They passed a corner with an ironmonger’s that was closed as the shopkeeper would be still abed, and reached a wide crossroads surrounded by old buildings whitewashed and with red tile roofs. Kiva stopped at the crossroads and frowned. He beckoned to Clovis and Scauvus and then pointed up the side streets. “No point in being foolhardy. We’re being looked for as a unit. Clovis? Take Julian that way. Scout through the edge of town to the other end and then work your way back to the temple in the square. Scauvus? You take Pirus the south route and do the same. Move fairly fast. You’ve only got around half an hour before the streets will start to fill up, so I want you in the temple in twenty minutes at the latest. Stay out of sight and out of trouble.” His face serious, he added “and don’t go anywhere near the harbour. The town’s still asleep, but there’ll be people working down there.”
The men saluted quietly and then started to jog off down the side streets until they disappeared around the curve of the road and out of sight. Quintillian glanced around himself. The Grey Company were diminishing rapidly as people were sent on errands missions and now only five men walked down the road into the centre of the town. Kiva and Bors walked on either side of him, with Alessus and Thalo behind, paying careful attention to every window, door or alley they passed. They really were running out of time. The light was coming up fast now and Quintillian could pick out colour in the windows of houses.
The street was long and straight and as the light continually improved, so did the range of vision. Quintillian suddenly spotted an edifice far ahead in the centre of the street: a fountain ten or fifteen feet high carved in the forms of the Sea King and his mermaids. He smiled. “Funny thing Captain, but I’ve come full circle now. I passed that statue months ago just after we landed on the mainland. We went out to the north so I haven’t seen any of this part of town.”
Kiva nodded. “I know Serfium quite well. The town hasn’t changed, but the feeling of the place is different.”
“How long is it since you were last here?”
The captain shrugged. “At least ten years. I try not to come back too often; it’s not very pleasant for me and I’m a reminder of worse times to the people I know here.”
The captain picked up a little pace as they neared the central square. It was saddening to see the town he knew so well, that he’d called home for years, so different now. Gone was the happy festive atmosphere that was the heart and soul of the community in the old days. Thirty years ago generals, senators, governors and other rich or important men had private villas around Serfium and with them came family and attendants, servants and slaves. The whole town had thrived and embraced its Imperial status. Now Kiva walked past a hollow, cylindrical marble stump used as a flower planter. In his mind’s eye it still bore a magnificent bronze statue of the Emperor Corus the Great, conqueror of the steppes, dressed in the garb of a soldier. Without looking, he could remember across the square the statue of Basianus the Fair in priestly garb. There was no point in looking for the statue of Quintus the Golden, once ten feet high in marble and bronze and towering on its pedestal in front of the Tribunal building. That had been one of the first casualties of the new regime. Velutio had torn down all the Imperial statuary across his demesne, shattering the marble and melting down the bronze to arm more troops.
He looked up to see Quintillian watching him with a look of concern. He smiled weakly. “Sorry. Getting soft in my old age.”
Quintillian laughed gently. “Somehow I can’t see that.”
The captain stopped and the other four clustered around him. “What now?” asked the young man.
“Now?” Kiva repeated. He pointed ahead. “Now we go in there and hope there hasn’t been a change of priesthood in the past ten years.”
The temple of the Divine Triad dominated the square more even than the public Tribunal. Law and order had never been a great issue in Serfium, quiet coastal town of wealthy homes. The Tribunal had only really been used for regular public meetings and occasional minor disputes. The temple on the other hand, had to be grand enough to support some of the most important families in the Empire. There were only three cities in the Empire with larger temple complexes than Serfium, and one of those didn’t count, being dedicated to strange eastern Gods in Germalla.
The temple itself was circular, but with a curved porch of high marble columns facing the square; a portico of impressive dimensions itself. A triangular pediment above showed the birth of the Gods in a marble frieze that had seen better days, much of the paintwork having faded or flaked off. Behind the colonnade stood two high embossed bronze doors. They would not be locked; the doors of the Triad temples were never locked.
