The Tiger’s Imperium

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  But this too was not how Stiger recalled it. The hall was dim, almost completely dark, with only a handful of burning lamps scattered about. The large braziers placed next to each column had not been lit. These would normally keep the hall heated and the chill at bay. That and an overly large fire pit, which sat in the direct center of the hall. Directly above the fire pit was open sky.

  When the house had been built, it had been constructed with a round hole set in the roof. This allowed the smoke to escape. Conversely, it also allowed the rain and weather in. The floor curved down slightly toward the fire pit. There were drains under it, so that when it rained, the water had somewhere to go, rather than pooling and flooding the home.

  Without the opening in the roof and the light it provided, Stiger would have been able to see little of the grand hall. He hesitated a moment, glancing about, wondering if a trap had been laid. He saw no one hiding in the shadows.

  “I don’t see anyone either,” Eli said, after scanning the hall. He had clearly had the same thought of ambush.

  Stiger relaxed. Elven eyes were superior to a human’s in the dark.

  “Not exactly a warm homecoming,” Eli said. “In fact, it’s almost as cold in here as it is outside.”

  “No,” Stiger agreed, “definitely not a welcome home. Then again, look who was waiting just outside when we arrived.”

  Stiger shifted his gaze back to the fire pit. It had been stacked with chopped logs, but the fire had yet to be lit. Basically, the stage had been set for a good fire. Arranged around the pit were chairs and a couch for reclining. A table with a pitcher and several cups had been set just off to the side. Beyond that, there were no other furnishings in the hall.

  Stiger recalled the place of his youth as seemingly afire with light, as every lamp and candle available, along with the fireplace, had been lit. His mother and father had held lavish parties, entertaining guests by the dozens here. He could even remember his mother laughing and singing with guests as hired musicians played popular or catchy tunes. She’d had a lovely voice. It was only a distant memory, and yet the sound of it seemed to still echo off the walls.

  “This is your home?” Therik asked, sounding dubious. “Are you certain we are in the right place?”

  “Corus being here did not convince you?” Stiger asked, looking over.

  “You are a Stiger after all,” Therik said. “Everyone we’ve come across seems to know your family.” Therik held out both arms. “I just expected more.”

  “Me too,” Stiger said as he ran his gaze about the room once more. Ever since his mother’s death, the place had seemed cold, sterile, and without life. Now, it was worse.

  Stiger started forward toward the unlit fire. Around the fire pit, a large mosaic had been laid. It told of the story of the Three Brothers—the High Father, Neptune, and Pluto—dividing up the world between them. The mosaic was a work of incredible art, one that Stiger as a child had not fully appreciated. Now, things were different.

  Stiger stopped, studying the mosaic. He was the direct instrument, the weapon of one of the brothers, the most powerful of the three. The mosaic showed the High Father taking the heavens, Neptune the sea, and Pluto claiming the underworld. Beyond the columns, there were elaborate frescos telling more of the story in elaborate detail. In the darkness, Stiger could not fully see them.

  With the struggle for this world, he wondered what Pluto and Neptune were doing. So far, he’d only seen the High Father, Thulla, Tanithe, and Divernus intercede to actively stop Castor and Valoor from gaining dominance. What were all of the other gods doing? Were they operating in the High Father’s interest or against the great god? Were some working with Valoor? It was an interesting thought and one he’d not considered before. It was possible some might pose a threat. There was just so much he did not know.

  He would have to ask Restus about it, at least when the man was better. Perhaps even speaking with Menos or Ogg would help. That was, if the opportunity presented itself. Both had abruptly left without word. Not for the first time did Stiger wonder on where they had gone. He found it incredibly frustrating.

  His gaze traveled to his feet and the white marble tile that had been placed just before the mosaic. The normally polished tile was covered in a layer of dust. He moved his boot across the floor, shifting the dust aside. The place appeared to not have been cleaned in a long while. It needed a good, deep cleaning. He continued forward and stopped before the fire pit.

  Eli stepped up to his side. “I must admit, I am disappointed.”

  “You and I both,” Stiger said.

  A door banged open and a slave appeared from a side passage to their left. That door led to the servants’ quarters and the main kitchen. The slave approached and Stiger saw it was the same one he had spotted earlier, a boy, barely out of his teens. He bowed in respect, though in a somewhat awkward fashion. Blinking repeatedly, his eyes kept shifting between Eli and Therik, as if he could not believe he was seeing an elven ranger and orc in person. Then he seemed to remember himself.

  “How … how …?” he stuttered as Therik’s intense gaze turned on him. The boy almost stopped talking, then recovered. “How may I help you, masters?” The slave’s tone cracked with the last and Stiger noticed his trembling hands, which he held tightly together before him.

  “I am Bennulius Stiger. What is your name, son?”

  The slave tore his gaze from Therik. His mouth fell slowly agape as his eyes widened. He made to speak, but no words came out.

  Hoping to calm the boy, Stiger softened his tone. “What is your name, son? It is okay. I am a friend, and this is my home.”

  “Miso, master.” The slave’s expression went from one of shock to what Stiger took to be awe. The trembling became outright shaking.

