The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  Fulvio palmed his forehead and rubbed his temple in a futile attempt to lessen the headache already building from the wine that night.

  ‘And another thing,’ Kaeso said, pointing his finger as the thought struck him. ‘Even if we risked all that and were successful, we would have to contend with the fallout of such an act. Valerius is a popular man among the people, a consul no less. Regardless of your status among the nobility, the Senate could not turn a blind eye to such treason. There would be just as deadly a reprisal awaiting us from the capital.’

  ‘I am a Tarquin, a Senator and Tribune of Arcem, leave such matters to me to deal with,’ said Fulvio. ‘Consul Valerius’ term of office ends in just a matter of months and with it, so does the family’s last true defence. I just need to know I can count on your support when the time comes.’

  ‘I thought we were talking hypothetically,’ Kaeso grinned.

  Fulvio stared at the First Centurion, his annoyance clear.

  ‘Come on, it is not worth it,’ Kaeso said. ‘I understand there is bad blood between you and Corvinus, but truly what is that to me?’

  Disappointed, Fulvio looked into the glow of the fireplace. He poked its coals once more to try and rekindle its flame.

  ‘You never found the person responsible for the loss of your wife, did you Kaeso?’ he asked. Usually Fulvio would never dare to mention the First Centurion’s inner demons, but tonight he was drunk and did not care.

  ‘You would do well not to speak of her again, or I might just forget our friendship and kill you now,’ snarled Kaeso, rising to his feet. Fulvio smiled at how easily the man could be provoked. At the same time though, he knew he was playing with fire and did not have long to explain himself before the First Centurion made good on his threat.

  Fulvio was possibly the only person alive who knew the man’s weakness, after a drunken confession many years ago. Who would have known such a ruthless killer once had a soft heart? It really was a tragic story. Kaeso had married young, back when he was still an apprentice butcher in Monarx, but returned home one day to discover his apartment ransacked and his darling wife gone. Taken by the thugs of a local gambling house, she had been sold into slavery to cover the debts of a neighbour they mistook for Kaeso. When the guilty neighbour eventually confessed and begged for forgiveness, Kaeso killed him with his bare hands. As much as he tried, he never found his wife. Defeated and wanted for murder, Kaeso joined the legions to escape his past and drown his anger in blood.

  ‘What if I told you that the gaming house responsible for your loss was privately owned by a wealthy patrician by the name Cornelius Aquila,’ Fulvio lied. ‘The very same Cornelius Aquila who is father-in-law to a certain Marcus Valerius Corvinus.’

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’ grumbled Kaeso.

  ‘Because you are my friend and nothing is beyond a man in my position with a full purse,’ smiled Fulvio, enjoying how easily the lies came to him. The First Centurion slowly sat back down.

  ‘Then, I might reconsider your favour,’ Kaeso said at last. ‘If it was to be done right.’

  There was a sudden knock at the chamber door and Fulvio immediately raised his hand to motion the end of their conversation.

  ‘Enter,’ Fulvio called out.

  The large doors from the main atrium opened and a plump house slave entered. Like all the property in Fulvio’s mansions, even the servants were an ostentatious display of wealth, wearing bright silk tunics far finer than the clothes of most citizens.

  ‘The man responsible for this interruption better have good reason or I will have him flayed before sunrise,’ said Fulvio, deliberately loud enough for the bowing slave to hear. Kaeso let out a dry chuckle, knowing the threat was very real.

  ‘M-master there is a soldier at the gate bearing the seal of the consul,’ the man said nervously. ‘He would not state his business.’

  Curious, thought Fulvio. It was well past midnight and the sun would be rising in a matter of hours. Such late-night dealings could only be the result of the utmost urgency. Or secrecy, he smiled.

  ‘Which seal does he display, Consul Zeno or Valerius?’ Fulvio asked, suddenly interested.

  ‘The raven of Consul Valerius, master.’

  ‘Open the gate then. You may count yourself lucky tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Dominus, thank you,’ said the slave, bowing in relief before running to open the gate, with Fulvio following close behind.