Quintillian whistled through his teeth. “That’s a big temple. The Temples of the triad on Isera are small comparatively.”
Kiva nodded. “A lot of that’s down to your grandfather. Basianus wanted no temple on the island to be bigger than his own. You see he may have been called ‘the fair’, but nicknames are rarely accurate.”
Quintillian frowned. “I didn’t know there was a temple to my grandfather on the island?”
“There isn’t now” the captain replied. “You see, your uncle became very egocentric long before any serious slide into … well anyway, you know what I mean. He had the temple Basianus built torn down and his Golden House built over the site. In fact some of the stonework was reused; I remember him building the place. He had all the statues of your grandfather put to one side and the bases were re-chiselled. Your grandfather’s name was removed from them all and replaced with his own. In fact, there aren’t many Imperial statues left now, but any time you find one of Quintus, there’s at least half a chance it’s actually Basianus with the name changed.”
Quintillian frowned. “You mean that even before he went insane he destroyed statues and temples of his own uncle?”
Kiva nodded. “Of course. It was standard practice when a previous Emperor had been condemned for anything in the public eye. He had to distance himself from Basianus you see?”
Quintillian nodded and stepped to keep up as the captain had begun to stroll toward the doors of the great temple.
They stepped into the shade of the colonnade and it was only then that Quintillian realised that the sun must actually officially be up now. A quarter of an hour ago there had been little difference in the grey half-light between being sheltered or in the open air. Now the eyes had to adjust as one stepped from the open air into the shade of a canopy.
The captain reached the doors and grasped a huge bronze handle, wrenching it to one side and heaving the doors slowly open. Normal practice was for the doors to be opened just after sunrise by the priests, but Kiva was in a hurry. The handle squeaked and screeched as it turned and strained and the veins stood out of the captain’s forehead as he hauled on the heavy bronze door, pulling it gradually open.
The main room of the temple within was a domed circular span, with small chapels and rooms leading off in various places. The main area of habitation was to the rear, through doors denied to all but the priesthood. This alone was the public space, but what a space! The dome was perhaps forty feet high in the centre, with a huge diameter. The room itself could easily contain the entire population of the town of Serfium. A dark look crossed the captain’s face. That very ability had been proved over twenty years ago while Velutio’s army had rampaged around Serfium hunting down the remaining soldiers of his opposition while the frightened populace flocked to the one place they felt safe. Hundreds of terrified people crowded into this room, listening to screams and sounds of battle outside; to occasional sounds of collapsing buildings and the roaring of flames. The captain shook his head to clear it of such memories. Not his memories, for he had been miles away with his horse on a hilltop, but he knew well what had happened in the town. Some of them had been his friends, and some of his friends had not made it to the temple and had been trampled, speared, burned or even raped in the streets before they could make it to sanctuary. A victorious army always h
ad to be tightly controlled by its commanders, or it could easily become a mob, but it seemed that Velutio had wanted a mob once the battle was over. A mob would give him fear, and fear was a very useful weapon to a new power.
As they stepped into the wide open central dome, a figure in a white robe stepped forward from the rear doors. He was an old man, perhaps even what one would consider venerable, with a short and well-tended beard and white hair cut in the old fashion. With a slight limp he stepped up the stairs onto the circular central platform and held his hand up in greeting.
“Kiva, my boy, it really is good to see you. I had feared the worst. Messengers ride into town every day now asking whether people have seen you. It must have been hell out there.”
The captain smiled and mounted the central platform himself, reaching out to shake hands with the elderly priest. “Pelian. You’re looking good. I’m afraid I’m going to have to impose on you and ask for sanctuary for myself and the rest of the company.”
The priest nodded. “Well you’d better come in the back and divest yourselves of your packs.”
Quintillian stepped up onto the platform, but the captain just watched the priest turn and walk across the room. “Pelian…” Kiva said, “what’s up?”
