Sabian glanced across at Salonius, who nodded.
“Officer Salonius of the captain’s guard in the Fourth will second Varro. And Cristus?”
The prefect smiled.
“I nominate captain Crino as my second, though I cannot imagine for a second that I will need him.”
Sabian shifted his gaze to the named captain, standing with his unhappy troops, enclosed in a ring of men emanating a low but clearly discernable air of detestation and disapproval. Crino grimaced, clearly unhappy with his lot, and finally nodded reluctantly.
“Very well. Varro and Salonius; Cristus and Crino.”
He gestured to Iasus, who adjusted his black cloak and removed his plumed helm. The strict guard captain squared his shoulders and stepped forward, opening a gap in the shield wall and entering the arena.
He called out in an officious tone “Under article fourteen of the codex of Imperial military law, Captain Varro has requested trial by combat.”
He turned to the captain.
“State your accusations for the record and be witnessed by all here as representatives of the Emperor and his council.”
Varro shrugged wearily.
“This traitorous piece of shit has called on himself the death penalty time and again, according to the standards of military law. He consorted with the enemy at Saravis Fork and sold out a garrison to the barbarians to become slaves or worse… penalty: death.”
Some of the weariness seemed to drop from Varro’s frame and he pulled himself upright, his voice gaining volume.
“He lied to his commanding officer and his peers, claiming honours and victories that were not his, gaining prestige and position by condemning his own men and covering his tracks with bloodshed and deliberately heavy losses… penalty: death.”
His arm shot out and an accusing finger pointed at Cristus.
“He employed assassins and secreted them among the men of the Fourth, with orders to kill myself, sergeant Petrus, Salonius, and possibly even the lady Catilina, succeeding in the death of my cousin Petrus, a hero and survivor of the Saravis Fork massacre… penalty: death.”
The captain growled.
“And last night his men besieged us in a ruined villa not far from here. His attack almost killed the marshal’s daughter, who was wounded in the process. And now that I think of it, that’s the third time we’ve been attacked by Cristus’ men. This is basically a declaration of war against two officers and a civilian… penalty: death.”
He stepped back and took a breath.
“If he’s allowed to go on, he’ll continue to lie, cheat, betray and murder, only in higher levels, on the Imperial ruling council. He has to be stopped now for the good of the Empire.”
Captain Iasus waited a long moment to be sure that Varro had finished and then turned to Cristus.
“Prefect? Do you wish to state your case?”
Cristus sighed and gave a sad little smile that he flashed around the crowd of soldiers present.
“Perhaps, if I thought it worthwhile. Captain Varro has fallen under the spell of an unpleasant and thoroughly false rumour concerning my past, spread maliciously by a man who is now conveniently deceased and can no longer confirm or deny it. He has victimised and hounded myself and my officers and, I believe, has already turned most of my peers against me. I fear that in the eyes of my contemporaries, I am already guilty. And so, I am left with only one option: to accept Varro’s challenge and leave the proof of my innocence on his body. I have faith in my cause, my Gods and my skill.”
He folded his arms, the blade of his sword wavering slightly and catching the rays of the morning sun, flashing them back around the crowd.
Varro coughed, though Salonius saw his face and was sure he heard the word ‘arsehole’ disguised in there. In other circumstances the juvenile behaviour would have made him laugh.
Iasus took a step back from the arena’s edge and glanced up the slope at Sabian, who nodded slightly. Clearing his throat, the guard captain once more addressed the combatants.
“Can there be no peaceable resolution?”
Varro growled “No.”
“Very well then.” Iasus pointed to two ends of the makeshift arena. “The regulations laid out under military law for this are as follows: The combatants will separate to a distance of thirty paces before we start. Combat will begin when I call the order. There are no restrictions given to the precise nature of combat, and so the employment of certain tactics is down to the conscience of the individual.”
He paused to let his words sink in and then took another breath.
