"Let me go," Miranda shouted. "Let me go, I have to save her."
Quirians' voice was heavy with solemnity. "I'm afraid there is no saving her, Filia. Innocence can never be saved, when it has the misfortune to flower amidst wickedness."
The beating stopped. Portia yet lived - Miranda could hear her moaning in pain - but Prince Antiochus and his friends halted nonetheless. Antiochus staggered away, whooping with glee like a child who has just gotten a toy greatly desired.
"I am the Emperor!" Antiochus crowed, raising his arms in triumph. "All hail the Emperor!"
"You are a fool," Romana declared. "A fratricide can never hope to hold the purple throne; every honest man in the Empire will take up arms to tear you from that seat."
"Let them try," Antiochus snarled. "I have the golems, an army against which none can stand. I will crush all my enemies!" He laughed. "Besides, by the time today is done all will know that it was you, my poor, half-mad, ambitious little sister, who slew the Emperor and his wife in your lust for power, before I rallied the guards and put you to death for your foul crime. I've never liked you, Romana. You've always thought you were better than me, haven't you?"
"I am better than you," Princess Romana replied firmly.
"But the blades are mine, and you will die at my command," Antiochus said. He snapped his fingers. "Kill her!"
A group of guardsmen approached Romana, their faces expressionless.
Romana's visage did not admit of a hint of fear. "Gentlemen," she said. "You know your duty. You must get on with it."
"Kill her!" Antiochus yelled.
One of the men, Miranda recognised him as Dolon, a man whose life she had saved after Lysimachus’ attack upon the house of Quirian, drew his sword... and stabbed one of his fellow guardsmen in the back.
"Third Company, to me! Defend the Princess!" one of the young lieutenants yelled, and instantly fully one third of the guardsmen in the room turned their blades upon their fellow soldiers and on Antiochus' men, even as others formed a defensive ring around Romana herself. The lieutenant who had given the command was about to be struck from behind, before a well thrown goblet from Vespasia struck his assailant on the forehead, staggering him long enough for lieutenant and Vespasia both to reach Romana's side.
"I'm with you, Your Highness," Vespasia said. "Always."
"Never a doubt, Vespasia, never a doubt," Romana murmured.
Antiochus' eyes were wide with shock. "I don't...no! No, it can't be this way! What are you doing? Kill her! Quirian, get your men in here and kill her!"
Romana smiled thinly as Miranda began to hear the sounds of fighting going on outside. "You may have bought a little loyalty with gold or promises of power, brother, but I bind men to me with faith and love, and that is a currency purer than any that comes out of the Imperial mint."
At that moment the north doors burst open and Miranda could see a mixture of Household and Palace Guard soldiers battling in the doorway, and at their head stood burly Captain Thrakes, covered in blood.
"Your Highness!" Thrakes cried. "Come quickly, we cannot hold the doors for long."
"Now, men," Romana yelled, and at her command her loyal guards surged forwards in a wedge, howling like wolves as they hacked their way through to the doors and the relative safety of their reinforcements, who began to retreat in good order, battling the pursuit from one side and the forces loyal to Antiochus ahead of them.
"No!" Antiochus howled. "After her! All of you, after her! Kill her, kill her men, anyone loyal to her, kill them! I am the Emperor and I command it!"
The massacre went on, inside the room and out. Those of Romana's loyal guards who could not flee died. Those who were marked for death died. And in the midst of it all Portia lay, dying, and Miranda was too far to help her. Quirian would not let her go no matter what she did, what magic she employed on him. None of it so much as gave him a scratch. In the end, all she could do was weep.
At length, at bloody length, it was done. All those meant to die who could be killed had perished. The floor of the great hall was covered in blood and dead bodies. The Lost and the prince's men moved among the dead like carrion, while Prince Antiochus stood blood-soaked in the midst of all the carnage he had wrought and looked dissatisfied.
"My sister escaped," he raged. "I took her power away, I took her men away, but they still helped her. They were ordered to obey me and yet they helped her. I don't understand, I took everything away from her. Why is anyone still obeying her?"
