The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘Blood of Taranis, his heart is failing!’ Fulvio heard a man shout over the clamour, but he did not move to assist them. As the only figure of calm on the Senate floor, Fulvio remained where he was and watched on as the Senate Elder slowly died.

  The shock of the revelation had clearly been too much for the old man. The Spolia Opima had been his personal charge for nearly two decades, and the knowledge of the great relic’s destruction had surely broken him.

  It was not really a lie, Fulvio thought. He knew the Valerii had been behind the theft of the ancient artefact, the timing of its theft could not have been mere coincidence. They had it hidden somewhere, he just did not know where. He decided to send more men to search their estates in Ultor to be sure, but in the meantime he was safe. The beauty of the situation was his lie could never be disproved – not without someone else admitting guilt and signing their own death warrant.

  The uproar of the senators fell silent as their attention turned towards Liberius. Someone shouted for the Praetorians and another called for a physician. But looking on, Fulvio saw that it was helpless, he was in the hands of the gods now.

  With one last struggled breath, Elder Liberius died on the marble of the Senate floor.

  ***

  From the back of the chamber, Senator Cornelius Aquila watched the life of the Senate custodian fade into nothingness. The sight of his passing was deeply troubling; Liberius had always been there, as a rock of tradition for the Republic to stand upon. But now that foundation lay cracked, a false dictator stood over the Senate and worst of all was that nobody seemed to care. Can they not see?

  Aquila wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘Come, we have tried all we can here. There is nothing left for us to do but pray that Arcem comes to its senses before it is completely ruined by this madness. Let us be away,’ he said, turning to his few remaining supporters.

  ***

  The gilded doors of the Senate groaned as the men left, causing many senators to turn their heads at the sound. Fulvio grinned widely, showing his perfect white teeth. One less thorn to worry about, he thought.

  ‘Aquila has fled!’ shouted a voice from the crowd. ‘Send for the Praetorians to arrest him immediately, he must face justice for his family’s treason.’

  Fulvio stepped forward and raised his hands for calm. ‘Peace gentlemen, the shame of Cornelius Aquila can be considered another time, but now we face the more pressing matter for which this assembly was summoned. We must decide on a course of action against the traitor army of Decius Hannibal Barca, which is still at large.’

  With hesitant steps, the senators in the chamber slowly made their way back to their seats. By Fulvio’s signal, a pair of Praetorians entered the room and delicately removed the body of Elder Liberius.

  ‘There will be time to properly mourn our dear custodian in the days to come, but now more than ever we must keep our wits about us in this most testing of moments,’ said Fulvio, taking his place again behind the dais. ‘I know much is to be considered on this issue but it is imperative that we decide how Arcem proceeds in this war. We must make an example of this rebellion, or else – come the warring season – we will find all our dominions taking up arms against us. This rogue Syphaxan must be hunted down and crushed.’ There was a low murmur among the assembly as senators voiced their agreement.

  Cautiously, a lone senator stood from the benches to be heard. Fulvio masked his irritation and waved the man to speak.

  The man nodded his gratitude. ‘Thank you, sir, my name is Darius Petra and I have been asked to speak in the interests of my good friend Consul Tiberius Zeno and his party.’

  Fulvio sighed under his breath. ‘The Senate will hear you,’ he said calmly. Though Zeno remained on death’s door, his influence still managed to be an annoyance Fulvio would rather do without. More than once in the days since Lapsus Magna, Fulvio had found himself wishing Kaeso’s shot had been more direct and killed the Ironclad consul outright, instead of allowing this lingering hope to remain among his supporters.

  Darius strolled into the centre of the chamber. ‘It is true that Arcem must decide how to act and it is good of Fulvio to put this matter before the Senate, but let us not be rash in our decision. This is not some petty tax before our judgement, but a decision of belligerence towards one of our longest and noblest allies. The Prince of Syphax has fled our lands and offers no immediate threat, so let us be wary and use this time. If Hannibal returns then by all means let us take to the field, but if we go after him now we may push his father King Hyksos to battle and start the greatest war of our generation.’