The priest stopped and turned. “Nothing Kiva. Why?”
The captain’s hand went now to his sword hilt. Quintillian opened his mouth, but got barely a syllable out before Kiva interrupted him. ”Shh!”
The priest smiled. “Come on, we have much to talk about.” This time, Quintillian picked up on the look in the old man’s eyes and realised that he hadn’t actually agreed to the captain’s request for sanctuary, more side-stepped it. The young man’s hand now also went to his sword pommel. Something was very wrong here and he had the feeling the priest was doing his best to warn them. The old man turned again for the rear door and it was at that moment that an arrow whistled out of the air above and struck the priest through the chest. Quintillian drew his sword, as did Kiva ahead of him and the other three behind. A figure appeared on the balustraded gallery that ran around the circumference of the dome, with a crossbow in hand. Quintillian’s sharp mind told him there were more than one, as his bow was loaded and he’d not had time to reload. Before he could think what to do, the captain had wrenched his throwing knives off the thongs round his neck and hurled them up into the open canopy. More by luck than by judgement, one of them grazed the bowman on the shoulder, the other fell considerably short and clattered to the marble floor, skittering across to the wall. Behind them the huge bronze doors clanged shut with a sound that reverberated around the central room. Simultaneously, ahead of them the door to the priests’ chambers slammed.
Behind him Quintillian heard the stretch of a bow string and the creak of the wood. An arrow whistled past his head as Thalo, probably the fastest and most accurate archer Quintillian had ever heard of, released. The arrow took the man Kiva had grazed directly in the forehead, slamming through the bone and knocking him backwards and out of sight on the balcony. Quintillian’s smile crashed from his face as the whistle and thud of the arrow was answered by the snapping sound of four or five crossbows releasing. Turning in horror, he saw Thalo jerking this way and that as the bolts plunged into his torso and head, his arms and legs flailing and spasming as though he danced.
He heard himself shout something as he ran towards the company’s archer, but had no idea what it was. Panic and grief hit him in waves and that horror amplified yet again as he saw Bors running for the stairs to the side that led up and onto the balcony. It was such a wide open space he’d never have stood a chance. Another two crossbows released, hitting the big gentle man at the same time, both in the back, and hurling him across the room, where he landed at the foot of the steps and lay there jerking rhythmically. Quintillian knew enough to know that the man was already dead but that his nerves wouldn’t let him rest yet.
Kiva was already moving, though Quintillian was riveted to the spot. His life had turned upside down in a matter of seconds. He’d lost two of the group who mattered to him more than anyone, and he was in danger of losing the other two. He saw Alessus and Kiva making for the rear door.
“No!” he screamed. For just a moment, Kiva stopped running. Perhaps he thought the lad had been hurt but he stopped and, a moment later, so did Alessus. A shudder of relief ran through Quintillian as he saw a dozen crossbowmen leaning over the balustrade. There was precious little hope the two would have even reached the door, let along force it open before they were both exterminated as the other two had been.
Again, he found his head turning. The body of Bors lay still, the jerking having finished, his head and one arm on the stairs. The way he had rolled as he fell, the two bolts had been driven deep into his beck and then sheared off at the entry point. His long sword, the largest single handed sword Quintillian had ever seen, lay some six feet away where it had slid as he hit the floor. A pool of dark blood was slowly spreading across the white marble at the foot of the stairs. Too dark. One of the bolts had gone through his liver. Taking in the horrifying scene, his head still turned until he found Thalo, lying with an arm and a leg folded beneath him, the way he had fallen. His bow lay close by and his eyes stared at the centre of the dome, unable to close. His mind flickered through scenes from the last two months: Thalo nodding seriously at him as their arrows came down from the farmhouse wall and took down an enemy soldier before the archer raced away to beat Marco to the loot; Bors, only two nights ago, grinning and handing him a canteen he thought was water only to find it was filled with fiery, thick liquor. Other scenes of their travels, both happy and sad, but all of comrades; comrades now gone. Quintillian was angry.
