Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  “Men of Legio XVII, I am Marcus Valerius, the son of Sextus Valerius Corvus, tribunus militum by the voice of the People, your sworn brother. And, as of this morning, the senior surviving officer of this legion.”

  When he gave them the bad news, there came a sound like a rushing wind, as five thousand gasped as one. Except for a few involuntary cries of dismay that followed it, however, the men remained largely quiet even though he could see dismay and confusion on most of the faces of the men near the rostrum.

  “Like the crow for which my father is named, I bring you dreadful news. Many of you will have heard the rumors, and I am sorry to confirm that they are true. The legate Marcus Saturnius is dead, murdered in his tent, along with two of his guards. The tribunus laticlavius, Aulus Crescentius, is dead as well. The praefectus Sextus Castorius is missing. Lucius Volusenus and two more of my tribunal colleagues are also dead. Gaius Trebonius and I are the only senior officers to survive what appears to have been a deliberate attempt to assassinate your entire command staff.”

  Anger, disbelief, and fear rose and crested on a chorus of what had to be at least three thousand voices all speaking simultaneously. He waited until the noise had died down enough to permit him to be heard, then jabbed his finger accusingly toward them.

  “These foul deeds were committed by someone in this camp! Someone in this camp has your legate’s blood on his hands!”

  A fury arose in response to his words. It was deafening, and it rocked the wooden platform on which he was standing. It was at once invigorating and terrifying. As the angry legionaries shouted their futile but feverish denials at him, he began to understand why the ancient demagogues tended to describe a crowd as if it was a being in its own right, with a discernible spirit that could be mastered and manipulated by the sufficiently skilled.

  “I myself was attacked by the assassin who murdered my fellow tribune, Gaius Marcius, last night. Fortunately, I had been on night patrol at the command of Marcus Saturnius and was still wearing my armor. It saved me, or you would be burning me in company with my colleagues, and Gaius Trebonius would be addressing you today. But the assassin did not succeed, and so I promise you this, men of Legio XVII: Together we will find those responsible for these evil deeds, and we shall have our vengeance for our murdered brothers and for the noble Marcus Saturnius!

  There were cheers and cries for revenge, but they were fewer and rather less fervent than he would have liked to hear. Perhaps it was too soon to speak of vengeance. Or more likely, the men believed it would be difficult, if not impossible, to determine who had committed the crimes, and they feared that the legion would be riven by suspicions and misgivings of the sort that are impossible to disprove or otherwise allay.

  Marcus resisted the urge to glance at the primus pilus. He had no need to waste any time on a search for the killers. The man responsible was standing right beside him, and there were more urgent matters at hand. “Now I will demand that you prove yourselves worthy of your fallen general. I remind you of the oaths you swore when you joined the legion, that you are sworn to House Valerius, and that I am a true Valerian. I am telling you this because, in less than one week, we will be under attack.”

  He was pleased to see that the soldiers accepted his statement calmly, with little more reaction than to exchange a few significant glances with those around them. They were accustomed to being kept in the dark, after all. The reaction of the officers beside and behind him, on the other hand, was one of pure astonishment.

  Trebonius blurted out his surprise, and Junius’s head whipped around to glare at him as if he had sprouted scales and a forked tail. He could hear the shifting and muttering of the senior centurions behind his back. He imagined they were wondering if he had gone mad with fear and power.

  He glanced back at the pilus priors and smiled at them. Strangely, he found the somber attitude of the legion filled him with more confidence rather than less. He was House Valerius, and this was a legion sworn not to Magnus, not to Corvus, but to the House. They were not only his men, they were his right—and they were his responsibility. He could win them over. He would win them over. It hadn’t happened yet, but it would come soon. He could feel it.

  “The assassinations last night were not happenstance or some cruel trick of fate. They were a desperate and cowardly attempt to destroy the leadership of this legion. And do you know why your enemy attacked Marcus Saturnius, Aulus Crescentius, Castorius Spina, Lucius Volensus, Gaius Marcius, Gaius Trebonius, and Valerius Clericus? Because they feared to face you in honest battle under the command of such men!

