Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (40 page)

Corvus stepped back and sat again upon the red leather of the consul’s chair.

The Senate erupted again. This time, however, it was not the rapturous explosion of enthusiasm that had greeted Pompilius Ferratus’s address, but the rancorous sound of a hundred arguments breaking out. It was hard to tell, but judging by Maximus’s broad smile, his virgin speech as consul appeared to have accomplished its purpose. Here and there, senators were applauding. But more importantly, he saw that Severus Patronus had risen to his feet and was stalking angrily out of the temple, followed by three or four of his acolytes. He left Ferratus still seated behind him, looking pale and bewildered.

“The princeps is highly displeased, I think,” said Torquatus, leaning toward Corvus. “Until you opened your mouth, he knew he had the vote sewn up. Now Ferratus won’t even get three hundred. You’d better make sure you have an escort home this evening. Don’t linger around the Forum.”

“He’s that desperate?” Corvus grinned, unconcerned. If the Severan wanted him dead, he’d have to get in line behind one Marcus Valerius Magnus. And it was a little much to expect a soldier newly come from the battlefield to worry about being attacked by a few unarmored street thugs. “Why is this law so important to him?”

“I have no idea,” his consular colleague answered. “Vanity, perhaps. He’s getting old, and I imagine his desire to leave his mark is growing stronger as his days grow shorter. But he’s been spreading the gold around pretty thickly over the last month or two, so he’s definitely not going to appreciate you interfering with his plans, whatever they might be.”

Corvus mused on Torquatus’s words as their other colleague called the senators to speak to the assembly, one-by-one, in the order of their rank. Since the princeps senatus had abandoned the assembly, Marcus Fulvius began to call upon the ex-consuls, followed by the praetors and ex-praetors. A few of the pro-law party attempted to chip away at some of the points Corvus had made. Others, even more ineffectually, tried to revive the glorious vision painted by Ferratus, but their lack of his rhetorical gifts only rendered their efforts all the more grotesque.

And for every senator who rose to speak in favor of Lex Ferrata Aucta, three more stood to speak against it. Some of them simply underlined Corvus’s points. Others raised a panoply of new questions and objections, which soon served to make it clear to all and sundry that there were a myriad of details that would have to be addressed before the law, even if passed, could reasonably be implemented by the magistrates.

How would the new citizens be ruled? Would they have their own senates, or would they elect senators to the Senate itself? How many senators would they be permitted? What would happen to their kings and other rulers? Should they all be classified as plebians, or would it be necessary to introduce a new class to distinguish between the original Houses, those who came later, and those who were granted citizenship via the proposed law? The more it was considered, the more it became clear to all and sundry that the Lex Ferrata Aucta was a treacherous and twisted skein indeed.

In the end, it became apparent to everyone, even Fulvius Paetinas, that there would be no need for a vote. Based on those who had spoken out and the general demeanor of those who had not, Corvus estimated that Severus Patronus still held the loyalties of perhaps one-third of the senators, but most of them were either too stunned or too demoralized by the unexpected turn of events to do much more than mouth a few vague platitudes in support of the proposed law. Finally, no one rose to speak. The Senate appeared to have exhausted itself, and silence filled the vast chamber. Fulvius Paetinas glanced over toward Torquatus. Torquatus, in turn, looked to Corvus, who shrugged. When Torquatus nodded, Paetinas wearily pushed himself up from his throne and cleared his voice.

“City fathers, the wisdom of your advice concerning the proposed Lex Ferrata Aucta has been received by your consuls in the spirit it was given. It is in our considered opinion that the tide of this august body is against the measure, and unless Pompilius Ferratus, its sponsor, objects, we shall not hold a vote upon it but shall deem the matter closed. Do you object, Pompilius Ferratus?”

Ferratus was sitting in near isolation, in stark contrast to his position earlier in the day. His face was ashen, and Corvus wondered if it should be Ferratus, not him, who would be in need of an escort tonight. But his voice was clear and strong as he replied to the consul provincae.

“I have no objection, my Lord Consul. I should like to thank the consuls and the members of this Senate for the time they have devoted to contemplating my proposal.”

It was well said, Corvus had to admit, especially in light of Patronus’s churlish departure. Ferratus would bear watching in the future, indeed, it might be very interesting to learn if the eloquent man had any ideas of his own, or if he was willing to play puppet for other hands than those belonging to House Severus. To win him over to the traditionalists would be very useful indeed. Corvus laughed silently at himself as the celestine who had opened the session now closed it with the traditional benediction. Politics must be dreadfully infectious if he was catching the disease already.

And now it was the turn of the consul aquilae to address the business of the legions. Fortunately that was a simple matter, and moreover, one that greatly pleased him to lay before the Senate. Corvus cleared his throat, rose from the Eagle throne, and smiled.

“City fathers, before we conclude the business of this assembly, I would ask your indulgence in a military matter. One that is dear to my heart. Since, as consul, I can no longer serve as stragister militum for the northern campaign, it is necessary for the Senate and People to name my replacement as the general responsible for the three legions presently operating in Cynothicum and the goblinlands.

“And it gives me great satisfaction to propose to you now the name of Marcus Saturnius, the legate of Legio XVII, the general who defeated the united Vakhyu and Chalonu tribes with an untested, unblooded legion that he himself trained, and a worthy man in whom I have the utmost confidence…”

As senators began to file out of the temple, Corvus found himself surrounded by twenty or more senators. Maximus was at their fore, congratulating him as if he’d won the field of battle. As, perhaps, he had.

