Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (102 page)

The cathedral tower was ringing out terce as the First Cavalry and the first and third cohorts emerged from the morning fog and approached the gates of Solacte. The prisoners marched alongside the two centuries assigned to guard duty, many of them stumbling and crying from fear and a lack of sleep the night before. The centurion commanding the century from the fourth assigned to watch the gates over the night saluted Marcus wearily as he and his men were dismissed and began the trek toward the warmth and safety of the castra.

Trebonius was back at the camp making preparations for their planned departure the following day, but Father Gennadius had insisted upon accompanying them, though it was unclear what he hoped to accomplish in the morning after their conversation the previous evening.

But to Marcus’s surprise, the priest did not say anything upon being greeted by the sight of the young men and women standing with their wrists bound, each of them held leashed by a legionary. He simply nodded calmly to Proculus, Arvandus, and Marcus before clumsily mounting his mule and falling in at the end of the line of march. And if the father wondered about the empty mule-drawn cart or the twelve sheep that followed behind, driven by two legionaries from the sixth and a dog, he kept his questions to himself.

They were greeted by the grim sight of the twelve heads still protruding from the gate towers. Marcus nodded to Proculus, and at a gesture from the centurion, a pair of drums began to boom with a slow, ominous beat that would be heard throughout the city before them.

Once more, Marcus rode out in the company of a centurion and a decurion. But this time they were followed by the two centuries accompanying the prisoners. Before he reached his intended mark, signs of activity could be seen all along the walls and in the battlements as well.

Proculus held up a fist, and the drums picked up their pace, then fell silent when he dropped his arm. That was Marcus’s cue.

“People of Solacte, I have returned as promised. With me, I have brought one hundred and twenty young men and women from the villages and farms that surround this city, ten for each of my men whose bodies you have defiled. By the laws of war and the laws of the Senate of Amorr, your rightful rulers, I declare their lives forfeit. However, as Tullius writes, ‘It is sufficient that the aggressor should be brought to repent of his wrongdoing, in order that he may not repeat the offence and that others may be deterred from doing wrong.’ I therefore summon your senator-in-chief, Opiter Florus Siculo, to answer for the crimes of your city.”

He counted to one hundred. Meanwhile there were no shortage of jeers and insults shouted from the walls. But Siculo did not appear.

Marcus sighed and raised his hand. As the drums again began to thunder, a legionary frog-marched a struggling young man to the fore and forced him to his knees and placed his gladius at the man’s naked throat. After taking a deep breath, Marcus lowered his arm, the drums stopped, and the legionary drove his sword into the kneeling man’s throat, then jerked it left and right before drawing it forth again, bloody with the now-dying man’s lifesblood.

Angry cries rained down upon him, but Marcus only nodded to acknowledge the killer’s salute before the legionary withdrew. He waited a little while, listening to their rage and their hate, before he raised his voice again.

“I summon your senator-in-chief, Opiter Florus Siculo, to answer for the crimes of your city.”

But still, Siculo refused to show himself. Marcus counted to one hundred again, praying now for the soul of the young man killed and for the next ones in line. Then he raised his hand again. The grim play was reenacted, and soon there were two lifeless bodies lying face down in pools of bright crimson blood on the snow-dusted brown grass of the field.

“I summon your senator-in-chief, Opiter Florus Siculo, to answer for the crimes of your city,” he shouted again.

Still nothing. The sequence repeated itself. There were four bodies on the ground before the gates parted and began to slowly separate. They opened enough to permit a party of three men to emerge before closing again as Siculo and two elderly companions, both shorter and fatter than the consul, approached the three Amorrans.

“Butchering our neighbors’ children isn’t going to cause us to bend the knee again, boy,” Siculo, who up close was younger than his white hair had seemed to suggest from afar, fairly spat at Marcus.

“I didn’t imagine it would,” Marcus agreed. “I am requesting your repentance and your submission, but I don’t expect to receive it…yet. All that I am demanding today is the return of my men’s remains so that they may receive proper burial.”

The Solactean frowned and pursed his lips in what looked like suspicion, but Marcus suspected it masked relief.

“Just their bodies?”

“And their heads, of course.”

“Yes, yes, naturally. And then you will release your prisoners, alive and unharmed, and agree to leave our lands?”

Marcus smiled coldly. “I will release my prisoners, alive and unharmed. I will not agree to anything else. As it happens, I do not mind telling you that I still intend to depart the castra in two days regardless of your decision.”

“And yet you won’t agree to something you say you intend to do? You can’t murder all of these men and women over such a small matter, Tribune. You know perfectly well that your men were soldiers. These are innocent people taken from their homes!”

“I would have to agree…if you had killed them in battle, Consul. But they would not have laid down their arms had they imagined they would be butchered and their bodies defiled.”

The Solactean looked down at the bloody ground for a moment. “Tribune, you cannot know what it is like for a people to have been under the Amorran heel for centuries. Yesterday, when you were at the gates with your siege engines, well, emotions ran high. Killing your soldiers may have been a mistake. It was not necessary.”

“No, it was not. In fact, it was a foolish provocation, and it will not be forgotten. Let us be honest with one another, Consul. If I had the time, I would sack your city, raze its walls, and sell your people into slavery as an example to the other cities across Utrucca. But I do not. I do, however, have the time to kill every last one of these young rebels, and you know I am perfectly within my rights to do so. If you value dead men’s bones more than the lives of your neighbors’ children, you have only to say the word, and I will supply you all the bones you could ever desire.”

“I see.” The older man seemed to squint a little as he peered closely into Marcus’s eyes. “You understand I cannot promise you anything, Tribune. Only the Council has the authority to make this decision. I am but one of twelve. I will take them your offer, and I will advise them to accept it. Will you consent to wait until tomorrow for our answer?”