"She is a charismatic young lady, that much is plain." Quirian replied. "That being said, Your Highness, you should not let her trouble you. She has no power to menace your ambitions."
"She has friends among the patricians," Antiochus said. "Livius, Rutulus, Salinator, Lacus. And Commenae and Manzikes hate me too. If she tells them what I've done-"
"The enmity of those houses being as fixed as it is, they will doubtless suspect you even if Romana dies," Quirian said. "But what matter if they do? They cannot stand against your golems. Filia Miranda has made them too well, haven't you, Filia Miranda?"
"Put me down," Miranda murmured, her voice choked, her face covered in tear tracks. "Put me down, please."
A melancholy expression on his face, Quirian released her. Miranda started to walk forward, then tripped over a body and went sprawling in the blood and death with a thump. Her leg ached, her hands hurt, she had cut her arms on some dead lady's jewellery but Miranda didn't care. Portia was all that mattered now. Poor, sweet, innocent Portia, the lamb in the den of wolves, who had fallen in love with a man, not with an Emperor, and whose only dreams had been to live happily with that man and with the children of their union. But men, their ambitions meaner and more wicked than hers for all that they were more grandiose, had chosen to destroy her instead. Because it was easy for them to do so.
Miranda crawled on her hands and knees through the harvest of death, her hands and dress covered in blood, sobbing and dry-heaving as she went, until she reached the Empress' side.
Portia's blood had seeped from a dozen wounds to pool around her, staining the tips of her golden hair. Her face, her lovely face, was marred by the scars that envious Messalina had given her, for no purpose other than to mar her beauty. Her eyes were open and Miranda could see her chest rising and falling ever so slightly.
"Portia! Oh dear God," Miranda took Portia's hand in her own. "Hold on, Portia, just a little longer. I'm going to save you I promise." She tried to master her fear, her anger, all the emotions that would cloud her judgement. She needed to concentrate, this would take all she had. Summon the magic, grab it tight and pull. Summon the magic and make it all better.
As much as she could make better, anyway.
"Sister," Portia murmured.
"Yes, yes, we will be as sisters, once I have made you well. You and the baby," Miranda said. "You're going to be fine; you're both going to be fine I swear it!"
Portia smiled faintly. "Miranda..."
Miranda's free hand glowed blue with power. Miranda pressed it against the wound-"
"No!" Prince Antiochus shrieked, grabbing Miranda's white hair and pulling her away. Miranda thrashed and kicked and screamed as he dragged her across the floor, her head in agony, but he simply hit her across the face and then dumped her on the bloody tiles.
"How dare you try and save her? How dare you?" Antiochus yelled, kicking Miranda in the stomach so hard she whimpered in pain, then again making her curl up in a ball on the floor. He stamped on her bad leg until Miranda's tears of grief became tears of agony. "I don't want her alive I want her dead, do you hear me? Dead! Dead! Dead!" He stood over Portia, fingering his knife. "You have no idea how much I hated having to scrape to commonborn scum like you. Before you tried to come between me and my ambitions, you should have learned your place in the gutter!" He cut her throat, twice to be sure. Portia gasped and choked, her eyes looking at Miranda imploringly, desperately, her mouth moving silently as her life's blood flowed away and her breath failed.
And then the light in those blue eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that had so shone with kindness, went out. The Empress had passed beyond Miranda's power to heal.
Prince Antiochus threw back his head and laughed. "I did it! I did it! I am the Emperor!" He began to dance up and down, his arms spread out around him, cavorting amidst the blood he had spilled to win his way to a gilded chair.
"All hail the Emperor," his cronies called out, Verra and Maro and Kyrios and the rest. "Long live the Emperor."
"All hail the Emperor, my love," Messalina purred, taking his hands in her own and kissing him. "Long may you reign." Her brother Dio began to applaud.
Miranda raised her head, looking up at him standing over Portia's body, crowing in triumph. Acting as though he had done some great deed in murdering a defenceless woman, and an anger greater than any she had ever felt boiled through her veins.
"Major Otacilius," Messalina said, holding out her hand. "Give me your sword."
The jowly commander of the guard handed her his blade. Messalina pressed it into Antiochus' hand.