  Fulvio shifted with impatience as he saw the nodding faces of several senators agree with the man’s reasoning. He should never have allowed the matter to go before the Senate. Too much was at stake, for he risked losing his dictatorship if they voted against war. To hell with appearances, he thought. He should have just sent Kaeso and the First Cohort to enforce his will.

  Darius continued to pace the floor before the benches. ‘This may be a war Arcem cannot afford to start. We already have the barbarian tribes on our doorstep, so we should avoid making any more enemies. That is why I would ask this Senate to await its full gathering before voting its course of action.’

  There were murmurs of approval and opposition to this comment from the benches of senators as sides were drawn.

  Fulvio raised a hand to call for silence and leant over the dais to look down upon the troublesome senator. ‘Darius, I do not think you do your friend and consul justice. You speak as though the Syphaxan did not cause the deaths of a thousand men from his legion on the roads of Campus Ferrum or the slaughter of untold thousands of innocent citizens on the docks of Emissus, his hometown. If your friend Consul Zeno were capable of joining us today, I do not believe the Ironclad General would wish to see those traitors to the Republic escape unpunished. The rogue Hannibal has clearly chosen his side – and that is one of war. It is time for the rest of us to do likewise.’

  There was a wave of applause throughout the chamber as the members of Fulvio’s political faction made their support known. Unsure how to proceed, Darius silently resumed his seat among the benches.

  Fulvio tightened his grip on the dais and met the gaze of everyone in the room with a hard stare. ‘I will not accept any abstention on this issue. All loyal sons of the Republic in favour of taking action against the Kingdom of Syphax stand and be counted.’

  Slowly but surely the Senate came to its feet. Whether by fear or loyalty, not a single senator present opposed the motion.

  ‘Thankyou gentlemen,’ said Fulvio, smiling for all to see. ‘I take your support of this war as further endorsement of my dictatorship and let me assure you that I shall not rest until Arcem is safe. Do not fear this new title my friends, I know all too well the pain of tyranny and never shall I stray from my sacred duty. Though the coming days may be testing, have faith, as I have faith in you all. Trust in me and I swear by the gods that I shall not fail you, just as I know that none of you will ever fail me.’ Fulvio looked down from those standing before him and gazed at the gold face of the Tarquin lion on his ring. He raised his head and grinned with ambition.

  ‘Together we shall see this through. And by the end, when the smoke finally clears and our enemies lie broken, we will have earned our rightful place in history and the Chronicles shall remember our names forever.’

  Epilogue

  ‘Beware the man who runs away to fight another day.’

  Syphaxan Proverb

  The pulse was weak, nothing more than a whisper. No mortal man could have survived such a wound, Xaphia thought as she pressed a gloved hand to her master’s neck, but then again Corvinus was no ordinary mortal man. The Spolia Opima had blessed him with such gifts and dragging the limp body of her master across the snow, she could see the tiny grey veins of the living metal worm their way across the puncture wound on his chest, knitting the gash closed. As for the burns on the side of his face, there was no sign of healing. The skin
was completely raw and blistered from the flames that had scorched the unconscious general when his burning tent collapsed. Xaphia knew her master was suffering a world of pain at that moment, one that threatened to tip him into darkness forever. Even with the Spolia Opima, the young general’s life was hanging by a thread.

  Ignoring the pain of her own wounds, Xaphia looked over to the cowering slave carrying Corvinus by his other arm. ‘Hasten your efforts, or I will slice the flesh from your bones,’ she hissed at the boy. ‘This man has been marked by the gods and he is not allowed to die; not now, not here. If he does, you will wish I had killed you the moment I saw you quivering by the flames of our master’s tent. You were sworn to serve him, but you fled that tent like a coward, didn’t you? I should skin you now just for your pathetic existence.’