Marcus shook his head. “I will give you until sext. Before the bells stop ringing, the next will die.”

The older man nodded slowly. “Very well, Tribune. You will have our answer before then.” Without another word, he turned and began walking quickly back toward the gates, which opened just wide enough to receive him and his two companions.

“Ten silvers they take it,” Proculus said as soon as the Solactae were out of earshot.

“Five against your ten they don’t,” Arvandus answered. “These people were dumb enough to capture Dardanus and his men in the first place, then kill them with an entire legion on their doorstep. What did they think would happen, that we’d run away scared?”

“Done,” Proculus accepted the odds. “Tribune, they could be a while yammering at each other. Do we really have to wait out here like this? This horse is giving me a right pain in my arse.”

“No, we don’t. Tell the men to stand at ease. Let their prisoners sit if they want. If the Solactae have come to their senses, they’ll accept our offer. If they’re determined to be unreasonable, it doesn’t matter what we do, they’ll turn down whatever we offer simply because we’re offering it.”

As they cantered back toward the warmth of the fires the centurions had ordered built near the wagon, Marcus saw Father Gennadius blessing a kneeling legionary, and he wondered how many penances he would have to accept before again receiving one himself. But there was nothing to do now but wait and see if his strategy had been effective. So instead of staring impotently at the city’s walls, he urged his horse in the direction of the priest.

“Greetings, Father,” he said respectfully.

“Tribune,” the priest said in a conspicuously neutral tone. “I see you reached your decision, although I have to admit I am a little disappointed. I hope you will be moved to discuss it with me one day in the future.”

Marcus smiled. He was aware that the priest was referring, circumspectly, to an eventual confession. He also knew he had nothing to confess, although Father Gennadius had no way of knowing that. The priest had seen what everyone else saw—a soldier, a blade, and the death of an innocent man. But eyes can be deceived, and no one but God can truly see whether a soul is innocent or not!

“That seems unlikely, Father. You appear to be operating under a misapprehension.”

The priest looked up at him with a skeptical expression and pointed toward the field, where the two centuries were still standing with their captives, at the bodies of the two fallen Larinii. “Sin is not a question of quantity, Marcus Valerius. A man is a murderer whether he kills one innocent or one thousand.”

“And I have killed none.” An impromptu cheer went up around him, and Marcus looked over his left shoulder to see what had provoked such an enthusiastic response from his men. Nothing seemed to be happening, and he squinted at the distant walls in bewilderment. Then the slight motion caught his eye, and he realized that the pikes upon which rested the heads of his men were disappearing one by one into the tower. He smiled with satisfaction.

“I don’t understand,” Father Gennadius said, looking from Marcus to the city walls, then back again.

“Last night, the night patrol encountered scouts from the first Larinii army that’s coming this way from Fescennium, Father. The decurion managed to capture a few of them for interrogation, and when Arvandus reported to me this morning, I realized I might have an additional use for them.”

“So the two men that were killed….”

“Were not the young Larinii that Julianus rounded up. They were enemy combatants captured in war. Now, I know their blood is on my hands, but it is legitimate, and I suspect there will be a lot more of it by the time this is over and done. I prayed about it, as you suggested, and not an hour after that, Arvandus came to tell me that his men had captured the six scouts.”

“There are a lot more than six men and women still out there on that field, Marcus Valerius.”

“And none of them need die. Unless I miss my guess, the Solactae are about to return Dardanus and the others to us. As soon as their bones are safely stowed in that wagon, we’ll march the captives back to the castra and leave them there when we depart this afternoon. The rest of the legion will be ready to march by the time we return.”

“We’re leaving today? I thought we were going to stay here for two more days.”

“So did I.” Marcus shrugged. “There are ten thousand armed Larinii marching this way and those are only the ones of which we know. I don’t plan to be here when they arrive. Trebonius and the others can grumble all they like, but it’s not their decision. The first priority is to get to Montmila and see how much of Vallyria is still loyal to its House, if not Amorr. What we learn there will determine our next march.”

The priest turned back to look at the prisoners shivering miserably on the snowy field. Behind them, the twelve gruesome standards had disappeared from the wall tower. “Tell me truthfully, Marcus: What would you have done if the Solactae hadn’t given in and agreed to return the remains? Would you still have spared the young ones?”

Marcus shook his head and smiled. “I believe I’ve confessed to enough sins that I needn’t admit any hypothetical ones, Father. Let us just be grateful that the cup was taken from me.”

THEUDERIC

Lord Silvertree smiled at Lithriel and Theuderic, but it was a cruel and arrogant smile, the smile of a wolf that finds itself cornered by rabbits. “I have heard so much about the unusual abilities of these Michaelines—how fortuitous it is to have the chance to test them for myself! Had I only known the occasion would present itself, I would have devised a number of experiments. But, even as it stands, this is an opportunity that shouldn’t be missed.”

Theuderic rolled his eyes. “You may be more capable of defending yourself than we are, but I don’t think it would be wise to to fight the Amorrans in Amorr. It won’t be long before you’ll find yourself fending off half the Order of Saint Michael.” The high elf appeared to be listening, so Theuderic continued. “You suggested before that we leave. Why don’t we do that? I have some money with me, as well as my sword. Are there any of your possessions at the palace that you simply can’t abandon, Lithriel?”

The elfess shrugged. “Just some clothes. But you can always buy me more.” Then, to his surprise, she asked about the two nuns with whom they’d come to the city. “Do you think the Watcher will revenge himself upon the other Savondese who came with us?”