  “They know you defeated the Vakhuyu. They know you defeated the Chalonu. Like the Insobru—they fear to face you! They know what Marcus Saturnius told you, that the men of Legio XVII are no longer green, the men of Legio XVII are no longer mere men—the men of Legio XVII are the blooded and unbeaten soldiers of House Valerius!”

  He waited for the soldiers. He had invoked the word that the late legate had imbued with such power in this newly blooded legion. The chanting began slowly, but gradually grew stronger, from century to century, cohort to cohort, until the entire mass of men was chanting. “Saturnius! Saturnius! Marcus Saturnius!”

  Marcus nodded, well-satisfied now. In time, if all went well, perhaps the Saturnius they were chanting would one day be Valerius. But not today. A general had to earn the respect of his men before he could hope to win their love. But their chanting of the legate’s name was a significant step. It was more than a just a reverential dirge for their fallen leader—it was the soldiers’ way of announcing that they would accept Marcus Valerius in his stead. And only now, emboldened by that acceptance, did he dare to tell them of his plans.

  “This morning, the first and second centuries of the tenth cohort will inform all the residents of Camp Meretrix that they must relocate to Gallidromum immediately for their own safety. All those who have not departed by tomorrow morning will be lashed, and all goods not removed from the camp will be confiscated or burned. Legionaries with camp wives or children may request three hours’ leave this afternoon from their century’s tessarius to go and aid them with their preparations.

  “Centurions, your centuries are to be made ready for combat by this evening. I will be requiring status reports after nightfall. Decurions, prepare your squadrons for extended patrol duty, including night patrols. I am promoting the decurion Julianus to praefect equitatus, since we are presently short several tribunes in the cavalry. See him for the patrol schedule. For the same reason, Tribune Trebonius is hereby promoted to tribunus laticlavius. The primus pilus, Gnaeus Junius Honoratus, will act as our praefectus in the absence of Sextus Castorius. And the optio, Titus Cassabus, is promoted to praefect ballisterius.”

  After an initial wave of groans in response to hearing of the eviction of the camp followers, the men cheered the news of the four promotions. Marcus very much hoped his elevation would lull the primus pilus to sleep, or at least to prevent him from striking again today. He had to admit, as Honoratus stoically accepted the loud homage of the legion as if it were nothing but his well-merited due, wearing enough gold and silver medals to comprise a second layer of armor, he had never seen a man who looked less likely to betray his eagle.

  “Men of the legion, more than one battle lies ahead of you. More than one test of your courage and your honor awaits you. And you will pass those tests, just as you passed the test of battle when you defeated the Insobru, the Vakhuyu, and the Chalonu. Remember this. In seven centuries, House Valerius has never surrendered to an enemy. And it has never once abandoned its loyal soldiers. I am Marcus Valerius Clericus of House Valerius. Will you follow me as you followed my father, and as your fathers followed my grandfather?”

  “Ave, Valerius!” the legion roared back. Marcus slammed his fist against his chest and hurled out his right hand in a salute so crisp he hoped it looked like a slashing sword. The sound of five thousand men returning his salute thundered like a force of nature, a deep metallic crashing so
loud it seemed to shake the sky.

  Expressionless, but triumphant inside, Marcus turned on his heel and marched down the steps at the back of the rostrum. The four pilus priors followed him instinctively.

  Junius Honoratus bellowed the end of the assembly with a voice like an angry bull. “Legion dismissed!”

  One of Barbatus’s men was waiting near the base of the steps. When Marcus looked quizzically at him, he nodded and stepped forward. “Sir, the decurion sent me to tell you that he will meet you at the legate…uh, at the legionary commander’s residence.”

  “Tell him I will meet him there in the company of the senior centurions.” Marcus assumed Barbatus would understand that he intended to arrive with the man guilty of ordering the murder of Marcus Saturnius and the tribunes. But with that man right at his shoulder, he did not dare to be any more clear.

  “Well done, Tribune,” Tertius told him.