“You were magnificent, Sextus Valerius!” The ex-consul beamed with delight. “I declare, the first thing I found myself thinking when you finished and Patronus was slinking out of the session with his naked rat tail between his legs was that we’d given the name Magnus to the wrong brother!”

“You do me too much credit, Senator.” Corvus shook his head and laughed. “One hardly needs a silver tongue to tear down a bad idea. Ferratus had the much harder task, and I don’t mind telling you that I despaired when he was rattling on about the Golden Age of Greater Amorr. He damn near had me convinced until he stopped speaking and the spell wore off!”

The senators roared with laughter, half-drunk with their unexpected success, and more than half-drunk upon the wine they had been imbibing throughout the course of the long day. Corvus could feel a sense of the familiar camaraderie he normally felt only when surrounded by his staff officers.

For the first time, he began to feel that winning political battles was no more mysterious, and no more difficult, than winning military ones. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, as he would make mistakes, and Severus Patronus promised to be a more cunning and experienced opponent than any general he had faced in the field. Corvus had taken the man by surprise today, but judging from the sight of that cold, calculating stare, he would never turn his flanks so easily again.

“My lords, my friends,” Corvus said, “I have been told that there are certain parties who may be displeased with me as a result of their disappointments today. So much so, in fact, that they may even be willing to offer me violence despite my imperium. Therefore, I should like to invite you all to dine at my home this evening, if you would be so kind as to escort me there.”

To a man, the senators accepted his invitation with lusty enthusiasm. Even as they did so, the thought that he might have just made a terrible mistake suddenly occurred to Corvus. While Patronus could afford to buy the best assassins money could purchase in Amorr, any would-be killers would have to deal with his bodyguard first. And Corvus very much doubted that the twelve guards, or even an entire century of them, would suffice to save him from the wrath of Romilia were he to appear unannounced with twenty senatorial guests for dinner in tow. In such an event, he imagined, it was very likely that the Church archives would record his consular reign as the shortest on record.

As the senators continued to joke amongst themselves and mock the more absurd arguments their opponents had made, Corvus frantically waved to one of the younger senators who lived only two streets away from him. “Quintus Curius, as you value your life, I implore you to run—run, mark you, not walk—to my house ahead of me and tell my wife to prepare a dinner for twenty, no, thirty.”

The younger man, his curly hair still unflecked by grey, grinned at him. “Ave, my lord consul.” He departed with alacrity, if not quite as urgently as Corvus would have liked.

Maximus, having overheard the exchange, put his meaty arm around Corvus. “It’s hard to come home and find yourself demoted to tribune, is it?”

“It’s not that,” Corvus replied with a grin. “I was only thinking that if my wife happens to have an encore of last night’s, ah, banquet in mind, she will be dreadfully annoyed if I show up for dinner with thirty of my new best friends.”

MARCUS

After handing over the captive he’d taken on the road to Cynothicum to a pair of guards and giving them strict orders to keep him bound, Marcus led his horse to the night grooms and staggered off in search of his tent. He made his way through the quiet camp without a torch. There was enough moonlight to see by, and since the camp was laid out in the exact same fashion as every other legionary camp, he probably could have done so in pitch darkness. His tent was the fourth on the row, and he fumbled at his belt as he pushed through the untied entrance, trying not to make too much noise in order to avoid waking Gaius Marcius or anyone in the nearby tents.

But he wasn’t the only one making noise. He heard a grunt of exertion, followed by a gasp that was accompanied by a thrashing sound. For a moment, he thought Gaius Marcius had somehow smuggled a woman into their tent, until he heard the telltale sound of creaking leather and caught the acrid scent of a male body that hadn’t seen the baths in too many days. Something was very, very wrong here.

Suddenly wide awake, he drew his gladius and stepped to the right even as a shadowy mass crashed into the empty canvas cot upon which he normally slept. He felt something hit his midsection and heard the scraping sound of metal on metal, but his steel breastplate protected him from harm.

Without thinking, he turned and thrust his sword hard in the direction of his attacker and felt it punch through leather armor and into the flesh beneath it.

There was a cry of pain, which quickly subsided as the leather-armored man he’d just wounded stumbled over the now-collapsed cot and scrambled on his hands and knees out through the tent flaps. Marcus leaped over the cot and slashed at the fleeing man, but this time he met only air.

He started to sprint after the man then realized that, with a torch, he could simply follow the trail of blood to where the man, presumably another spy or an assassin, was sleeping. Then it occurred to him that his attacker had been occupied with Gaius Marcius when he entered, and he spun around and ran back to the tent.

“Gaius, wake up,” he called softly as he laid his sword down amidst the wreckage of his cot. But there was no response, and when he reached out to shake his tentmate’s shoulders, he could feel something warm, sticky, and wet under his left hand. His heart sank, and he forced himself to confirm what he had already guessed.

He shuddered at the feel of the terrible wound under his fingers. The assassin had slashed his fellow tribune’s throat. Marcus took a deep breath and forced his imagination to set aside the vision it had conjured of what would almost surely have happened to himself too if Marcus Saturnius had not sent him out to catch the spy tonight.