Short Swords: Tales from the Divine Empire (The First Sword Chronicles Book 3)

by Frances Smith

  Still, all of this was to make her sound ungrateful, or worse dissatisfied with the lot that inexorable destiny had provided to her. Which she was not, or did not wish to think she was. She had been promised this day in her dreams, and now that it had arrived she could scarcely keep the solemn face that tradition and good manners dictate that she present to the world upon what was intended to be an occasion of pomp and great solemnity.

  Today is my ascension! She wanted to shout. Today I am anointed and invested and acclaimed as Aegea’s heir! Today is the day! Today is mine!

  Today is the culmination of all my fondest hopes.

  “It will not be long now, Majesty,” Major Demophon Thrakes muttered. The commander of her Household Guard was a heavyset fellow with the face of a man who brawled in illicit fighting dens, complete with a nose that had been broken once too often and badly set afterwards. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he did not have the sort of appearance commonly associated with an officer in the Imperial Household. But he was also unfailingly loyal, brave, intelligent and strong enough to pick up a full grown man in each hand, and Romana was inclined to consider those far more important qualifications for her guard commander than simply looking the part.

  Behind her, assembled in ranks, their spear points glittering and their helms and armour polished to a perfect shine, waited the cohorts of the Imperial Guard, each beneath their standards. The Palace Guard, eight hundred strong, with their shields bearing the emblem of a giant with a hundred eyes, emblazoned in gold upon a purple field. Then came the Camp Guard, another eight hundred men, and upon their shields a silver hydra, on blood crimson, with the monster’s many heads looking out in all directions. Third in the serried column were the six hundred soldiers of the Devoted, who could claim with some justice to be the oldest cohort in the Imperial Army, older than the Empire itself, equipped in the hoplite fashion of an earlier age, and on their shields they bore the symbol of a flame upon a purple field. Fourth were the Foot Guards, nine hundred men in lorica segmenta, with tall purple crests upon their helmets and a pair of gold crossed swords for the design on their shields. And then there were the cavalry, the Horse Guards and the Companions, each six hundred strong, mounted upon proud horses that stamped impatiently upon the ground, eager to be off.

  This was but a fraction, of course, of the military might that the Empire could command, and more strength was waiting for her down the road as custom dictated, but this force, this column, was sufficient to see her to Eternal Pantheia and to her birthright. The soldiers waited, expressions impassive, no man speaking or complaining though they must have been sweltering within their armour. It was a hot, dry day, with the sun beating down from above, and Romana could feel the sweat building up against her skin. She herself was armoured, in a cuirass of mail with leather pteruges brushing against her legs and a plumed helmet concealing the bulk of her purple hair from the sight of men. Custom dictated that it should be so, as it dictated that despite her armour she should not wear a sword at her hip until she was presented with one by the First Sword of the Empire. As she felt the sweat trickling down her, part of Romana wished that she could have worn one of her airy silk dresses, but that would hardly have been appropriate for the occasion. And besides, the gowns of mourning black for which she was best known amongst the populace would hardly have been any better than armour in regard to the heat.

  Princes and Princesses Imperial had suffered much worse than a little sweat on their way to the throne, and so would she.

  Romana turned her attention away from the guardsmen who would escort her to the throne and towards the retainers who surrounded her. It was a great honour to be chosen to ride with the princess, and so Romana had been sure to honour especially those families who had faithfully supported her and her ambitions even when her hopes of the succession had looked slender at best, and whose daughters had served in her household and kept faith with her even when she had been a lowly prisoner of her brothers’ malice: white and wrinkled old Lord Salinator, his eldest son and heir and his pretty granddaughter Euphemia, who had diamonds sparkling in her blonde curls; square-jawed Lord Rutulus, who wore his uniform as Comes of the Fourth Brigade, lorica segmenta gilded with gold and a blue crest three feet high sticking up from his helmet, and his second daughter Harmonia, who fanned herself and wiped the sweat from her brow as she waited; gaunt Lord Livius and his third daughter Junia, whose earth-brown eyes betrayed impatience; broad-shouldered Lord Lacus and his natural born daughter Elylyona Castra, her pale skin glowing under the gaze of the sun.

