Ironroot (41 page)

“You’re a traitor, a liar, a murderer and a monster, Cristus. There can be no deal. Now I know you’ve always thought of yourself as a swordsman… well here’s your chance to prove it. Let the Gods decide and draw their own conclusions. Your men here will respect if you face me, and it’ll be real respect; the sort you earn through blood, sweat and sacrifice; not the sort you buy.

“To the death for the honour of the army. I’ve no fear, because even without divine retribution against lying scum, I know damn well I could gut you like a fish on a slab.”

The prefect’s hearty laugh rang out again.

“Varro, just look at yourself, man. You’re wounded and sick; dying even. You’re covered in your own blood. You haven’t rested properly in weeks. You’re a mess. I don’t need a sword; I could beat you to death with a tunic for heavens’ sake. Just see reason and end this with negotiation. This is my last offer of peace. We can try and get you healed and back to normal.”

Cristus unbuckled his cuirass and handed it and his helmet to one of the staff officers beside him. He looked for a moment at the leather bracers on his wrists.

“Would you mind if I keep these on? Personal reasons, you see. Awards for meritorious service. One doesn’t like to be without them.”

“You must calm down, captain. Your skills with the sword will be of no avail if you blow a blood vessel and expire before you even reach me.”

He stretched his shoulders and drew his sword, giving it a few experimental swings.

“Feel free to invite your young engineer friend and the lady Catilina out. I will guarantee their safety. After you’ve needlessly thrown yourself away, the young man will certainly have a place with me in the Fourth, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for the lady.”

“Just shut up and get ready.”

Varro stopped five yards from the prefect who smiled and removed his scarf. With a flamboyant sweep of his arm, he handed it to another officer, who took it silently.

“Now, gentlemen… if you’ll all step the requisite twenty paces back and give us some room.”

The party of officers retreated up the hill a way and took up position with Crino’s men. Cristus flipped his sword around in his hand expertly a few times.

“Isn’t it said for the modern military that bravery and stupidity are so often aligned in a man.”

He grinned as he began to slowly circle Varro. The captain started to move likewise dropping his shoulders and holding his sword ready.

“I’ve got to kill you Cristus, just to stop you talking if nothing else!”

He stepped forward with lightning speed and lunged out towards Cristus. The prefect laughed and ducked to one side, knocking the blade out of the way with his own sword.

“Fast, but sloppy and obvious.”

Varro smiled and circled once more. After a momentary pause, Cristus suddenly twirled back on himself, bringing his blade out in a wide, flashing arc at shoulder height. Varro ducked, but only just in time. The damn contraption Salonius had made might save his life, but it meant he couldn’t bend low enough. Damn it! He would have to adjust. Adapt and adjust, like his friend would.

“Flashy. Does that impress your friends, Cristus?”

The prefect smiled an unpleasant smile.

“Sadly, every move I make tells me something about you. And now I know that you can’t duck. Nasty wound and that evil toxin destroying you from within. I’m surprised you can move. Scortius must have done wonders with you to keep you upright.”

Cristus’ head snapped round. For a moment Varro wondered whether to take advantage of the distraction, but decided against it. If this was to be done, it had to be done right.”

Chapter Fifteen

Marshal Sabian arrived on the scene in spectacular fashion. Though a practical and realistic man, the marshal was well aware of the effect that pomp and splendour could have on a situation when used to its maximum effect. The trumpets calling the army to order were clearly audible before a single man became visible. Then, a few moments later, the standard bearers appeared over the slope, their banners fluttering in the light breeze and displaying the insignia of the marshal, the Northern Provinces, and all four armies under his command.

At the first blast of the horn and without the need of a command from Cristus, every soldier on the hillside came to attention, and nervously maintained their posture as the standard bearers hove into view, followed in quick succession by the trumpeters and the drummers, beating out a marching cadence. Behind the musicians came Captain Iasus of the marshal’s guard, astride a magnificent black horse that matched his uniform in shade, giving him the appearance of some sorting of avenging spirit from the underworld. Iasus was accompanied by a dozen of his men in full dress uniform who rode in an arrow formation, forming a protective shield around the marshal himself on his white mare. The column went on behind them, with several of Sabian’s senior officers, more of his personal guard and two thousand troops split into four columns, representing the northern armies.