“Captain” he called out. “They want me; you’re incidental. Don’t give them a reason to kill you.”
A voice from high above echoed his sentiments. “The boy’s right. I don’t really care whether we take you in living or dead. In fact dead would be easier, but I think his lordship would prefer you alive.”
Kiva stepped back. Unable to see over the balustrade from his position near the rear door, he walked backwards toward Quintillian, with Alessus close by. Not far from the centre of the circle he stopped and looked up at the figure on the balustrade: a thin and perhaps even slightly effeminate man. “Phythian?” he called. “That you?”
“Of course it’s me Tregaron. How many other people make such a use of crossbows in this number? I told you a year ago in Burdium that you’d not stand a chance if we’d been on different sides.”
The captain snarled. “Why kill Thalo and Bors. You know them for fuck’s sake!”
The man he’d called Phythian smiled a dead smile. “You’ve got too much of a reputation these days Tregaron. We’re all well aware of how dangerous the Grey Company are, so we all shoot first and then decide what we should have done.”
The captain growled. “So what now?”
Phythian shrugged. “We wait for the other four and then take you all to Velutio and see how much the lord will give us if we don’t have the full set. I don’t suppose you’d like to tell us where your sergeant and the other three are, would you?”
Kiva snarled again. “Tythias got them back in the hills” he lied. “They won’t be giving him any trouble. The murdering bastard had them knifed in their sleep.”
Phythian nodded. “Very well. The Lion Riders will have to claim the rest. Still, we’ll be sitting pretty just from what we have. I think by now you’ve traditionally dropped your weapons when you know you’re surrounded and there’s no hope.”
Kiva dropped his sword. Quintillian blinked. He hadn’t for a moment considered that there really wasn’t a way out; the captain always had something up his sleeve. As Alessus also dropped his blade with a low growl though, he realised that he would die if he didn’t join them. Swallowing back the misery he let his fine blade, the one that had once belonged to Jorun of the Lion riders, fall to the marble with a clatter. Two of the men from the balcony trotted down the stairs
and edged round the three of them without getting too close, collecting up their weapons. The captain growled at them and then looked up at his captor.
“Do you have any idea who this boy is that you’ve laid your hands on?”
Phythian laughed. “Wrong question Tregaron. Do I care is what you need to ask.”
“You might” replied Kiva “ if you knew.”
Phythian trotted lightly down the stairs to where the three of them stood. The other soldiers had collected all the weapons now and were busy dragging the bodies behind the stair case. He smiled that snake-eyed dead smile again as he walked round the three in a slow circle. He stopped in front of the boy. “Let me guess. He’s someone important enough that you think it’ll change my mind.” He stared deep into Quintillian’s eyes. “Ah yes. He has to be one of the Imperial line. Curious, since I thought they’d all died. Nice try Tregaron, but you see if he were a God, as they say the Emperors were, then this wouldn’t happen, would it?”
He raised his hand and one of the archers above let loose a bolt that plunged deep into Quintillian’s thigh, ripping through the muscle until it protruded from the flesh at the rear.
“Presumably Gods aren’t indestructible then.” Phythian gave a laugh that was as dead as his smile and cradles his hands.
“Get in the back chambers” he told the three.
Kiva and Alessus reached out to help Quintillian walk. He had gone pale with shock and, though the wound was far from mortal, a surprising amount of blood trailed along the floor as they half-supported, half-dragged the young man across the floor toward the rear exit. The captain stopped as they reached the door and it opened of its own accord. Beyond another six men stood in the priests’ robing chamber, crossbows already levelled at them. Kiva’s hope for an escape from the rear chambers faded instantly. The bodies of half a dozen priests lay strewn around the floor of their own chambers. Phythian was unlikely to be turned around with any kind of appeal to reason or honour if such sacrilege was not beneath him. He turned to look at the cold, mad man that had brought them to this and spat on the floor.
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