You could lose his soul in those eyes, Metrotis thought.
The man did not have a single blemish on his skin: no spot, scar, freckle or bump marred his features. Metrotis knew that beneath the plain white smock the man wore, the same was true of his entire body. He bore no sign of imperfection. He was perfectly proportioned, as if he had been sculpted rather than born, every muscle clearly defined. Outwardly, he appeared to be about thirty years of age; the only clue to this was in the masculinity of his features and the maturity of his physique. It was clear to anyone who looked that he was not fresh from adolescence, but a man in the prime of his life.
Metrotis had observed the man before him in this manner for weeks, and remained deeply frustrated by his lack of progress with the subject. Whereas the barbarian, Wulf – held captive just down the corridor – was now verbose to the point of irritation, through his translator. Metrotis considered that if he had to hear of Wulf’s prowess in battle – or indeed the bedroom – one more time, his head would split.
In stark contrast to Wulf, this prisoner often did not even appear to be present in the true sense of the word. He ate; he slept, although very little. He urinated and defecated where he was supposed to, once he had been shown what to do, and he was capable of following simple directions and gestures. Other than that, the image of masculine perfection seemed an empty and barren husk.
It was a puzzle to Metrotis. He had always loved solving puzzles. At first, he had believed his uncle Martius’s assertion that the man was a soldier who had received a blow to the head during the battle at Sothlind, but the man showed no obvious signs of trauma.
In consternation, Metrotis had consulted the physicians at the healer’s temple: they told him it was not unheard of for a man to lose his memory at times of great trauma or stress, even without a severe head wound. Metrotis considered that a battlefield must be really quite stressful, and so had resolved that this man had suffered a head trauma of sorts, just one that couldn’t be seen, a mental trauma so severe that it rendered him into an almost childlike state.
Metrotis stood up and began to pace up and down the room. He found this helped him to think and distracted from the bottomless brown eyes that had taken to following him everywhere he walked.
He heard a rustle and turned to see the man had stood too, not for the first time mimicking the actions of his gaoler. Metrotis looked down at his arms and saw his hairs were standing on end. It was a reaction he was becoming accustomed to when sharing a room with the strange and perfect man.
He shivered despite the warmth of the room and looked again at the immaculate man whose eyes were curiously lifeless, but chilling nonetheless.
He remembered the first time the man had looked at him. For days, he had shown no sign of life, no sign that he understood or even witnessed events in the world, just staring into space as if locked within his own mind. It was a day like every other, where Metrotis had paced and sat and spoken and observed. He had been frustrated as usual right up until, with no provocation, in a moment of calm and silence, he turned to see those eyes looking back at him. There was something predatory in the gaze that had sparked an ancestral fear within Metrotis, so that his bowels turned to water. There was something in the look, he thought. Such as a lion gives its prey just before it pounces to make the kill.
His uncle Martius had put his mind to rest that evening. “Nothing to worry about,” he had said. “This is good news, he must be recovering some of his faculties. Keep trying.”
Then Metrotis had asked the obvious question. “Uncle, why, if he is a war hero, is he chained to a wall and locked in a room in your town house?”
The general had given him a curious look before sighing deeply. “You are right, nephew, you are right. It is not fair to keep a hero in this manner. Truth be told, I was concerned for you… You do not know how to fight, and if he had truly lost his mind… Yes, I know I assured you he was not harmful. I will leave the decision to you. If you wish, you can have the chains removed.”
Metrotis was left unsure if his uncle meant him harm or was concerned for his safety. From that moment on, two housemen, clearly legionary veterans by their tattoos, stood guard outside the door to the man’s cell at all times.
A week later Metrotis had asked the guards to remove the man’s chains.
Metrotis had looked into his unfathomable eyes as he was unshackled. “Don’t be afraid,” he had said. “We are not going to hurt you.”
