Miranda produced a handful of scrolls. "Pardons, for each of you, sealed by the Emperor himself. Even your religious offences are forgiven."
"It pays to have friends in high places, clearly," Jason said. He practically snatched his pardon out of Miranda's friends. "You are too kind."
"So I've been told," Miranda muttered.
Michael scooped up his swords, and his leaf-patterned manicae, and retreated into a corner of the vast warehouse to put them on. Miranda followed him there, shadowed by Octavia, and stood looming over him as she placed his plates of armour on one by one.
"I wish you'd consider going somewhere else," she said. "Go home. Go to Triazica. Go west and start a new life in a cleruchy, but don't stay here. There's nothing for you."
"Nought but duty," Michael replied, fastening on another armoured segment.
"Duty," Miranda murmured with contempt. "What is duty, but a word?"
"Duty is what separates men from beasts," Michael replied. "We are only men when we recognise that there is something higher and greater than ourselves, and that we must attend to it above our base desires."
"Base desires?" Miranda shook her head. "Does duty sound so much finer to you than life? Does honour please you more than freedom? Do you want to die alone, like Gideon?"
"Gideon was not alone," Michael said sharply. "I was with him, in his last moments, received his blessing and swore to achieve his dying wish."
"When you die, broken in the service of duty, do you want duty to be the sum total of your legacy?"
"It is a better legacy than many leave behind," Michael said. "To do one's duty is to win truer glory than there is to be found in all the arenas in the Empire."
"Yet it leads to the same end: a bloody death," Miranda murmured. "Honour cannot heal a wound, as my magic can. Duty cannot bring a child into the world or raise it to be honest and good-hearted. Honour cannot bring warmth into a cold night, and keep a lonely soul company. Duty cannot comfort a grieving widow, or a sister."
"Yet when we are gone our honour will live on in the hearts of men when spouse and sister and child have passed on with us," Michael said. "When we are dead it will be said of us 'he did his duty, to the very end'. And in doing our duty with honour we will ensure our names outlast us by a score of generations. The works we raise, the battles we win, duty will add such lustre to our names as could be earned no other way. If the Empire endures in hale health and good spirits when I breathe my last I will count it cause for pride."
"The Empire will endure, but not because of you," Miranda said. "I have made my choice: I choose the Emperor, and the Empress. I will not do the work Quirian wants of me. I have told him so, and he has accepted it. With far better grace than you're displaying, I must say."
Michael looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "And...you believe that is it?"
"How is it not?" Miranda replied. "I am beyond his reach now, elevated above him. What can Quirian do, to me or to this country, even if he wished?"
"Gideon thought him dangerous."
"Gideon lied to you, as I understand it, about a great many things," Miranda said.
"Not about this," Michael said, softly but firmly. "Not about the threat, not about his quest, not about this fight."
"Why do you seem to need to believe that I am in danger?" Miranda demanded. "Why can't you accept that there is nothing for you to do here? Why can't you accept that this is my story, not yours, and I don't need you to sweep in and rescue me?"
Michael grinned. "I remember a time when you told me I needed to live in the real world."
"You still do," Miranda said coldly.
"And yet-"
"A mere choice of words," Miranda said, her voice as chilly as winter. "Perhaps a poor one. The fact remains that I have preserved the Empire, and I have done it without the need for bloodshed."
Michael shook his head. "The Empire will never be safe while Quirian lives."
"He will kill you, if you challenge him," Miranda whispered.
Michael raised his head and spoke with a sense of injured pride. "I did not survive so many years in the area by being a poor hand with a sword, our Miranda."
"You survived the arena because I kept putting you back together," Miranda said sharply.
"And with spirit magic aiding me Quirian will not withstand me," Michael declared. "I must strike him down. My duty demands it."
"And Felix?" Miranda said. "Will you kill him because duty demands it?"
"If you believe that of me, then I am ashamed of you," Michael snapped. "I could no more harm Felix then I could harm you."
"Then what will you do?"
"I know not. I pray to God he will listen to reason, and God will provide."