"Together, love?" she asked.
Antiochus smiled. "Together."
Together they raised the sword over Portia to cut off her head.
"Get away from her!" Miranda shrieked, and Antiochus was hurled backwards a dozen feet across the bloody floor in a blinding flash.
"Don't touch her," Miranda snarled. "Don't touch her ever again."
The room was silent. The patricians and equestrians stared at her in horror. Messalina looked murderous. Felix's face was hidden, and Metella's expression was inscrutable. Quirian...she almost thought Quirian was smiling.
"You should be thankful that after your treasons and your disrespect you are allowed to live!" Messalina cried. "Get on your knees and cry for pardon, and praise the mercy of His Imperial Majesty."
Antiochus clambered to his feet. "Who are you to speak to me like that? To treat me like that? You're...you're just, nothing! I am the Emperor!"
Miranda pushed herself up, her anger giving her the strength to ignore the screeching pain in her leg. "You are a monster, and you will not lay a hand on Portia again. None of you will! She was better than any of you! She was worth a hundred of you! And you killed her."
"She was a lowborn, empty-headed, simpering bitch!" Antiochus screamed. "She should have been honoured that I deigned to kill her myself. I am the Emperor and I can do as I please. Who are you, a seamstress' daughter, to tell me different?"
Miranda wished that she could have reversed the passage of the sun, so that she could have known from the start what kind of man Prince Antiochus was: a grasping, greedy boy, full of entitlement but with no ability, jealous of anyone standing between him and the things he wanted. Perhaps, if she had seen him more clearly from the start, she could have protected Portia as she had said she would. All she do now was punish her killer.
Miranda began to laugh. "Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty, I fear that in my grief I have been most remiss in offering my congratulations on your ascension. An omission I will not correct." She bowed from the waist down, and picked up a silver goblet filled with some red liquid. "All hail the Emperor." She quaffed everything that was in the goblet, letting it stain her mouth red as though she were some cannibal from the wilds of Lavissar. She smiled at Prince Antiochus with a feral savagery, and felt her heart leap as she saw Antiochus realise the meaning of her words.
"No," he murmured. "No, you can't-"
Some crimes deserved the harshest punishment.
"Long may you reign," Miranda snarled.
Instantly the prince's body was consumed with fire, every inch of him ablaze, his limbs contorting as he burned inside and out, his monstrous screams echoing across the chamber as he ran around and round, beating at himself to stop the burning, screaming every moment until there was not enough of him left to make a sound.
Messalina shrieked in horror, but her horror at the fate of her betrothed as nothing to the way she screamed when she too began to burn. Miranda started with her hand, the hand that had scarred Portia's face, and then worked her way up from there. Her brother, to his credit, tried to beat out of the flames, but all that succeeded in doing was making the fire spread to him. He had not repulsed her so much as his sister, so when the flames had consumed him Miranda put him out of his misery with a well placed lightning bolt.
They fled before her. Valens and Acamas and all the rest, fleeing for their lives as the man they had hailed as Emperor was burned to ash before their eyes. Wherever Miranda glanced, more fires erupted. Lightning leapt from her fingertips to strike men dead. Any guards who tried to stop her died. Those who ran from her were scythed down just as those who had stood and fought. The Lost pounced on the prince's followers as they fell, cutting them down with sword and magic both. Ascanius and Julian hacked their way through the guards to Miranda's side. Hippolytus Kyrios was the bravest of the prince's cronies, grabbing and spear and yelling as he charged right for Miranda. She killed him all the same. Gellius of Helenia stopped to pick up Aula before she could be trampled in the press, and carried her out the room. For that she let him live, for the moment. She would kill him later when he was not trying to save a child, even an odious little brat.
Most died quickly, but Antiochus and Messalina suffered long. Miranda did not stop until they were nothing more than piles of ash upon the floor.
When she did stop, all strength deserted her and Miranda fell to her knees, sobbing and heaving. Metella found a cloak, only slightly stained with blood, and covered Portia's face with it after she closed the Empress' eyes.
Quirian walked through the carnage completely unfazed. "My home was like this, after the sack. A horrible thing for anyone to behold, still less a child."