Afterwards, Metrotis reflected that whilst the barbarian, Wulf, still wore his chains, he had made the decision to release the man that he felt in his soul was the more dangerous of the two. Despite the oddity of the man, Metrotis had a sense that he was, in some bizarre way, an innocent; there was a quality to him that might lull the unwary into a false sense of security. Metrotis did not want to be the unwary.
The man took a step towards him, eyes blank and emotionless but fixed on his own regardless.
Metrotis waved a hand absently towards the low cot that stood against the wall. “Go, sit down Optuss.” His Uncle Martius had refused to share the man’s name and so Metrotis had taken to using the name of a long dead pet dog, with sleek black fur, that he had as a child.
Optuss promptly turned and sat on the cot, returning his gaze to Metrotis’s face, his expression blank and seemingly uncomprehending.
A polite knock at the door interrupted Metrotis’s thoughts. People could be so rude sometimes; he wondered why they couldn’t leave him to think in peace.
“Sorry to disturb you, Master Metrotis.” It was the ever-formal proctor, Villius. “The general has asked that we come and see our guest.”
“Yes, yes!” Metrotis snapped. He had become quite territorial when it came to Optuss. “Who is ‘we’?”
Villius stepped into the room followed by a man in the uniform of a cohort commander.
Metrotis prided himself on knowing the insignia of rank and the uniforms of the men in his uncle’s precious army.
Metrotis said, “Well, what can I help you with?”
The unknown man stood like a statue, eyes wide and fixed on Optuss.
“The general wanted to know if Father Conlan remembered our guest,” Villius replied. His gaze drifted from the man called Conlan to Optuss and back again.
“Father Conlan?” Metrotis frowned. He’s far too young to be a legion father. “But I think you must be mistaken, Villius… This man is wearing a cohort commander’s uniform. Really, I mean you should know being a proctor and –”
The newcomer, Conlan, raised his hand towards him, palm outward in a gesture of silence. Metrotis made a mental note that the man really was exceptionally rude.
“It’s a long story,” said Conlan.
Villius gestured towards Optuss. “Well?”
Metrotis allowed his frown to deepen; he did not enjoy being ignored and enjoyed his ignorance even less. “What is this all about?” His voice sounded tense to his own ears.
“I remember him. He was one of them. I am sure of it. He wore the image of a bear on his breastplate. We showed him to the general at Sothlind after he fell. I saw him kill at least a dozen of them in less than a minute. The gods only know how many he killed in the end.”
The father, Conlan, looked apprehensive as he turned his gaze back to Optuss.
“What is he doing here? I wondered what the general had done with him, but why keep him in his own house? You should have him restrained; you wouldn’t believe how fast they can move.”
Metrotis puffed his chest out slightly, and stood to his full height. He was pleasantly surprised to see he was slightly taller than the imposing young legion father. “Optuss is under my care. I can assure you I have performed many tests and he does not represent a danger to anyone.” I wish I could truly believe that. “I arranged for him to be unchained myself and he is perfectly biddable. You see, his mind has been injured by the trauma of war.”
Conlan laughed lightly. “If this is the same man I saw, and I am certain it is,
he could kill you in a second.”
“That may be so and time will tell,” Metrotis conceded, feeling the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end again. “But believe me, at the moment he is not capable of harm.” He turned to Optuss and waved a hand. “Lie down, Optuss.”
He was delighted to see his subject obey without hesitation, gaze still firmly fixed on Metrotis.
“It’s true, Father Conlan,” said Villius.
Metrotis wondered to himself what it must be like for Villius to have to show such respect to one his own age.
“The man does exactly as he is told,” Villius continued. “He has developed some kind of bond with Master Metrotis here; he is biddable as a dog. I do not think he is a threat.”
Conlan shook his head and smiled ruefully. “I am telling you, you didn’t see it. The man is a killer.”
Villius shrugged. “I will take your word for it, sir.” He turned to Metrotis. “The general also wants Father Conlan to meet our other guest while he is here, if you please, Master Metrotis.”