  “Where is everyone?” Stiger asked. “Where are the rest of the servants?”

  “It is only me, the cook and—and—the two masters,” Miso answered. “There is no one else and has not been for some years.”

  Stiger thought on that a moment. When he’d left for the legions, there had been more than a dozen slaves and servants to care for the home and the family’s every need. “By the two masters, I take it you mean my father and brother?”

  “I do, master,” Miso said and gestured toward the far side of the hall. “Both are speaking with the soldiers that just came through here in the private receiving room.”

  “They will be out shortly, then,” Eli said.

  Stiger gave a nod. The private receiving room was a small space where Stiger’s father could speak in private with close associates, important clients, or business partners.

  “Do you know where Senator Navaro lives?” Stiger asked.

  “I do, master,” Miso said. His nervousness seemed to abruptly increase. “His home is two blocks away. It is not far—not far at all.”

  “Run there,” Stiger said. “Fetch the senator. Tell him I require his presence as soon as humanly possible. I want him here. Got that?”

  Miso gaped and did not move. He seemed suddenly fearful. Why, Stiger had no idea. He chalked it up to the boy’s nerves of the moment.

  “Did you misunderstand my instruction?” Stiger asked, wondering if the boy’s nerves were getting the better of him.

  “No, master,” Miso said. “I just … I just … he … that …”

  “As a slave, he’s likely concerned about directly telling a senator anything,” Eli said to Stiger and then addressed Miso. “Boy, pass this message on to one of the servants of Navaro. His emperor commands Senator Navaro’s presence here and he’s to hurry … Emperor Stiger wants to see him. That should not be too difficult to accomplish and will be a mite easier for you to do.”

  “I do—but—I—he …”

  “No buts.” Stiger gestured toward the door behind them. He had wasted enough time and wanted to see his father. “Go now.”

  Miso bowed hastily and left at a run, going out the way they had just come.

  “Perhaps you should ha
ve sent someone with him,” Eli said, after Miso had gone, “one or more of Ruga’s men to make certain the message was communicated properly. He was a little nervous. It is possible the telling of it may come out jumbled. Navaro might think you are coming to see him.”

  Therik gave a low rumbling laugh. “That would be something.”

  Stiger looked over at Eli and shook his head. “Where was this sage advice a moment ago? You have great timing. You know that, right?”

  Eli gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. “At the time, I did not think of it.”

  “Uh huh,” Stiger said. “Hindsight is a bitch. Is that your excuse?”

  “You forget,” Eli said, “High Born never make excuses because we are never wrong.”

  “Is that so?” Stiger asked, turning to face Eli. “I seem to recall a few instances where you were most definitely wrong.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.” Eli flashed him an innocent look.

  “Uh huh,” Stiger said.

  “I think arguing with an elf is like arguing with a tree,” Therik said. “It’s a waste of time.”

  “You might be on to something there, Therik,” Eli said, amusement dancing in his eyes as he gazed upon Stiger.

  “You’ve gotten older,” a familiar voice said. There was a hard edge to it and Stiger knew instantly to whom it belonged.

  He turned to see his father standing at the far end of the hall by one of the few lamps that had been lit. With his time in the past, it had been more than a decade since he had set eyes on his father. Stiger remembered an imposing man, physically strong, full of life, powerful, demanding and expecting excellence in his sons. That is not what he saw now.

  Marcus Stiger wore a simple tunic with sandals. He had gone completely bald and seemed worn down by age and worries too innumerable to count. And yet, just beneath the surface, there was still toughness there … Stiger could sense it in his manner. Or was it an unyielding stubbornness? That was something Stiger knew resided within him, an inability to quit, to surrender to what others might think inevitable. He had inherited it from this man. That was at least one thing to be grateful for.

  Behind his father was Ruga, with his two men and the praetorians, as they filed through a doorway. Stiger’s brother Maxentius came just after.

  Max was older by four years. Wearing a tunic that matched his father’s, he was fair-looking, tall and thin, also proud. He had never served in the legions, or for that matter any military command, but he had served the empire in the senate.

  “You’ve aged too,” Stiger shot back at his father.

  Marcus gave an amused grunt as he started across the great hall toward them. He stopped halfway, hesitating for a heartbeat when Therik stepped out of the shadows and into the light of a lamp. He continued forward and stopped before them.

  “Eli,” Marcus greeted.

  Eli inclined his head as Marcus looked to Therik. An unhappy scowl formed on his father’s face. Therik did not back down, but stared intensely at Stiger’s father, meeting his gaze as a challenge.

  “You keep interesting company,” Marcus said to his son after a moment.

  “You have no idea,” Eli said.

  “Is it trained?” Marcus asked.

  “Trained?” Therik bristled. “You had best not mean like an animal. I am a full-blooded warrior of the Tahani Clan, human.” Therik took a step forward, balling his fists. “Because you are his father”—Therik pointed a finger at Stiger—“I will give you the benefit of doubt as to your meaning.”

  Eli gestured toward the orc. “May I be the first to introduce King Therik.”

  “King?” Marcus asked, looking at Therik more closely. “An orc king? Now, that is fascinating.”