  Romana had also requested – in these occasions, requests from the throne fell into a grey area between genuine requests and politely worded instructions, Lady Manzikes to join her. Young, pretty – though not so fair as her sister, the Lady Commenae – with soft brown hair and striking blue eyes, Lady Manzikes sat very self-consciously upon a roan mare, looking exceedingly aware of the fact that she was not a part of the faction that included the Livius, Rutulus, Lacus and Salinator families, not one of Romana’s allies, not a part of the group. And yet that was precisely why Romana had asked her join her as a companion on her march into Eternal Pantheia: always the choice of the prince’s companions had been used by those who had come before her to favour those who would do well out of the new regime, to demonstrate to all who was in and, by omission, who was out. Obviously those who had supported her were now in, and Romana had already put her powers of patronage to work rewarding them for their good faith, but ancient and honourable as those families were they were but four patrician families. She had no wish to put the rest of the patrician college out into the cold, nor any desire for them to even think that that was her intent. The Manzikes were not amongst the oldest families in the Empire, tracing their noble rank only to the conquest of Decuria, but they were a proud line and valiant, with a strong association with the Imperial Army, an instrument that Romana was keen indeed to court and to win over to her way of thinking. And the Manzikes family had been insulted and ill-used under the reign of Demodocus: Lady Manzikes had suffered first the murder of her father upon the orders of Antiochus and his creature, the false Lord Quirian, and then had the honours and titles which should by rights have passed to her confiscated by Demodocus out of little more than a desire to show his contempt for the nobility. Romana had hastened to restore all the honours that were due to Lady Manzikes, and now she honoured her still further in this. It would not mend the damage done by Demodocus’ foolishness and Antiochus’ malice, but Romana hoped that it would demonstrate that she was neither of her brothers, and that she comprehended and respected the role the patricians played in the governance of the Empire and in the task of restoring its long tarnished greatness.

  And then there were those two who were not even patricians at all, but only wealthy equestrians who had done well out of the wine-making trade. Gaius Flaminius looked, ironically, like a man who had never touched a drop in his life, though considering the near scowl upon his face he also looked as though it might have improved his temperament if he had. His daughter, Vespasia, was always petite, and today she looked even smaller in comparison to her horse and the many strong and well-armed men not far away. When the majority of the equestrians had been assiduous in courting the favour of Antiochus, the Flaminius family had sought her out instead, and Gaius had given her his daughter as a lady-in-waiting. Though they had abandoned her for a time – or at least the father had, Romana was fairly certain of the hold she had maintained upon Vespasia’s heart – she had been more minded to begin her rule with forgiveness than vindictiveness. The beginning informed the race, after all, and she did not want the equestrians to feel shut out either.

  She had considered requesting the presence of her half-brother Jason, if only to remind the world that he existed, but when it came to it she decided that that was perhaps not something she wanted to remind people of. She had no illusions that many would not like what she planned to do with the Empire, but she would get a kind of sullen acceptance fr
om many so long as they thought her the last of her line, the last descendant of Aegea the Great and the best alternative to civil war and the possible collapse of the nation. Should they believe that an alternative waited in the wings, well…of course Jason himself had no such ambitions, but for a certain kind of schemer that might actually be a recommendation in their eyes.

  Thankfully he had taken the rejection in good part. I’ve no desire for form or favour, Majesty. Nor do I really want to thrive by flattering those thought better than me. Honestly, I’m glad you’re leaving me out of it. Romana sniffed, for someone born of Aegea’s line Jason showed a woeful lack of comprehension of the subtleties and complexities of rank and protocol that kept the wheels of Empire turning.