"Why?" Miranda demanded.
"Why what, Filia?"
"Why did you let this happen?" Miranda demanded. "You could have stopped it."
"Because I wanted you to understand," Quirian said. "This is the true face of the Empire. Not the joy of the Empress but the pride, the heartless ambition of Prince Antiochus that will not cease until it has all it wants, no matter the suffering inflicted on the innocent. I could have saved Portia, true, but if I had done so then millions more innocents would have suffered at the hands of the Empire. You can save them, if you wish. Has this not proven to you how desperately the world needs you to save them from the Empire? You are required far more than your ancestor was."
Miranda bowed her head. "I hate you."
"I do not doubt it, Filia," Quirian said softly.
"But...you are right," Miranda said. "The Empire must be destroyed. And I will destroy it."
Quirian said nothing. He only smiled.
XVIII
The Harrowing
Rebecca Miranda Callistus, inheritor of the Aurelian power, stood upon the roof of the Eternal Palace and hurled down destruction on the city before her.
Eternal Pantheia lay beneath her like a model; everything seemed so small, as if she were the only human left and all the rest but toys for her amusement. Above her head the clouds gathered, rumbling angrily as they belched forth destruction upon her command.
Miranda's breath was ragged, excited, ecstatic. The magic of her birthright roared through her like a river in spate, exploding out of her as though through a broken dam. The wind whipped around her with the force of a hurricane but Miranda had no fear because she was the wind, she was storm, she was the fury and tonight, for the first time, Eternal Pantheia would feel inescapable justice visited upon it. All Miranda could feel was her power and the sweet satisfaction of using it as it was intended to be used. Her hand was raised above her head, calling down heaven's vengeance upon the sinners of the Empire's capital.
Fire fell from the sky in torrents, fireballs and burning ice turning the houses and the temples to ash, rocks dropping through the clouds to smash roofs or shatter bones beneath their impact. Lightning shot down from the angry storm clouds to slay any whom it struck. The str
eets below rumbled and shook; Miranda had commanded her golem companies to drive the prince's followers from the palace - which they had done with brutal efficiency - and then to go forth into the streets and slay all they came across, adding to the misery of these wretched, guilty people.
Miranda would cleanse this den of iniquity, kill any who lurked within this cesspool, then she would set all Pelarius free; but if any chose to strike against her they too would perish. She was the White Champion, the arbiter of all things. She, alone had the right to pass judgement upon men and nations, and she had pronounced the Empire guilty of all the charges brought by Quirian. Portia's blood had been all the evidence which she required.
Quirian joined her upon the roof, his footing sure upon the purple tiles. Though his cloak flapped around him and his hair was blown in all directions Quirian seemed hardly to notice there was a wind at all, still less did he seem afraid that it might blow him to his death. He was clad in armour now, a cuirass of black leather, bracers and greaves of bronze, and he had two swords slung across his back, Semper Fidelis and some more common blade of less history. His expression was contented as he looked over the city and watched the devastation, listening to the screams of the populace. "At long last, justice has come to Eternal Pantheia. The maggots of this city are reaping the crop they sowed when they destroyed my people. Though I confess, Filia, I am disappointed it cannot be done faster."
Miranda's magic wished to strike him down for his insolence, but Miranda restrained it. "That is beyond my power as yet. This is slower, but no less effective."
"Oh, I am sure," Quirian said blithely. "Just as I am sure that the golems will delay the army sufficiently to prevent them interfering with your work. The sun has set upon Eternal Pantheia, and it will not rise."
Miranda did not reply, watching without words as another company of golems marched out of the palace grounds and into the city, the rhythm of their stony steps causing the earth to shake. Some of them had blood on their hands, from their destruction of the guards within the palace. Only Romana's chambers and the immediate environs held out against her power, and then only because Miranda had given them no great attention yet. The proud princess would die last, once she had watched her precious Empire burn around her. Oh the tears she must be shedding now, as all her dreams and ambitions collapsed around her.
Spirit of the Sword: Faith and Virtue (The First Sword Chronicles Book 2) Page 43