"I do not understand you," Miranda said. "I never have."
Michael barked with laughter. "Then all is well, our Miranda, for I have never understood you either. That, at least, has not changed, though we have come a long way from where we started."
"Yes we have," Miranda said. "In every sense."
Michael closed his eyes for a moment. "I am...glad that you are happy. I regret that we must be set at loggerheads, it is not my desire to upset this place in the world that you have found."
"You think I've found my place?" Miranda asked.
Michael's brow furrowed. "Have you not?"
"No," Miranda said firmly. "Unless you say my place is with Octavia, in which case I agree with you, but...I do not love this city. I do not love the court, I do not love the patricians, I do not love the intrigue. I am not you; I do not consider myself bound to this city or the service of this country."
"Then why stay?" Michael asked. "Why not leave now? Why do you not take your own advice and go elsewhere?"
"Because I have the power to change things," Miranda said. "Perhaps I am the only one who has the power to change things. And, since I have that power, I have the obligation to use it. How can I hide away and let things play out to a doubtless bloody conclusion, knowing that I could have prevented it, by action?"
"You are, in short, constrained by duty," Michael said.
"Ye...no!" Miranda said. "Shut up."
"Commander," Ascanius called. "We should probably get a move on."
Miranda nodded, and then glanced down at Michael. "Are you ready?"
Michael stood up. "I am."
"Then we should head outside," Miranda said, as four servants came into the warehouse. "These men are going to prepare a bier for Gideon."
Michael frowned. "A bier? Miranda, I do not understand."
"You wanted to give him a funeral," Miranda said. "Come, follow me."
His brow still furrowed with curiosity and confusion, Michael followed his sister outside even as his friends and comrades followed him. What he saw, waiting for him in the street, made his eyes widen and his breath take temporary leave of his throat.
Outside, arrayed in marching order in the street, was a miniature host of men arrayed in marching order. First came a small group, no more than a score of soldiers in mail and glimmering helms, bearing spears at their shoulders and shields painted in purple, bearing an emblem of a wolf worked in silver upon them. Then there were drums, and fifes and trumpets, all born by children in purple uniforms and small helmets fitting their small heads.
Behind them came companies of troops, each at least a hundred strong to Michael's eyes, and each on foot. The sunlight glittered upon their lorica segmenta and their crested helmets, and made the designs upon their shields stand out vividly. First, a giant with a hundred eyes worked in gold upon a purple field. Then, a hydra painted in silver, with its heads turned to look in all directions, upon a background of fiery crimson. Third, a yellow flame upon a purple field, and last of all a pair of crossed swords in gold upon a background of red.
Hundreds of men, standing dutifully at attention, spears and javelins on their shoulders, swords at their hips, shields in their hands, all waiting to honour Gideon, and see him on his final march. Officers on horseback, their
mounts prancing impatiently, keeping their men in check till Gideon should appear.
Do you see this, Gideon? Do you see what honour is done to you, in the end?
"Miranda..." Michael murmured. "I..."
Miranda smiled. "I thought you'd like it."
Michael smiled. "Bless you, our Miranda. Bless you."
"The ones in front come from the Imperial Household Foot," Miranda said. "Portia... that's the Empress, to you, was kind enough to lend me twenty of her own guards for this. As for the rest-"
"Companies of the Palace Guard, the Camp Guard, the Devoted and the Foot Guards, in order from top to tail," Romana said. "Six hundred and twenty men in all. The least this country can do to honour one of its First Swords."
"In truth, your highness, it is more than I dared hope for," Michael said.
Slowly, proceeding with great solemnity, four servants carried Gideon Commenae forth upon a funeral bier, garlanded with sprigs of rosemary. He was wrapped in white burial wraps, the rolls and rolls of linen concealing his ruined body, the grievous wounds the furies had dealt, from the public view. A black shroud lay atop him, and his sable cloak atop that. As he watched his father draw closer and closer to him, Michael was reminded of five years ago when he had wrapped Felix's arm in burial wraps and bid his little brother a safe journey into Turoth's halls. Would that Gideon might be found alive and well as Felix had been.