  Fulvio waited on the front steps of his estate, watching as the slave ran into the rain to open the heavy iron gates. The cloaked figure of the soldier was let in and approached him, carrying a leather satchel. The man was completely soaked and stood shivering, his hood clinging damply to his head. He stopped as he reached the bottom of the stairway and saluted sharply.

  ‘Tribune Gnaeus Tarquinius Fulvio, I am charged by our Consul and General to deliver this to you,’ he said, producing a sealed note from the satchel.

  ‘May I ask what this concerns?’

  ‘I am not privy to that, sir,’ said the soldier.

  ‘Then you may go.’

  The soldier saluted again. Pulling his cloak tight to his chest against the night air, the man ran back out into the rain and was quickly lost in the darkness of the streets.

  Fulvio broke the wax seal and smiled as he read its message.

  ‘Go and fetch ink and parchment,’ he said, turning to the plump slave as he returned from closing the gate. ‘I have an important letter that needs to be sent to the Consul.’

  Fulvio walked back inside, holding the message tightly.

  ‘First Centurion,’ he called down the hallway, ‘it would appear the gods bid us act sooner than originally thought.’

  X

  ‘The fortunes of war are always doubtful.’

  Syphaxan Proverb

  The winter sun dawned over the great port city of Emissus as its citizens began to rouse from their beds for another day. Emissus – the largest trade hub of Arcem, hailed as the Jewel of the North and second only to Monarx in its splendour – awoke to the sound of bells. Their sombre tone echoed throughout the city’s narrow streets of cramped apartments, across the harbor and out into the Ominor Sea beyond. Dockworkers, merchants and shopkeepers all began to shuffle out for the morning shift, filling the laneways, shrouded by the dense mist carried in by the sea breeze.

  Out on the water, scores of merchant ships floated in their berths, ready to be packed with goods bound for trade in the Parum Islands and Aecor Collectives. Other vessels lay anchored out in the harbour, rocking gently in the rippling waves, waiting patiently for their turn to dock. As the sun continued to rise, more and more ships joined their numbers as they came in with the tides, eager to unload their precious cargo from distant lands.

  All however, kept their bulky forms a respectful distance from the Arcemite navy present in the harbour. With spiked rams and tiers of oars, these heavy galleys were a formidable sight against the backdrop of plump cargo ships. Cutting through the waves like hunter sharks amidst a school of fish, these ships of war dominated the seas around Emissus. The harbour was packed with them, for the city was as much a military base as it was a commercial centre. Under the hallowed sword-and-wreath emblem of Arcem on their sails, these triremes patrolled the coastline against the Balhiran pirates that plagued the northern waters, lured by the city’s rich merchant fleets. But the harbour was particularly busy of late, as the navy had begun amassing its strength for another campaign against the Balhiran homeland, across the Ominor Sea to the north.

  To anyone watching, it would appear to be just another winter’s day in Emissus, but unbeknownst to its citizens, the legions were also preparing their trade.

  In the heart of the city, behind the walls of the city barracks, the Seventh Legion stirred. The halls were lively with the shouts of centurions marching along the rows of massed bunks, canes in hand. Rudely awoken, legionnaires tumbled from their beds and ran to hastily assemble outside. It was a riot of noise and act
ivity as orders were barked across rooms and weapons gathered. Those not fast enough were sure to receive a thrashing from their centurion as they stormed through the corridors, swearing. As the soldiers came to their senses it became clear that something was definitely amiss. A sense of urgency dawned on them that no practice could ever replicate. This was no drill.

  ‘Come on you bastards!’ snarled Centurion Marius the Grim, as a young faced recruit dropped his chainmail armour as he rushed past. The centurion’s cane lashed out, snapping in two against the poor boy’s shoulder. ‘Pick that up and get in ranks or by the gods I will break another on that sorry face of yours!’

  The legionary scrambled to pick up his armour and ran as if the devils of Khronus were after him. Marius growled and followed the men out into the courtyard.

  ***

  First Centurion Eliphas Fallax stood unmoving as he watched the Seventh Legion muster to battle readiness on the parade ground. In his hand he held the note he had received from a rider that morning. Loyal lad, thought Eliphas. The poor man had killed two horses in his race to get the message from Monarx and had collapsed on arrival. Eliphas looked down and read it again. He had already done so numerous times but the gravity of its meaning remained daunting.