  And then there was the member of her coterie who was not mounted. Ser Amitiel Ameliora Doraeus ban Tiralon, daughter of Niccolo, held the office of Knight of the Purple, a position so new that it had not existed until Romana had created it specifically for Amy’s sake, to reward her for her valour in the battle against Quirian. And, she could admit to herself, to give herself both one more faithful champion and a potential future source of favour and patronage to exploit should she have need of it. The issue of a naiad father and a human mother – it was the naiad tradition of knighthood that had inspired Amy’s new office – Romana’s knight was garbed in the armour of her people, armour carved from the shells of ancient crabs, the bleached bone colour visible in some parts beneath the pattern of swirling blue daubed on every armoured segment, or the dolphin worked in sapphires on the breastplate. In deference to her new title, Amy had traded her usual cape of salamander scales for a cloak of purple that hung down to her knees. She was afoot because no mount could bear the weight of her in all her armour, though Amy claimed that when her salamander was grown it would carry her into battle. Until then she would walk, though such was her naiad strength that the weight of her armour slowed her not at all.

  The whole assembled company around Romana, the companions and guards who would escort her to the highest seat in all the land, waited upon the Aegean Way a few miles east of Eternal Pantheia. The great city loomed before them, the white walls shining in the sunlight, and beyond the walls Romana could see the smoke rising from the temples, as well as from the thousand upon thousand of cooking fires that burned throughout the mistress of the world each day. It was the city that would never fall, Aegea’s city…and now it was her city at last. Just looking at it was enough to make her feel a swell of pride.

  Before the city, barring her way, there stood a line of soldiers under the colours of the Seventh Legion. All part of the ceremony, of course, and yet…it was not an easy thing to face the soldiers of the Empire, even for their princess. And beyond them throngs of people lining the way: the patricians, the equestrians, the priesthood and the common citizens and freedmen, those who had their part to play in the great ceremony and those who simply wanted to witness the historic occasion. Doubly historic for, even as ascensions were rare enough in themselves, this particular ceremony had not been employed in five centuries since Thetis, the first and only since the founding, had proscribed the faith of Aegea and proclaimed herself not Princess Imperial but rather Empress, as her successors had done after her until Romana had restored not only the older title but the older form of the ascension. In time she hoped to restore the faith of Aegea, the worship of the Divine Empress who did not die but rose to life as eternal as the city, to its former glory and central place in the Empire also, but that was not something that could be achieved as simply as by Imperial decree.

  As she watched the line of the Seventh, formed as if in opposition to her, she saw the Imperial standard, the white wolf and the winged unicorn combatant upon a purple field, be raised and lowered again three times in swift succession.

  Romana smiled. Now we come to it. “That is the signal. Comes Atticus, start the column if you would.”

  Comes Cleombrotus Atticus, the Commander of the Imperial Guard, had a bald head with so pronounced a crown that his head almost resembled an egg. He bobbed that head up and down. “As you command, Majesty.” He raised one hand in the air. “Brigade will advance! Forward!”

  “Forward!” the word was passed down the ranks of the column, bellowed out by officers and sergeants until all the rank and file new to be ready.

  Atticus’ hand swept down like a hawk descending upon a field mouse. “March!”

  Romana urged her horse forward as the drums began to beat and the ground began to echo to the tramp of thousands of men marching behind her. She led the way, her guardsmen and attendants following behind, to the sound of drums and trumpets and the tramp of feet and the clip-clop sound of horses’ hooves upon the road.

  The old ceremony, the traditional ceremony, mimicked in miniature the march of Aeneas, son of Aegea, to Eternal Pantheia after his mother had ascended to heaven in the Argonian foothills. Escorted by Lord Achates and his army, and joined by those of the nobility who had loved Aegea best and rallied most swiftly to his cause, his progress swollen in every village through which he marched by loyal men, Aeneas had been forced to confront another army led by Aegea’s right arm, the Lord Commenae of that day, who was both Commander of the Army and First Sword of the Empire. Then, having won the Lord Commenae to his cause, Aeneas had then been opposed by a militia of rustic levies under the son of Lord Ilioneus, who sought to usurp the throne of Eternal Pantheia for himself. But the militia had been unwilling to fight, and the majesty of Aeneas had compelled them to give up their commander, bound and gagged, and to kneel and acclaim Aeneas as their prince. Then Aeneas had marched to the gate of Eternal Pantheia itself, where the magistrates and magnates of the city had opened up the gates to him and professed their loyalty, which they then proved by presenting Lord Ilioneus in chains to the son and rightful heir of Aegea. And so, while the style of Prince Imperial endured, that procession had been mirrored in the procession of new princes into the capital and their rightful seat.