  Marcus was particularly pleased to hear it from him, since the chief of the third cohort had been the other skeptic to greet his unexpected ascension to what could still be a temporary command. But Castorius must be dead or else he would have already been found by now.

  A thought struck Marcus: What if Honoratus wasn’t the brains of the murders, but merely the brawn? What if it was the missing praefectus who was behind the attacks? Castorius was a quiet, hard-working man who oversaw most of the practical details required to keep the daily operations of the legion moving smoothly, and he was certainly clever enough to stash a wounded man in a place that would mislead the hunt for the murderer or murderers. There was only one means of finding out. But before he could thank the centurion for the compliment, he discovered to his dismay that he had failed to grasp Tertius’s sarcastic tone.

  “Yes, well done indeed. It appears you have not only panicked, but you may have managed to put a scare into the entire legion. Are you mad, Marcus Valerius? What were you thinking?”

  What was I thinking? I was thinking that we’re going to have either the Cynothii or that bloody Severan legion arriving at our gates in a matter of days. Or, if we’re less than fortunate, both of them at the same time. He cleared his throat and stared levelly at the angry centurion.

  “I shall be pleased to explain my intentions to you in the quarters that previously belonged to Marcus Saturnius, if you will all be so kind as to accompany me there. Gnaeus Junius Honoratus, will you please come with us as well?

  The big centurion was just coming down the steps from the platform, having overseen the departure of the men from the forum, and he stared narrow-eyed at Marcus for what seemed like a discomfitingly long time before he nodded once, sharply.

  The tent that had previously housed the deceased legate was not far away. It was to the left and behind the giant canvas of the headquarters tent. It was large, of course, and could easily accommodate twenty men standing as well as an amount of furniture in the meeting room. Four of Barbatus’s men were standing guard outside, and by their grim expressions and the dark looks they gave the primus pilus when they thought he would not notice, Marcus assumed that they had come across something damning in their search of the first two centuries of the first cohort.

  Marcus pushed the tent flaps aside and saw that Barbatus and six of his men were standing inside waiting for him. Before them, lying on the ground, was the body of a dead legionary naked to the waist. His face looked vaguely familiar to Marcus, but what was much more recognizable was the deep wound in the man’s left side. This was the man Marcus had struggled with in the tent. But Marcus had not struck the mortal blow, as the man’s throat had been slashed with a powerful blow that had nearly severed his head.

  The seven knights leaped to attention as Marcus looked over the corpse.

  He wasn’t really looking closely at it, though. He was mostly listening to learn if the primus pilus was going to react in any way. When no immediate reaction appeared to be forthcoming, he drew himself up and nodded to Barbatus.

  “Where did you find this man, decurion?”

  “In the tents of the first cohort, second century, sir. The body was covered in a blanket on the floor of the tent next to that of the century’s commanding officer, Gnaeus Junius Honoratus.”

  Still no reaction from Honoratus.

  “And he is a legionary?” Marcus asked. “That is a legion tunic he is wearing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Tribune. I believe his name was Narbonio, sir.”

  “Is that correct, Gnaeus Junius?” Marcus turned around and did his best to appear as if he had been surprised. The senior centurion was never a cheerful man, but now he was almost glowering, like a bear surrounded by the hounds waiting for the hunter’s approach and knowing it has no chance to escape.

  “Yes, sir, that’s Narbonio. Not a good man, but not a bad one neither. Had a gambling problem, as I recall. Except he couldn’t have been in the tent near mine. That waren’t his. His contubernium were a few rows back from mine.”

  Marcus turned to Barbatus.

  Barbatus shrugged. “That’s as may be, Honoratus. But that weren’t where we found him. Somebody killed him, but they didn’t kill him there because there weren’t enough blood around the body.”

  “Did you find where he was killed, then?”

  “Not yet, Tribune. But we will. The rest of my squadron are searching the tents in the area. That much blood can’t be hidden easily.”

  “No,” Marcus said as he met the head centurion’s eyes and held them, daring the other man to look away first. After a long moment, the centurion looked down. “It can’t. Now, everyone except Trebonius, Julianus, and Honoratus: Out of the tent. Barbatus, go and find Claudius Hortensis from the fifth of the second knights. He has two prisoners in the stockade I wish to interrogate with the help of the new praefectus.”