"Wait," Romana commanded, and the servants halted. The princess stood by the side of the bier, staring down at Gideon for a while, the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. Then she unclasped her purple cape, which was trimmed with golden thread and sewn with purple diamonds at the hem, and laid it reverentially across his breast.
"May you be honoured at the side of the Divine Empress, First Sword of the Empire," Romana murmured, kissing his shrouded forehead.
Michael stepped forward. "Give him to me. I will bear him the rest of the way."
"One man cannot shoulder the entire burden alone," a servant said.
"I'll help him bear the weight," Amy said.
"And I, too," Jacob added.
Michael and Jacob each took one end of the bier's front, Michael upon the right and Jacob the left. Amy, with her immense strength, bore the whole weight of the rear upon her shoulders. Princess Romana nodded in approval.
"Don't expect a lavish funeral, for all the guards," Miranda said. "They are only here because I have the Emperor's favour. This will, overall, be a very quiet affair.
"Beat the drum!" Romana cried. "Let horns proclaim the passing of the Empire's champion."
A long, low, mournful note from the trumpeters rang out, and the drums of the guard began to beat a slow tattoo.
"For a given value of quiet, at least," Miranda said.
Michael and his friends stepped off, Wyrrin following behind the bier, walking to the slow beating of the drum. The Household Foot went on before them to clear the way and Princess Romana, Miranda, Miranda's lover and her bodyguards, then all the companies of the palace guard she had purloined stepped off behind them. Michael and the rest followed the Household Foot through the streets of the Imperial City, through Commenae Square, past the statue of the first Lord Commenae and original First Sword, down the wide thoroughfares and the winding streets of the Empire's capital. Curious eyes watched them; gazes followed them, those curious to see the last fate of the traitor Gideon Commenae began to follow behind the mourning train as they passed through the Gate of Aegea and into the New City beyond.
They passed underneath the Great Gate, beneath the eyes of all the gods and the soldiers, slaves and prisoners engraved upon the arch, and followed the Aegean Way until they reached one of the earthy brown hills that overlooked the city. A hill very like the one on which they had made camp before entering Eternal Pantheia. Gideon's joy at his homecoming seemed so long ago. With the sun high in the sky, the walls of Eternal Pantheia shone brilliant white.
"Look, Gideon," Michael murmured. "Is it not glorious? One day, I swear, this whole realm will be as glorious as this sight."
Gideon did not reply, there was only a trumpet sounding from the city itself, and the final beating of the drums as the funeral procession halted behind him.
Michael smiled sadly as he placed Gideon reverently upon the ground. "Come, father; I am sure Her Majesty is waiting for you."
And there, on the hill's crest, they laid Gideon down and began to dig his resting place.
Michael and Amy worked alone, refusing all offers of aid. Jason would not have been able to contribute much, with his arms as thin as they were, and in any case there was only room within the grave for two to work unhindered. So they dug, their shovels churning the earth under the watchful eyes of all assembled, and when the grave was six feet deep they stopped and Amy leapt out to hand him down the body.
Michael took hold as Gideon was handed down, and for a moment he cradled his father in his arms, closed his eyes, and prayed that Aegea the Divine should not forsake Gideon, and that Gideon should not forsake him.
Then he laid his father reverently in the earth. He took Romana's cloak and offered it up to the princess.
She shook her head, "Leave it with him. The First Sword should lie draped in the Empire's colours."
Michael nodded solemnly and accepted Amy's hand to help him out. They piled the earth atop him, the sacred soil of the Empire he had so loved that he had given up his life for her. Now the earth of Empire would hold him to her bosom always, and keep him safe from any dangers.
They had no marker for the grave, so Michael took his spatha and drove it point first into the small earth mound that they had made, and tied Gideon's tattered sable cloak around the hilt. The breeze of afternoon caught it, causing it to flutter like a ragged standard against the darkening sky.
All others had drawn back from him. Michael stood alone at the graveside. Amy, Jason, Wyrrin, Miranda, Princess Romana, all their guards and attendants had withdrawn, to give him peace.
