Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (52 page)

“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 find 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?”

“A masochist,” Trebonius burst out enthusiastically. Marcus stopped pacing and shot him an irritated look. Abashed, Trebonius shrugged and muttered an unintelligible apology.

“This is not a discussion open to the public, Gaius Trebonius, it is a dialogue. From duo, or two, you understand, and while I can only applaud your enthusiasm concerning this discourse, I am much more interested in hearing the considered opinion of Gnaeus Junius on the subject.”

The big centurion’s face was increasingly coming to resemble that of a sacrificial ox as it was led to the altar. He shook his head again, clearly confused by Marcus’s flights of scholarly references.

“The word I had in mind is dolorectic, Gnaeus Junius. Dolorectic. Would you say that you are a dolorectic man? I myself am not. I happen to prefer the dialectic. But, as you can no doubt see, if you cannot be convinced by either logic or emotions, this leaves only pain. And I am sure you realize, Gnaeus Junius Honoratus, that it will not be long before Barbatus returns with Hortensis and his prisoners. So, I am hoping that you will aid me on my voyage of discovery, that you will consent to serve as my Vergilius and help me understand if you are a man of the dialectic, the rhetoric, or the dolorectic. Because I wish for you to tell me to whom you are sworn, and I simply do not know which method you require.”

“I took the legion’s oath,” Honoratus growled.

“I am aware you did as much. But what I really want to know is to whom you were sworn before you took that oath. So I will give you a choice: Either tell me why you assassinated Marcus Saturnius, tell me who was involved in the plot and to whom you are sworn, or I will put both men to the question as soon as Hortensis arrives. And if they happen to implicate you, I will have you beheaded immediately, right here in this very tent, where with my own eyes I saw you kill the legate!”

The centurion didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed, and he glanced first at Julianus, then at Trebonius as if he were trying to decide if he could take all three armed men without a weapon. For a moment, Marcus wondered if he had blundered badly by not keeping two or three more men inside, or at least ordering the centurion bound. But the fewer men who knew about the treachery of a senior officer, the better it would be. Julianus obviously read Honoratus’s thoughts, as he shook his head and caressed the hilt of his sword, smiling as he did so.

“Let me be clear, Gnaeus Junius,” Marcus told him. “I don’t give a rat’s arse for your life one way or the other. I want the truth. If you give me that, you live. You and the others involved in the plot will be sent out of the camp tonight with sufficient supplies to see you to Cynothicum. I value the information far more than I value your wretched life. And if you remain silent and force me to make the others speak in your stead, you will die. Today. Here. Before the next bell. Now, I suppose you imagine I am bluffing, but recall, you beheaded my cousin at the orders of my father. I may be green, but I am the son of Valerius Corvus. Do you truly believe I will hesitate to do the same with you?”

“No, Valerian,” the centurion growled. “I don’t doubt you. I know your like. All fine words and pretty manners, but you’ll order the deaths of a thousand brave men without even learning their damn names. They ain’t even real to you blasted patrician bastards. You’ll spill a sea of red before you’ll risk a drop of that precious blue blood!”

Marcus saw no reason to point out that Fortex’s blood had been as blue as his own, and yet Corvus hadn’t hesitated to spill every last drop of it. But the bitterness and hate in the centurion’s voice told him he had the man now. The centurion was above all a survivor, his encrustation of battle medals testified to that, and he clearly understood there was only one way he was going to walk out of this tent alive.

“I will do whatever it takes, Honoratus, you can be sure of that. Now speak. Is Castorius dead?”

“What assurances do I have that you won’t kill me as soon as I tell you everything?”

Marcus smiled. The man might be brave and an efficient killer, but he simply wasn’t bright enough to realize that he had already condemned himself with his question. “You have the word of a Valerian. That will suffice. Furthermore, I have no interest in your hairy hide. I have a legion to command, and if I am correct, I will soon have far more urgent concerns than seeking revenge for a few murdered officers.”

“Aye, you will at that,” the big centurion said. Then he shrugged fatalistically. “My men were on the Praetorian gate last night. They saw Castorius returning from one of the brothels, took him aside and killed him. You’ll find him buried under a rock near the southern edge of the forest you can see from the gate there.”

“Did you kill Narbonio?”

“He was wounded and the gate was due for a change so we couldn’t get him out. I don’t know if he would have lived anyhow, since we couldn’t take him to the medicus. Anyhow, yeah, I killed him.”

“Was he the only assassin? Who killed Saturnius?”

“Narbonio and me. I killed the legate myself. Didn’t want to. I respected the man. He was a damn good general. But that’s why they wanted him out of the way, he was too dangerous. Narbonio killed the tribunes. He should have killed you. How did you get him first?”

“Never mind that. Who wanted Saturnius out of the way? Who is they? Who thought he was dangerous?”

“The Severans.”

Marcus inhaled sharply and glanced at Trebonius. The younger tribune looked troubled, while Julianus was shaking his head grimly. This meant war. And not just war, but civil war.

“I don’t know what they’re planning,” Honoratus said, “but they’re up to something. And I can tell you this, they been up to it for a while. They paid me real good to sign on with the new legion when Corvus was forming it, and I also knowed I’d have to kill someone. But I swear, Valerius, I didn’t know it was going to be the damned legate!”