  Xaphia smiled beneath her bronze mask as she saw her words take their intended effect. With two hands, the boy grabbed Corvinus by the arm and redoubled his efforts to drag the young general away from the camp. The legions were busy, occupied somewhere towards the village of Lapsus Magna. Xaphia did not know what they were doing, except that it sounded like a massacre was taking place. Whatever it was, they seemed to be distracted for now, but Xaphia knew it could not last forever. She needed to get out of the open fields before the legions finished. There was a small farm hut ahead that looked safe enough.

  ‘Do you have the sword?’ asked Xaphia.

  The slave reached behind his back to confirm he was still carrying Corvinus’ prized gladius strapped around his shoulder. ‘Yes I have it.’

  ‘Because if you don’t I will-’ hissed Xaphia.

  ‘I said I have it!’ cried the boy, his face dripping with cold sweat.

  Xaphia looked up as she heard movement ahead. There by the doorway of the farm hut, the ragged figure of a peasant had suddenly appeared to investigate the boy’s shout. He was staring right at them and in his hand he clutched a heavy wood axe, its blade dull with rust.

  In the split-second it took for the man to blink, Xaphia dropped the wounded Corvinus and charged straight for him, blade in hand. By the time the peasant raised his axe to defend himself, she was right in front of him. There was a flash of steel and a damp thud as his head fell to the snow. The rest of him followed a second later.

  Panting with exhaustion, Xaphia sheathed the curved blade of her sword. Her head was dizzy and darkness edged on her vision. She hunched over to steady herself and coughed up a mouthful of blood. The thick black liquid dribbled through the mouth of her mask and dripped down its bronze chin. She grabbed at her chest as the pain of her own injuries started to burn once more. She hissed, cursing her weakness. She should never have allowed herself to have been shot. She had let her guard down to Fulvio for only a second and now suffered because of it. Never again, she swore, never again.

  ‘Hurry up, human!’ she howled at the horrified slave as he struggled to drag the young general inside.

  Xaphia pulled her gloved hand from her breastplate and wiped the dark blood that had gathered onto the coarse fabric of the peasant’s tunic. She looked down at the weeping bullet holes that pierced her armour and gasped as she felt the grey veins of her own Spolia Opima thread the wounds closed again.

  ‘Not this time Khronus,’ she whispered, ‘not on this wretched planet.’

  ***

  The doors of the longhouse groaned loudly as they opened, their rusted hinges stiff from the cold. The air was thin this high up and the mountain breeze frosted all it touched. Signs of the harsh climate were everywhere in the village of Bellosus and the king’s longhouse was no different. Weathered timbers, cracked with age, formed the entrance to the hall. It extended back some distance until it came against a cliff face, from which the rest of the structure had been carved into the mountain rock.

  Through the doorway, smoky air carrying the scent of roast meat wafted out to greet them. Promising the shelter and warmth of a hearth for the first time in months, it was quite possibly the cruellest temptation the gods could have devised. Lesser men might have mistaken it all for hospitality and an invitation of friendship to weary guests, but Voratrix was not blind to its threats. This was the king’s crude way of mocking him – and almost certainly a trap. Nevertheless, the warlord felt his stomach churn at the thought of the feast within.

  Voratrix glanced over his shoulder to the muddy slopes below, where his clan had been permitted to camp. It was a meagre sight, barely a shadow of the intimidating force he had commanded months before as part of Ariogaisus’ grand army. The thought of such misfortune quickly banished his hunger, replacing it with a far deeper loathing. How had he been reduced to this? How could he have fallen so far in the sight of the gods?

  Only a few months ago he had been at the right hand of his king, second lord over the entire Evastii tribe with aspirations to its throne. Now he was but a wandering warlord, lost in the barren wilderness of the Arctos Mountains. Of the four thousand-strong Evastii he led on the Gaur Mons, little more than half remained of his clan to make up the pathetic sight on the slopes beneath him. By the hells of Khronus, Voratrix thought, how has it come to this?