  ‘Why are men cursed by power so?’ the First Centurion whispered to himself, trying to discern any new explanation from its words.

  ‘Sir, the cohorts stand ready for you,’ said a gravelly voice. Eliphas looked up, recognising Marius before him. He nodded to the veteran centurion and looked over the assembled legion. Five thousand men stood in the courtyard in flawless formation; attentive, disciplined – Ironclad.

  ‘Legionaries of the Seventh,’ said Eliphas, his voice reaching the furthest corners of the ground. In reply, five thousand pairs of boots came together in perfect unison as the soldiers stood to attention. The sound of the sharp movement echoed across the square. Eliphas smiled weakly, trying to gather his thoughts and find some way to break the news.

  ‘Word has been received from our Consul and General in Monarx. We are summoned.’ The First Centurion took a breath before voicing the next part. ‘Our once proud brothers from Ultor, the Fourth Legion, are marching on our beloved capital along the mountain passes. There is only one possible reason. Consul Valerius is, regrettably, trying to force himself a crown.’

  Eliphas paused to allow the cries of denial from the ranks to settle.

  ‘The traitor Valerius, in his sacrilege against the Republic has managed to turn the Syphaxan legion to defect also.’ Eliphas knew this would have caused his commander much heartbreak. Consul Zeno had worked so hard with Syphax and to now witness his diplomatic works and what would have been his final legacy to Arcem end in tatters would have hurt the old general deeply.

  Eliphas could see the same pain reflected in the faces of many legionnaires and centurions standing before him. They had been like brothers with the Syphaxan levy and helped train much of their ranks into the Arcemite structure. Eliphas knew this betrayal would be personal for many of them.

  ‘Whatever their numbers, our General knows you will stand firm,’ he said. ‘The enemy may be skilled soldiers, but they march for greed. We however fight for the sacred Republic and the gods shall see us victorious. By our swords we will teach these traitors of an honour which cannot be bought and remind them why the Chronicles remember our name. For we have that fearsome reputation. We are Ironclad!’

  The parade ground shook as the men of the Seventh Legion roared their response and beat their spears on the stone floor.

  First Centurion Eliphas Fallax nodded, satisfied with himself. He turned to Marius by his side.

  ‘Open the gates,’ he said. ‘We have no time to waste. It is many miles to the capital and we must arrive before our enemies, ready for war.’

  Eliphas hoped that General Zeno had a plan. Once they arrived south, they would have to face down two rebel legions – three if Valerius’ son was involved. The message had not mentioned anything of the Third Legion and by the grace of Taranis he prayed the corruption had not spread that far.

  The gates of the city barracks swung open and the Seventh Legion marched out. After that, the bells of Emissus and the sounds of its markets were drowned out by the echo of heavy, iron-studded boots pounding the cobblestone roads. Even those who did not see the legion march through the thoroughfares of the city heard the clamour as it was carried in the breeze. Within the hour every citizen knew they were marching to war.

  A horn rang out signalling for double speed and Eliphas joined the ranks as they began to jog. It would be a hard march to catch the enemy before they reached Monarx, he knew. Especially since the rider’s message was already three days old.

  ***

  Hannibal hurled his empty glass at the messenger before him. Luckily for the servant, the prince’s anger disrupted his aim and the glass smashed on the ground near the man’s feet, spraying him with fragments.

  ‘Get out,’ said Hannibal to the cowering messenger.

  The man bowed nervously before running outside, skidding past the two guards at the leather flaps of the pavilion’s entrance. He did not stop for fear of his master’s retribution.

  Hannibal sat back in his chair and sighed, deep in thought. His gaze stared distantly at the far end of his field headquarters as his hand scrunched the note into a ball.

  From the entranceway of the tent Sejanus Hathor, Champion of the Thirteenth Legion and Captain of the prince’s Royal Guard, watched over his troubled master. It worried him to see the general in such a way. Hannibal was not a man usually taken to brood over bad news, but then again the legion’s situation was far from usual. The prince was risking the very stability of his father’s kingdom in Syphax by siding with the Valerii in their coup and the pressure to succeed was already beginning to take its toll on him.