“A halt can be called at any time by either party by addressing the adjudicator, that is myself. Equally, I have the right to call a halt at any point. No other party may stop the combat, though they may approach me to do so. Combat will end when only one party remains alive. At that point, the second of the losing combatant may elect to issue their own challenge and step into the arena. The winner of the combat is absolved of any crime for which he stands accused and may return to active service on clearance by the medical staff. The remains of the loser will be dealt with appropriately. Are these regulations clear?”
Varro and Cristus chorused their understanding.
“Then let the parties separate by walking a further ten paces apart from where they currently stand.”
Varro crouched and, jabbing his sword in the ground, picked up a handful of dry dirt, rubbing it into his hands before retrieving the blade and standing again. With a quick glance at the retreating figure of Cristus, he spat once on the floor and then turned his back and walked away, counting his paces.
Catilina leaned close to Salonius.
“Can he actually win? Cristus may be more of a politician than a general, but he prides himself on his swordsmanship. He’s won competitions.”
The young man nodded unsurely.
“I didn’t realise Cristus was that good, but Varro’s still going to win. Cristus has rigid thinking. He can only see black and white. Varro’s cleverer than that. The captain won’t win because he’s better with a sword; he’ll win because he can outthink the prefect.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Salonius continued to nod.
“I am. I know I am.”
Catilina swallowed nervously and briefly flicked her eyes toward the eaves of the sacred wood and then focused on Varro, standing poised to one side of the arena, glaring at his opponent, who swung his sword in figure eights with a flourish.
Iasus’ sharp voice made her jump.
“Begin!”
Cristus stepped forward, still swinging his blade in elaborate arcs, smiling confidently. Varro pursed his lips, glanced once, quickly at Catilina and mouthed something that Salonius couldn’t quite see, and then began to walk forward slowly and purposefully, his sword held straight in his hand and his eyes locked on his adversary.
Salonius tensed and felt Catilina’s good hand grasp his wrist. He encompassed her small and delicate hand in his and cast a sidelong glance at her. A single tear ran down her cheek, past her hardened, resolute features.
Varro struck first.
It was a thorough, hard, military blow; backhanded and aimed horizontally at elbow height. As he’d predicted, Cristus suffered a fleeting moment of indecision as to how to block the blow before hurriedly raising his blade and bringing it back down, awkwardly and barely in time to turn the blow away.
Varro took a step back.
“That’s your problem, you see, Cristus? You’ve only ever fought gentlemen under peaceable circumstances. You’ve never fought anyone who’s only goal is to kill you. That’s why you’ll lose.”
Cristus stepped back.
“You’re an idiot Varro,” he said, quietly enough to be inaudible beyond the pair of them. “You’ve damaged my reputation almost beyond repair. If I’m to come out of this smelling sweet, I need to make this a show. I need them to think I deserved to win. You’re just going to look like a thug.”
Varro growled and suddenly lu
nged, thrusting his sword at Cristus’ belly. The man laughed and wheeled aside, bringing his own blade down on Varro’s theatrically, with a ringing noise. In an almost blinding flash of speed, the prefect’s blade flicked across the captain’s hand guard and scraped along the wood and leather contraption Salonius had created. Within, Var5ro heaved a sigh of relief. Even that fancy scratch could have ended it. He looked up at Cristus, who was smiling benignly.
“Tut tut, captain. Calmly, now.”
Spinning around to face the man again, Varro felt a wrenching in his side. He reached down and grasped his waist, his eyes momentarily blurring.
“Not yet…”
“What was that?” Cristus chuckled. “Your wound and the venom causing trouble. Please rise above it. If I finish this too quickly it’s such a wasted opportunity.”
Varro suddenly winced and dropped to all fours, making a hacking sound. Cristus sighed as he wandered casually over to the stricken captain.
“Come on, Varro. Get up and die on your feet.”
