knew better than to say any more, otherwise he would never hear the end of it. He knew how much the tribune believed it was his duty as a Tarquin to lead Arcem, and how troubled he became at the prospect of it falling into the hands of the lesser gentry.

  The fact that Fulvio was the sole heir to the Tarquin family only made the weight of that belief all the heavier on his shoulders. Witnessing that pressure finally snap in moments like this made Kaeso thankful he did not have a great name to carry. History did not expect anything of him; he was not bound to fulfil the obligations of some ancient bloodline and was free to do as he pleased. For all their wealth, he did not envy these patricians at all. Kaeso’s father had been a marketplace butcher and he was proud of it. A wide grin crossed the First Centurion’s features as a thought struck him. Perhaps he had lived up to his father’s ways after all, only that it was not cattle or sheep that he now carved beneath his blade, but men.

  ***

  Fulvio slumped against the ornate mantelpiece of the fireplace and watched its crackling embers begin to die. At times like this he wished for the guidance of his parents, but they were long gone, murdered in the madness of a tyrant so many years ago. He stabbed the coals with an iron prong, sending a flare of sparks into the air. An entire patrician family, killed in the night. He had been four years of age when the soldiers of Dictator Julius Terra came for them in one of his infamous senatorial purges. Fulvio still remembered the screams of his household as they were dragged from their beds. He had only escaped by hiding in the slaves’ quarters. Sure, Zeno had eventually defeated the tyrant and Fulvio had reclaimed his birthright, inheriting back his wealth, but he had no one left.

  Alone, he was forced to turn to people like First Centurion Victor Kaeso: a man of no nobility or name, just a bloody reputation. Of course, such men had their uses – surviving the tyrant’s blades had taught Fulvio that – but they could never be a substitute for family.

  Fulvio looked over to his seated guest.

  ‘Kaeso, we’ve known each other a long time, since military service, back when I was a common centurion and you my second,’ he smiled grimly at the memory. ‘We are friends, are we not?’

  ‘We are,’ said the First Centurion, nodding.

  ‘And I have always been generous in our friendship, have I not? I brought you up the chain of command as I was promoted through the legion, providing any money you ever needed, new swords, armour, slaves... I looked after you, right?’

  ‘As you say, you are generous in friendship,’ said Kaeso, guardedly.

  ‘Then may I ask a favour of you, as a friend?’

  ‘I do not know what a no-name soldier such as I could possibly do for an aristocrat such as yourself,’ said Kaeso, smirking, ‘but you may ask.’

  ‘I have many things; money, land, fine horses, but never have I had a legion,’ said Fulvio, twisting the Tarquin lion emblem of his father’s ring around his finger. ‘If I wanted, hypothetically, could you sway the Fourth Legion to fight for me?’

  Fulvio watched the First Centurion down the rest of his wine in one large swig.

  ‘That depends on who we are fighting,’ Kaeso said, pausing to look that no slaves were lurking in the hallways nearby. ‘Especially if the answer is who I suspect.’

  ‘The Valerii,’ said Fulvio, slurring groggily. ‘Hypothetically,
that is.’

  Kaeso smiled mirthlessly, no doubt amused at the audacity of such a bold request.

  ‘No. What you ask is impossible,’ he said bluntly. ‘You would not understand sir, being from the capital, but the men are from Ultor. Life is tougher there, in the cold by the mountains. They only survive by hard work and brotherhood. As such there is an unspoken sense of loyalty to each other far stronger than any oath pledged to the patricians in Monarx.’

  Fulvio sniffed, silently cursing the lower classes their stubborn ways.

  ‘Although…’ Kaeso continued, looking deep in thought.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fulvio, his curiosity piqued.

  ‘I might not be able to deliver you the entire legion, but I can speak for the First Cohort. They are within my power and will fight for fear of me before they do so for love of the Valerii.’ Kaeso said, running a hand through his shortly cropped hair. ‘It should be all the easier now its ranks are rid of their diehard supporter, Hector Valko. With the veterans of the First Cohort I can scare a good number of other centuries into following your command as well. But this would not be clear-cut, it would be messy.’

  ‘Surely you have never been one to shirk a little bloodshed,’ Fulvio chuckled. ‘I thought you rather enjoy it.’

  Kaeso smirked.

  ‘Oh, I do, but it is not motivation enough to risk my life – even for our friendship. This could easily end in disaster, with us nailed on crosses before the day is out,’ he sighed, placing his empty wine goblet on the small table beside the couch.

  ‘If it were done right,’ Fulvio replied.

  ‘Done right?’ snapped Kaeso. ‘A lot would need to be fixed to tip the balance in your favour. It would have to be done quickly, before they had time to react. Even with surprise it would not make up for the numbers required, at best I could turn a third of the legion perhaps. On top of that, you would have to make certain to end the Valerii in a single strike, father and son both, otherwise either one could rally surviving loyalists around the Third Legion and finish us. I know you are a clever man, but you would need the gods on your side to arrange that sort of luck.’