  Sejanus understood why the prince had done what he had, all the men conscripted to serve Arcem in the Syphaxan levy did. The prospect of going home to their families was a prize worth fighting for. But at the same time, should the gambit fail he knew they would certainly not live to see their homeland again. For if there was one thing Sejanus had learnt in his time with the legions, it was that Arcem never forgave its enemies. He had seen the way Arcem punished its foes. They can be so imaginative when it comes to killing, Sejanus thought. He never understood how a culture could claim to be so civilised when its whole society seemed to revolve around its military might. They were a people so brutish, they were little better than the barbarians they fought to the north. Yet it was for such reasons that Arcem was a beast Syphax best not contend with directly and why its sons still honoured the treacherous pact of Syrus.

  Sejanus chastised himself as he realised where his thoughts were wandering – it was not his place to doubt his master. They would not lose. Prince Hannibal was an experienced general and a man beloved by the gods. Descended from the royal line of the Barcas, he was like a father to the Syphaxan peoples and they his loyal sons. If they kept trust in his divine majesty and served faithfully under his command they could never fail.

  Sejanus looked over to the general’s seated figure. Even after all his years of service, he still found himself awed by the man. Prince Hannibal was the perfect example of Syphaxan royalty and excellence. His tanned body was sculpted like a work of art and his amber eyes glimmered like the gold weaved into the tight braids of his long hair. When he stood, the prince towered above people like a demigod. He was strong – as all soldiers ought to be – but Sejanus knew there was an awesome intellect behind those eyes that burned like the Syphaxan sun. In the corner of the room there was a chest full of ancient literature testament to this. Sejanus knew the prince would delve into the wisdom of those scrolls every night after supper, even when campaigning. It was truly an honour to serve such a great man, Sejanus thought, feeling guilty to have ever doubted him. The prince was perfect – but right now he was also in a dangerous mood.

  Sejanus gathered his thoughts as he heard
someone approaching the tent. He turned, watching as another servant came from across their small makeshift campsite. Sejanus stepped forward, blocking the man before the doorway and saving him from the prince’s wrath. With Hannibal’s good mood ruined, whatever it was could wait, Sejanus decided.

  ‘Tell me what business you have with our master and be on your way,’ he said to the servant. The man leaned in close to Sejanus and whispered in his ear. Sejanus nodded as the man relayed his message, already dreading the thought of informing the general.

  ‘I will inform the prince,’ he said, waving the servant away. Sejanus turned back inside and prayed he would not stir his master’s displeasure as the last messenger had. Bowing as he came before the prince, Sejanus slowly made his way over to where Hannibal sat. Still lost in his own thoughts, the general paid him no attention. Sejanus stopped by his master’s side and bowed again.

  ‘My prince,’ he whispered, ‘riders approach the camp. They carry the raven insignia of Consul Valerius.’

  Decius Hannibal Barca stood up from his chair, suddenly dwarfing Sejanus. With a fiery gaze, he locked eyes with the captain.

  ‘Bring them to me now,’ he growled with a voice like desert thunder.

  ***

  They had ridden hard throughout the night, making the fifty-odd miles to the heavily wooded outskirts of Praedium at dawn. They took a minor gate out of Monarx from the poorer districts where they would not be recognised and no one in the capital knew they had left – or planned to return with an army, for that matter.

  Corvinus shivered beneath his damp cloak, wet from the mountain mist and the snows along the way. He rubbed his numb hands together, trying to regain some warmth in the curled digits that had almost frozen stuck, clutching the reins.

  They were almost there now. With the sun yet to rise above the trees, the torches of the campsite ahead still shone across the snows of the old forest trail, lighting the way. The forests around Praedium were ancient and wild. Stretching from the outskirts of Campus Ferrum to the west all the way to the Arctos Mountains, one could hide an army in its murky depths without anyone noticing. Corvinus smiled at the thought, for that was almost exactly what they were doing.