Varro grinned. In a lightning quick move, he rolled onto his side, bringing his sword down to the grass, directly onto Cristus’ foot. With satisfaction, he drove the blade through flesh and bone and into the earth, breaking several bones in the middle of the man’s foot and pinning him agonisingly to the floor.
Cristus stared down in shock and horror at his maimed foot as Varro rolled back out of reach and slowly and painfully climbed to his feet.
“Never be drawn in by deception, you piece of shit.” He tapped his wounded side and smiled at the dull, echoey thudding noise.
Cristus moved ever so slightly and, as the muscles in his foot tore further around the deeply-wedged blade, let out a piercing shriek that cut through the silence of the hillside. Varro laughed.
“You are a good swordsman, Cristus. You’re also an idiot, a liar, a traitor and shortly a corpse. Best concentrate on pulling that blade out of your foot. Can’t reach me until you do, and the blood’s trickling away slowly.”
As he spoke, he began slowly to circle Cristus. The prefect attempted to keep his front facing the captain but, as Varro circled behind him, it was impossible. Even the effort made his face contort with the agony shooting up from his foot. Varro stopped directly behind him, smiled, and very, very gently kicked the stricken leg from behind. Cristus shrieked again, so loud that the birds left the canopy of the sacred wood. Combat all but forgotten, the prefect reached down toward the hilt of the sword pinning him, his mouth opening and closing in an ‘O’ of exquisite horror and agony.
With a calm smile, Varro reached out and gently plucked the man’s sword from his hand. The smile deepened as Cristus tried to turn once more and raised a hand to ward off the blow. Almost causally, Varro swung the prefect’s sword, cutting the fingers from the raised hand.
Fresh agony rang through Cristus as he stared first at his hand, with only a ‘V’ of thumb and forefinger remaining, the others lying like uncooked meat on the grass. With a grisly, determined look, Varro took his other arm by the wrist.
Cristus stared at him, repeatedly mouthing the word ‘no’ through a veil of tears, though no sound issued.
Varro stopped.
“You want mercy? You? After the deaths you’ve caused, you have the audacity to ask for mercy. Catilina’s wounds? Petrus’ death? And that poor messenger too? The soldiers in the valley station who didn’t even know what they were dying for? Turning Corda against me? And after all that, my wound and the poison? And you want mercy?”
Cristus stared at him, the pain and shock clearly evident, but another strange look of confusion joining them.
“Poison?”
Varro growled and tightened his grip on the man’s wrist.
“Yes. The Ironroot. Very subtle. Much more subtle than the rest of your activities…”
Cristus stared through the tears.
“I’ve never used Ironroot, Varro. I wouldn’t even know where to get it this far north.”
Sighing, Varro swung the blade and cut a single finger from Cristus’ hand.
“I know that me winning proves your fault anyway, but I’d really appreciate you unburdening yourself of your guilt quite noisily so that everyone else can hear it.”
Cristus whimpered, staring at his hand, still in the captain’s grip.
“I’ll confess to anyone. Just stop torturing me!”
Varro growled again.
“Then tell me how you got the poison to that barbarian!”
“What barbarian? What are you talking about, Varro? Please?”
The captain stopped and frowned.
“The Imperial sword. The nice officer’s sword that barbarian stuck me with? Covered in Ironroot? The one that killed me?”
Cristus stopped crying. For a horrible moment, he began to smile. Even through the tears and the pain, the prefect’s sides began to shake with laughter.
“What’s funny?” Varro barked.
“You!” Cristus coughed out. “You did all this to pay me back for something I didn’t do! Priceless. Oh, the Gods like a joke, Varro. They love a good joke, and this one’s on both of us. You’ve ruined me in retaliation for something I didn’t do, and now you’re going to die without even finding out who really did!”
Varro stared at this laughing maniac and suddenly felt a sharp pain. Staring down, he realise that Cristus had used his two remaining fingers on the other hand to draw a small, slender knife from his belt and thrust it into the captain’s side. Still gripping Cristus’ wrist, he stared in shock and suddenly collapsed to his knees, bringing the prefect with him. With a tearing noise the disfigured man’s foot tore in half around the blade in the floor.