  And so, in honour of that august tradition, as Romana passed the cheering crowds that lined the Aegean Way those good folk who had come to see and celebrate her fell in behind her column of marching guards to swell her progress on the Purple Throne, crying out her name as followed in her wake.

  At last, sweeping down the road, carrying the crowd behind her like a flood, Romana led her followers down the road until they came to the line of the Seventh Legion and that line, unlike the cheering crowds who had seen her and then followed her, did not stand aside. Rather it stood bestride the road, with shields locked, barring her way.

  The column halted. The guards came to a stop in good order and the people behind with but a little more confusion. Leaving her escorts behind, Romana rode her horse ahead a few paces, until she was but twenty feet distant of the legionaries, and waited for their commanders to come to her.

  There were two of them. By custom their should have been three: the Lord Commenae, the Commander of the Army and the First Sword of the Empire, unless one of them held more than one position, which was not uncommon in the Empire’s history, but on this particular day there were but two because Romana had been too impatient for her ascension to wait for Lord Belisarius to arrive from Triazica to play his part. However, she had every confidence that the two before her would be able to muddle through without him.

  On her right approached Alexius, Lord Commenae, the current Lord Commenae, armoured in a cuirass of scales that shone so brightly that Romana had to avert her eyes from him. His eyes were blue, and his flaxen hair, though unimpeded by any helmet atop his head, was tied back in queue. It was on his account that it was the Seventh Legion participating in this ceremony, for Romana had restored to him his rank as Legate and commander of the Seventh, which had been taken from him in another instance of the foolishness and spiteful nature of Demodocus. The Commenae family were the oldest surviving patrician family in the Empire, and the wealthiest to boot, though they had earned all of their wealth and their considerable pride through centuries of go
od and faithful service to the state. This current lord was not her friend, but nor was he her enemy, and Romana hoped that she might make a friend of him in time, that he might serve her as his great ancestor had served Aegea and Aeneas in his time.

  She noted how the Lord Commenae very carefully avoided looking at the man on his right, and to her left: Michael, Lord Callistus; Michael Sebastian Callistus Dolabella Commmenae ban Ezekiel to give him the name that charted his recent progress from slave in an arena in Corona province to Aegea’s anointed champion and adopted son of the Lord Commenae’s late and unlamented uncle Gideon. The two men could scarcely have been more different: one the heir to the greatest name – excepting, of course, Romana’s own – in all the Empire, the other born to humble means and reduced to slavery in his time. The Lord Commenae, tall and handsome, blond and blue eyed and fair-skinned and possessed of the sort of pretty face to be immortalised in statuary, with a youthful look that had persisted in spite of the fact that he was in his mid twenties and a father of two already; Lord Callistus – Michael, as Romana could not help but think of him, for when they had met he had been as far from lordship as he had been from liberty – was but twenty years of age but seemed older, he was a little short and his round, slightly squashed face was not precisely what would have been called handsome, his eyes were a common brown and his black hair hung untidily around his face. Where the Lord Commenae sat gracefully upon an iron grey charger, Lord Callistus looked visibly uncomfortable upon a borrowed mare that Romana had lent to him for the occasion.

  And yet…though it might have seemed strange at first, this awkward figure in his black tunic, with manicae of lacquered green upon his arms and a threadbare cape of red hanging down behind him, there was a kind of glamour about Michael, something that drew her to him that the Lord Commenae lacked. Perhaps it was the obvious touch of Aegea upon him, that Romana had noticed the first time they met and of which she was, quite frankly, envious. Perhaps it was his quaint and curious Coronim manners, or simply the fact that he had saved the Empire from Quirian and the grief of his own sister. For whatever reason…Romana had not been given leave to choose her own First Sword, but if Aegea had offered her the choice she would have chosen this man without a second’s hesitation.