  “I am king of nothing,” Therik said. “My kingdom was snatched from me. What was left—your son shattered into pieces, like a broken child’s toy.”

  Marcus turned his gaze to his youngest son. “Is he your servant then? A slave captured in battle?”

  Therik sucked in an offended breath.

  “He is my friend,” Stiger said firmly before Therik could speak. “He and I have fought side by side. Like Eli, I trust him with my life.” Stiger glanced at the orc. “I value Therik’s counsel.”

  “I see,” Marcus said.

  “And how he came to be in my company is a long story,” Stiger said. “One that is best told at another time.”

  “It is,” Therik agreed, “you could say, history now.”

  “I did not mean to offend, King Therik,” Marcus said. “You are the first orc I have met. It is my pleasure to welcome you to my home.”

  Therik inclined his head slightly, almost grudgingly. “I am honored to be here, Marcus Stiger.”

  Stiger breathed out a relieved breath, then glanced around before looking to Therik.

  “The kitchen is that way.” Stiger gestured toward the door that Miso had come through. “You might find some food in there.”

  “Food, right,” Therik said and started toward the door. He grabbed Eli by the shoulder and quite deliberately steered him in the same direction. “Come on, elf. He wants privacy for his reunion.”

  There was a moment where Eli seemed like to protest. But then he gave in and allowed Therik to lead him away.

  “I will keep him from eating the help,” Eli said over his shoulder. A moment later, both were gone, the door banging closed behind them.

  Stiger turned his attention to the sergeant. “Are there any more of your men in this house?”

  “No, sir,” Lanist said. “Just these two boys.”

  “Good,” Stiger said and turned his attention to Ruga. “Take your men and the sergeant’s outside. Put out sentries and look for trouble. I will call for you if I have need.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ruga said and nodded to the men. “Let’s go.”

  Stiger was about to address his father when another thought occurred to him.

  “Oh and Ruga?” Stiger called after him.

  Ruga stopped at the door, looking back. The others had filed out before him. The centurion turned. “Sir?”

  “A Senator Navaro should be arriving shortly,” Stiger said. “See that he’s admitted the moment he shows.”

  “That will not be happening,” Max said, speaking for the first time. “Lears had him executed last night. I believe it is not yet public knowledge. There were several senators who saw similar fates. Unfortunately, all were in a position to support Navaro.”

  “Some were also allies of ours,” Marcus said. “Lears has started to purge from the senate any who may oppose his hold on the curule chair. Those who were lucky to escape have surely fled the city. They will be of no use to us.”

  “Until you arrived,” Max said, “we were thinking we were next.”

  Stiger felt his heart plummet at that news. His list of friends and allies in the city was growing short, to the point of being nonexistent. He could no longer count on Navaro, Aetius, or Treim’s agents’ support. He wondered if the messenger, Lieutenant Kerrog, had suffered the same fate. The man had been General Treim’s nephew and a good officer. He would have to think of something else, perhaps even send a runner to Treim’s house. Aetius’s wife, Desindra, might know too. He turned back to Ruga. “In that case, just wait outside for me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ruga saluted crisply. He eyed Stiger’s father and brother for a long moment, almost speculatively, then spun on his heel and left.

  “He seems like a good man,” Marcus said, “a proper soldier.”

  “He is one of the best.” Stiger turned back to his father and brother. Max stepped forward and embraced Stiger warmly, patting him on the back. Though Max had not served with the legions, he was physically fit and had received some training. The evidence of that were the small scars on his hands and forearms.

  “I’ve missed you, little brother,” Max said, then stepped back and glanced at his tunic and hands, looking back up. “Your blood?”

  “No,” Stiger said. “It�
�s all Corus. I killed him just now in a duel.”

  “Like father like son, then,” Marcus said, with a proud note. “His father thought he could best me. I showed him the error of his ways, in a permanent fashion. He was a real bastard of a man too and if anyone deserved an end by the sword, it was him. I tell you, I was very glad it was I who gave him the killing thrust and not some other.”

  Stiger did not say anything to that as his brother stepped back.

  “We are more alike than you know,” Marcus said.

  “I very much doubt that,” Stiger said.

  “I see you are still holding a grudge.” Marcus stepped over to the table with a pair of pitchers, along with several cups and mugs. Stiger chose to not answer as his father filled a mug with what was clearly wine.

  Before him was the very reason for much of his suffering, the life he’d been forced to live. His father’s poor choices had shaped his life, set him down the path he now walked. Stiger thought that somewhat ironic. In a way, he should be thanking the man. But Stiger could and would not do that.

  “Of course you still blame me,” Marcus said and took a sip as he regarded his son. He grimaced slightly. “I am responsible for everything that’s happened to the family … including the deaths of your mother and sister. I do not deny any of it. Nor do I seek to hide from it. All that happened is the result of my choices alone, decisions I made.” He paused and took another sip from the mug, his gaze becoming distant. “However, I very much blame myself.”

  “Do you?” Stiger asked, more savagely than he’d expected. This confrontation, very much like the one with Corus, was long in building. “Do you really?”

  “More than you know,” Marcus said.

  “Somehow,” Stiger said, “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Ben,” Max warned. “You are not being fair.”