I suppose I ought to say a eulogy of some sort. If I have in me but one great speech let it come now.
A shadow fell across the grave, the shadow of a very tall man. Michael looked up to see a cloaked and hooded figure looming above him, and very nearly leapt back with a strangled cry when he saw beneath the hood a single blue eye glowing.
"You look so surprised," Quirian muttered dryly. "Is it so curious that I would wish to pay my respects to a dear friend passed? Does the idea offend you so?"
A spiteful retort rose in Michael's throat, to the effect that Gideon had never considered Quirian a friend. But the memory of Gideon's letter was sufficiently strong to recall him to a gentle courtesy, and he replied, "No, it is not. I apologise if I gave offence. I do not wish to defile this sacred place and solemn occasion with violence or harsh words. Shall we have a truce, until this day is done? I swear it on life, by blood and to Turo and the Empress both."
Quirian stared at him for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. "We shall. Until this day is done. On life, by blood, to all the Novar who in Heavenvault dwell."
Michael said, "I had not looked for such courtesy from a-"
"A what?"
Michael hesitated. "A villain."
Quirian barked with laughter. "I might say the same of you, Michael Callistus. I hear you are adopted Gideon's son, congratulations."
"Thank you,” Michael said. “I hear that Miranda has turned you down, and you have given up all of your designs upon this country.”
“Is that what you hear?” Quirian sounded amused by the prospect. “Well, as they say, one shouldn’t always believe all the gossip.”
Michael frowned. “I will stop you.”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t try.”
They stood, side by side, looking down at the earth in which Gideon had been interred.
"He was my friend, you know," Quirian murmured. "He may have denied it, he may have convinced himself that there was nothing between us, but there was. We unders
tood one another, he and I. He was the only man of this age whose character I admired."
"There was much in him worthy of admiration," Michael agreed.
Quirian nodded. "And now, Michael, son of Gideon, I do believe that these good folk wait for you to give the eulogy." He bowed his head, and withdrew off a little to give Michael room.
Michael bowed his head, praying for eloquence, and then turned to face the waiting crowd. Amy smiled encouragingly at him. Jason looked uncertain, as if he knew he would most likely disapprove of what Michael had to say. Miranda watched him resignedly, as if she too could guess the tenor of his speech. Princess Romana seemed curious to hear him propound at length. Quirian's expression was inscrutable. All was silence, the whole world waiting upon his words.
"My father is dead," Michael said slowly, his voice trembling a little. "He was not a flawless man. I will not deny he had his faults. I do not think he would have denied he had his faults. Yet he had many virtues also, virtues denied by those who sought to make large his vices and erase his fine qualities that they might better drag him down into the dirt and mud and cast him there to rot.
"Gideon Commenae was a proud man. He cared too much for his reputation, for his fame, for glory. He thought more of himself than he ought to, more than was wise; he turned those who might have been his friends against him with his manner. And for these faults there are those who would paint him black as night, would call him villain, monster, traitor. There are those who cursed him while he lived. There are some, I have no doubt, might wish to go on cursing now that he is dead. I come before you now to speak on my father's behalf, to answer the slanders hurled against him, to commemorate the great good in him that has been too long forgotten.
"Yes, my father was a flawed man, but he was not a wicked one. When I first met him I thought him a paragon of all the virtues. I later learned that was not so, yet I will call any man a liar who dares to claim he had no virtues. When set against his vices, the list of his virtues is so large as to dwarf the petty follies that besmirched his character. Gideon Commenae was a brave man, none so valiant when war's trumpet sounded. When danger threatened those he loved he was as fierce as any bear that in Pelarius dwells. He was pious, honouring the Divine Empress always with his prayers and with his faithful service. He was generous to a fault, taking a poor freedman beneath his arm and showering him with splendid gifts, with blades, with wit and wisdom, with learning, with purpose, with a name. He was a true patriot.
Spirit of the Sword: Faith and Virtue (The First Sword Chronicles Book 2) Page 39