Metrotis wondered if his subjects were going to become exhibits to be shown to all and sundry. “Oh, very well. Optuss, stay.” He led the men out of the room, leaving Optuss lying on the cot. The housemen closed and bolted the door behind them.
Some ten paces down the hall he stopped outside the room occupied by Wulf. “You will find this one not half as pleasant, I am afraid.” He opened the door and ushered the men in. “Don’t step over the line on the floor. We are not quite sure if he is house trained yet.”
Conlan stopped dead as they entered the room, well short of the safety line, his face a sudden mask of rage.
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me…” Metrotis gave a small smirk. “You know Wulf as well?”
Wulf looked up, a feral grin on his face. “Hallo Metrotis,” he said in a thick, guttural accent. He looked curiously at the newcomers.
A long silence followed. Villius broke the quiet.
“Father Conlan? How do you know this man?”
Conlan seemed to force the words from unwilling lungs. “That’s the whore-son that killed Father Yovas.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ellasand
FELIX ELLASAND RAN A brush slowly through her hair and stared at herself in the mirror. It was a routine that she had followed since she was a child and she found it, in many ways, the most relaxing part of any day.
Her reflection revealed the years had been kind. At fifty, she could still pass for much younger. Only the occasional grey hair marred the illusion. Martius had always maintained that she was the most beautiful woman in the Empire. Ellasand wondered if that was ever the case.
She tutted at her own vanity and turned away from the mirror in disgust. In truth, her moon bleed had started to stutter, just as her mother had told her it would. Ellasand found her temper frayed more as she got older. Only the other day, Elissa had almost driven her to despair with her incessant talk of a young noble she had met at court.
“What has happened to me?” she muttered to herself, a habit she was becoming acquainted with as the years passed and one that Martius found particularly amusing.
She stood, moved to her bed and perched on its edge. The book she had been reading lay on the sheets. She picked it up now and absently thumbed through to the page she had marked by folding the corner. Books and learning had increasingly become her escape over the years. To a certain extent, it had always been so. Now, even as her ageing eyes began to betray her, she found she was rarely without one.
It was a good book, Ellasand judged. A short treatise on the role of ballistic weapons in the modern legionary army by Martius’s brilliant young nephew, Metrotis. He made a good argument for the mechanical monstrosities being the future of modern warfare and showed, through the use of diagrams and pictures in his own clear and artistic hand, how these could be built to be more effective.
She read for some time, fascinated by the young scientist’s understanding of engineering. Metrotis seemed such a gentle soul and she wondered if he really comprehended the destructive horror of the machines he had developed. Finally, as the candles in the room began to burn low, Ellasand sighed, put the tome down and returned her gaze to the mirror.
The sound of song drifted up from below. Glacis, the cook, was singing as she often did in the evening. Tonight she chose an ancient hymn, ‘the choice of Terran’. Her rich, melodic tones penetrated the creeping dusk, keeping the night at bay, it seemed, for a moment longer.
Martius loved her, of that Ellasand was sure, but she wondered how long that love would last when her beauty faded as Glacis’s song soon would.
They had met late in life. She a wealthy merchant’s daughter whose father would not allow her to marry for fear of a huge dowry; he a hero of the Empire, freshly returned from the Xandarian hedge wars – which were really just a series of squabbles between the free states – and veteran of the pacification of the hill tribes. At thirty-five years of age, he had been in his prime, and as the oldest son of one of the ancient noble houses of the Empire, he could have had any woman he wished. Instead, after one chance meeting at the theatre, Martius had chased her with the single-minded abandon of a teenager. Finally, her father – realising that, as his daughter’s suitor was staggeringly wealthy he need not fear for his savings – had agreed wholeheartedly to the alliance.
“Will you still love me when I am a grey?” she said to her reflection, but the beautiful hawk-eyed woman looking back at her gave no reply. Increasingly, Martius would stay up late, working on his ‘plans’ and meeting with his staff and aides even more than was usual... even for a workaholic like him.