  He cursed this place and the savage hill tribes that had harassed his clan all throughout its desolate land. He cursed the gods, the cold, the constant grating of hunger on the senses that had seen his men turn feral and kill one another for their rations. He cursed Ariogaisus and all his cowards for their weakness. Voratrix dearly hoped that bastard king had been hunted by the legions all the way back to Caldinium and was now laying cold in a ditch somewhere. But most of all, Voratrix cursed the Arcemite brat who had so utterly ruined him on the Gaur Mons. That young man – carrying that infernal banner – was a source of such fury it drove Voratrix to go on.

  Voratrix seethed at just the thought of him.

  With his heart full of wrath, Voratrix turned from the slopes and entered through the doorway of the longhouse with a dozen men of his retinue following closely behind.

  It took a moment for his sight to adjust to the dimly lit interior and even then much of the room’s perimeter and occupants remained in shadow. The structure was a single chamber, stretching so far back five hearths were scattered down its centre to warm the place. Each had some form of wild game slowly roasting over its fire, the smell of which clawed at his senses with renewed cruelty.

  Crushing his body’s urges with great strength of will, Voratrix mastered his thoughts again, though he caught many of his entourage also eyeing the feast with mouth-watering stares. Beneath their warlord’s fierce gaze, they too came to focus.

  They stood for a moment, looking around, counting the many faces in the dark corners of the room. No one moved to greet them; they just stood silently watching their guests, like wolves sizing up their prey.

  Voratrix did not fail to notice the dull glimmers through the gloom as the light from the firesides caught the metal of their blades. Every one of them was armed no doubt, Voratrix thought. Of course, so was he, but a dozen against an entire tribe had only one possible ending.

  Making no sudden movements, Driskoll carefully neared his warlord and in a voice barely audible he whispered. ‘We should leave now my lord, whilst the door is still open behind us. These backwater savages will see us dead in moments.’

  Voratrix looked back towards the creaking doorway as two tribesmen pushed it shut again, not failing to bar it closed.

  Not far from them, Voratrix saw Ursus – his dishonoured champion – slowly reach for his sword, readying for the killing that would surely come. How Ursus had managed to survive his wounds from the Gaur Mons was beyond him. Driskoll had obviously worked his craft on the man, for there was no other explanation. Yet the champion was still far from his former glory; he limped, and lacking the strength to wield his fearsome battle-axe, was left with but a sword. The fact he was at the back of the retinue was testament to his dishonour, he had failed in his duel against the young Arcemite and so was no longer fit to carry his lord’s banner. Ursus would have to earn
back that right in time – that is, if they survived.

  Smiling mirthlessly, Voratrix pushed past his chief priest and strolled deeper into the hall. With his head raised high, Voratrix made his way to the end of the smoke-filled room, where he could see the tribe’s king.

  The eyes of all those inside followed his movements, but none tried to block his approach.

  On a throne of dark wood and bone, a brutish figure clad in rough leather armour sat before Voratrix. The two men stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Neither betrayed much to the other.

  Voratrix found it particularly hard to gauge the man’s emotion as his face was hidden behind a thick beard and tattered locks of fierce-red hair, both of which were braided with slivers of bone. The tribe’s king – if such title could belong to a savage – was clearly trying to impress his power on his guests. One hand gripped the skull armrest of his throne whilst the other hand rested on the pommel of a long, bronze sword that stood, tip-down beside him. Such trivial displays, thought Voratrix, these feral tribes are too far removed from the world to know how power really works. But with the winter snows setting in fast, he would have plenty of time to teach them the truth of things. Voratrix smiled.

  As the rest of his retinue formed up behind Voratrix, a tribesman from the corner of the room stepped before the throne. Like his king, the man was clad in strips of basic leather armour and rough fur patches of whatever rodents inhabited the barren slopes of the land.

  ‘All hail Rianorix the Red, son of Rinnix the Skull-taker, King of the Bellovaci Tribe, and Lord of the Mountains,’ said the tribesman in a rough dialect of the northern tongue. ‘Bend the knee, swear your allegiance and we may feast and speak of brotherhood.’

  Smiling behind his beard, King Rianorix looked at his guests with amusement and nodded to the spot of dirt floor before him.