Cristus drew his small knife back in his maimed hand, the blade making curious sounds as it tore back out through the leather support, and laughed again.
“Varro, Ironroot is an ingestive, you idiot. It would probably do you some damage on a blade, but not enough to be fatal. If only I had some on this blade, I could make your last minutes a little more interesting.”
He thrust forward with the blade again, going for the chest this time, but Varro’s own hand swung up, bearing his opponent’s sword and breaking the offending arm at the wrist.
Staring it his limp, broken hand, Cristus giggled.
“Best put me out of my pain Varro. I need to die first or my cause wins and I die a free and honoured soldier. And you’ll not even make it to the marshal. I know my anatomy, Varro. That was your liver. See how the blood pooling out at your belt and running down your leg is nice and dark? Darker than mine? That’s liver, that is. I…”
Mid sentence, the prefect stopped, his eyes glazing over as the tip of Varro’s sword broke through the man’s back and out through his tunic with a tearing sound. Cristus slumped over him, a mangled, bleeding mess.
Varro toppled backwards to the ground and looked down at his legs, tangled beneath him.
“Dark.”
It was true. The blood running in thick streams down his thigh was dark and wicked.
Clutching at the grass with whitening knuckles, he forced himself to his knees and looked around. Everything was blurred, as though seen through a pain of glass in heavy rain.
Rain.
It has been raining when he’d first met Catilina. He remembered it well. At Vengen. He’d reported to the senior officer in the square before the marshal’s palace. The rain was turning the gravel and dirt beneath his feet into a browny-grey mud that clung to his boots. He knew he looked dirty and haggard from a long ride, but then the palace doors had opened and she had appeared in her finery, a young lady; much younger than him, but so beautiful.
He smiled wistfully as he looked down at his knees and thighs, soaked through with deep, dark, red; the colour of Catilina’s dress that day, if he remembered correctly.
She had climbed onto her horse and walked it slowly across the square toward the civilian sector, pulling her hood up against the rain. Half way across the square she’d first looked at him. S
he’d stared and then slowly warmed to a smile. Rummaging in a pocket, she produced a coin and tossed it to him.
“Get indoors somewhere and get some wine while you dry off.”
With a lingering look, she’d ridden off.
He’d known that day that they’d be together til death. Curiously it hadn’t occurred to him it would happen this soon, but still, he’d known. And he was right, because here she was, his beautiful Catilina, with him in the arena. He couldn’t see at all now. Everything was a milky white, but his nose still worked. Even days on the road and nights in the woods hadn’t disguised that scent, like roses in the early morning dew. And other hands too; strong hands. He recognised those hands. Who did they belong to again?
There was a pain as he was slowly helped to his feet. He vaguely recognised the heady sensation of standing suddenly; light-headed. The pain was nicely distant. Like something experienced through that same window. If only he could see through the window, but it was so white. And someone was talking to him. He could hear that there were voices, but they were drowned under the surging noises in his ears, like a great torrent of water rushing down a gulley; like the bridge where they’d fought Cristus’ men in the mountain village. Such a loud rushing that there was little hope of hearing the voices. Shame, really. Catilina had a lovely voice when she wasn’t shouting, and Salonius… that was his name… Salonius… he had such a soft and calm voice for an engineer. He’d miss them.
Oh dear. He couldn’t smell Catilina anymore.
Silence.
Salonius gripped the slumped body of his captain with his left arm, holding him upright with all his strength, his right arm clamped tightly around the shoulders of the shuddering woman beside him. Catilina wailed and howled, shaking and snorting. Though only moments passed, it felt like hours to the young man, supporting the two most important people in his life. He waited patiently for the grief to plateau and finally the shaking subsided, the cries turned to sobs and the distraught young lady began to take her own weight once more.
Ironroot (Tales of the Empire) Page 33