“A wind of change is rising in the Empire,” he had told her as they lay in each other’s arms just two nights before. “There will come a time when all men will be judged on their merits alone and will be able to reach their true potential. What if the legions were just the start, Ella? What if the men speak to their families, their friends, planting seeds of change…? What if the message spreads like forest fire in summer?”
“You must be careful.” she had replied, her heart thumping in her chest. “You cannot be associated with the republican movement; it is too dangerous – even for you.”
He had just smiled his confident little smile. “They know I am not part of it, my love. You must not worry. I believe in freedom and free thought, but I love the Empire, and the Emperor.”
“You loved the old emperor,” She had replied in a tone she immediately regretted. “Do not be fooled; his son is not cast from the same mould.”
Arguing voices and loud footsteps from the veranda dragged Ellasand from her reverie.
“I am telling you it was a valid move!” said a young and vibrant male voice, already deepened by the change.
“Uncle Metrotis says that he couldn’t find a reference to it anywhere and he looked in Goodlan’s almanac!” said another, very similar voice, just as vibrant but a touch slower, deeper and less clipped.
“I would listen to him, Accipiter,” said a female, her tone clean and crisp. “Don’t forget what Mama says about Uncle Metrotis: he’s probably a genius; and either way he’s definitely smarter than you are.”
Ellasand smiled thoughtfully as her children entered the room – without knocking as usual – through the ironbound door that led onto the upper veranda.
Ursus did not look at all happy. She thought it likely he had lost a game of steal the king, which was always deeply frustrating to him. She often wondered what it must be like for her twins, almost identical in every way physically, but so clearly different in so many others. They were equally matched in most things, but Accipiter, who constantly reminded Ursus that he was the elder by ‘at least two minutes’, did seem to have gained the upper hand recently when playing their favourite board game.
“Mama,” said Elissa, at eighteen a woman grown and three years the boys’ senior, “will you please sort these two out? It’s getting dark outside, and do you know what the little clowns were propos
ing to do?”
“Ah, shut up, Lissa!” snapped Accipiter.
“They,” Elissa raised her left hand and pointed at the pair, finger dancing from one to the other, “were proposing to have a duel with real swords, in the dark.”
Ellasand glowered her disapproval at the boys. “I certainly hope that isn’t true, you two.”
“We were just joking around, Mama,” Ursus said sullenly, elbowing his brother gently in the ribs. “We wouldn’t really have had a duel.”
“If that’s the case, do you mind me asking you both why you are wearing your swords?” Ellasand flicked a finger towards the sword belts they both wore.
The boys exchanged a look and then turned back to their mother, identical expressions of regret – that Ellasand had little doubt were contrived – on their handsome young faces.
“Forgot we had them on,” they replied in perfect synchrony.
Ellasand sighed. They are still so young, still as they were when they were children in so many ways. “You will report to Darcus at once and have him return your swords to the armoury. I will not have you carrying dangerous weapons around the house unsupervised.”
“Sorry Mama,” said Accipiter. “But we were just with Darcus, and Andiss, and Dexus at sword practice.” He smiled winningly. “We just forgot to hand them back... honest.”
Ellasand frowned. “I don’t want to hear any more. I will be speaking to Darcus about this in the morning and we will know the truth of it. Just do as you are told.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Go on now.”
The boys exchanged dejected looks and turned towards the door. A dark shadow flitted across them.
Ellasand looked up; she expected it was Martius, or perhaps Darcus looking for the boys. Come to chastise them, perhaps.
The man in the doorway was a stranger. And he held a drawn sword.
Elissa let out a piercing scream.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Martius
MARTIUS SAT AT THE desk in his study reviewing troop manifests. It was a thankless task, but a necessity. He paused to rest his eyes and looked out through the open window in front of him. The garden was in its full glory on both sides, the prize going to Ellasand’s ornamental beds, where her roses were stealing the limelight once again.
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