  Barbatus shot him a significant look, and Marcus nodded in silent confirmation. As his knights filed out of the tent, Barbatus stopped in front of Honoratus and held out his hand. After a momentary hesitation, the big man drew his gladius and handed it to the decurion. Barbatus nodded in response, not entirely without respect, and closed the tent flaps behind him as he withdrew. Marcus waited until the heavy canvas flaps had been tied shut, then walked over to the table and sat on its edge.

  He stared at the centurion and allowed himself to smile a little contemptuously. He wouldn’t have wanted to face the man with swords or fists, but here Honoratus was as overmatched as Marcus would be in a physical contest. The key was to keep the big man off-ballance.

  “Do you love learning, Gnaeus Junius?”

  Judging by the expression on the centurion’s face, this was possibly the very last thing he was expecting Marcus to say. Honoratus stared at Marcus in mute astonishment. “Do I love what?”

  “Learning. The acquisition of knowledge, the voyage of intellectual discovery. Do you find that it appeals to you?”

  “I suppose,” Honoratus said warily.

  “Why then, I think we shall understand each other,” Marcus declared brightly. Both Trebonius and Julianus were staring at him now, nearly as dumbfounded as Honoratus. “They call me Clericus, you know. It’s an amusing witticism, because, you see, I spent my youth preparing for a career in the church. Very clever. But the interesting thing about a career in the church is that one spends most of one’s time learning, pursuing knowledge, and travelling on the aforementioned voyage of discovery. Like you, I found that I rather enjoyed it.” Marcus smiled at the centurion and sat on the table. This time, he let his full disdain for the man show.

  Gnaeus Junius was not smiling at all. The merest spark of what might just possibly be fear appeared to have entered his eyes. The veteran of three dozen battlefields, he did not know what to do in a battle where his enemy wielded words, not swords, to cut.

  “Now, I am tribune in my year, Gnaeus Junius. Which is to say that I have taken the first step on that illustrious path known in patrician circles as the cursus honorum at the youngest possible age. Indeed, thanks to some mysterious benefactor, I f
ind myself promoted much sooner than I would ever have imagined. Who would have thought at the age of only twenty, I would find myself in command of an entire legion? Being an ambitious man, I am naturally grateful for this, as you can surely understand. And now I have a desire to express my gratitude toward this benefactor.”

  Marcus waited expectantly, but no answer was forthcoming. So, he spread his hands and continued.

  “To return to our earlier theme: During my clerical studies, I was introduced to some of the great minds of history. Oxonus, Patroclus, Occludus, Quadras Empiricus, and greatest of all, Aristoteles. Aristoteles was an enthusiastic categorizer, and in one of his more important works, with which I have no doubt as a learned man you are intimately familiar, he divided men into two categories.

  “You may recall that he concluded there are men who are capable of being persuaded of a truth through dialectic, which is to say sweet reason, or if you prefer, the inexorable progression of logic. And then, he asserted there are also those who cannot be instructed and therefore cannot be convinced of anything through argument based on knowledge, but rather require manipulation and persuasion through having their emotions played upon, which device he calls rhetoric. Would you say that you agree with this, Gnaeus Junius?”

  The big centurion was bewildered and all but cringing before Marcus now. He shook his head slowly back and forth. “I would say…I would say I don’t know. That is, maybe, I suppose. Yeah, why not?”

  “Ah, but then here is where we must part company, you and I,” Marcus leaped from the table and began pacing back and forth. “Although you are in the most noble of company and I stand alone, I will nevertheless insist that you are incorrect. In my view, there is a third category which Aristoteles uncharacteristically failed to investigate. And since there is at present no word to accurately describe this third category of men, it falls to me to coin it. So I ask you, if a man who is persuaded by knowledge is susceptible to the dialectic, while a man who is persuaded by the verbal arts is susceptible to the rhetoric, how then shall we describe a man who may be persuaded only by pain?”