It was a spectacular and fearsome force to behold and the effect was not lost on the two men facing each other with drawn blades. Regardless of whether Cristus won their melee, the day was now lost to him. Sabian’s force outnumbered the prefect’s by hundreds to one, and the sudden glorious reminder of the marshal’s power and influence would already be melting away the resolve of even Cristus’ most avid supporters. He smiled an odd smile.

“I fear you may be disappointed there, Varro; I make it a point to always have a way out. However, I feel bound to offer you one last time my hand in friendship. We could still walk away today. The marshal could be persuaded to put aside any animosity were the two of us to stand side by side.”

“Were I to find myself at the marshal’s mercy today, remember two things, Varro: firstly, I will kill you before I finish. That is not a boast or a threat but a simple statement. I am a better swordsman than you, despite all your frontline experience, and I am fully healthy and rested, while you are dying and weak.”

He smiled.

“And secondly, I am a master of politics. I can assure you that when all is done here, I will go on. I shall be leaving the military, of course, but I believe my place in the ruling council is still secure. No matter how sentimental over you Sabian gets and no matter how angry he may be over my dirty little secret, I have tricks up my sleeve and information in hand that will guarantee my safety and my future.”

“You lying turd!”

Cristus chuckled.

“Come, Varro. Do you really think I haven’t planned for this kind of eventuality? That I did not set wheels in motion to protect myself decades ago? It will be a shame to have my commission removed and be mustered out without a triumphal parade and great show, and I daresay one or two of my senior men will have to be sacrificed for the look of the thing, but Sabian is practical and it will be much more trouble to punish me than to promote me, I can assure you.”

Varro bared his teeth.

“Then, skill or no skill, I’ll just have to make sure you don’t leave this field, eh?” he growled.

The two men stood for a long moment, their eyes locked on each other; Cristus’ expression an unreadable mix of smugness and satisfaction, Varro’s a look of pure hatred. Slowly, distrustfully, the pair tore their gaze from each other and looked up at the approaching column of men. The troops of the four armies had begun to move into position in a wide arc with one tip at the wood’s edge and the other at the crest of the hill, enclosing the men on the slope. The standard bearers and musicians had fallen into ranks on either side of the command unit and had ceased their bleating and thumping. In the centre, the black-clad guardsmen settled into a protective cordon behind and alongside their captain and the marshal, who gently walked his steed forward.

Cristus lowered his sword and gave a crisp military salute as the marshal and his men drew up their horses twenty yards from the combat. Varro merely let his sword drop and nodded a casual greeting.

The marshal regarded the scene, allowing his gaze briefly to wander to the edge of the woods and scan the ranks of men on the hillside. He sat comfortably in the saddle, his face a blank mask. Cristus appeared not to read anything into this, but Varro had known the marshal on a personal level long enough to see through the mask and recognise the very dangerous current flowing beneath. Sabian was just about as angry as Varro had ever seen him. The marshal spoke in a flat, dead tone.

“Gentlemen…”

His expression unreadable, Sabian dismounted and passed his horse’s reins to one of Cristus’ soldiers standing nearby, who took them nervously. Behind him, Captain Iasus and two black-clad sergeants also dismounted and stepped up to join their commander. The marshal clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously as he approached the two combatants.

“Speak to me. It would appear that two of my senior officers are ready to cut each other to pieces and I am very much in two minds as to whether to stop this and have you both locked up or to let you kill each other here and now and solve all my problems.”

Cristus remained at attention and bowed his head briefly.

“My lord marshal, there are a number of baseless accusations that have been made against me by men driven by greed and jealousy. You will discover that there is no evidence for any of this bar the hearsay and rumour spread by captain Varro and his cronies. I was on my way to Vengen with my officers to bring this distasteful matter to your attention and resolve any questions when I was waylaid by the necessity of confronting the man over his behaviour. As is good and proper by military law, I was about to bring Varro to justice through trial by combat since violence appears to be the only solution that he understands.”

“Prefect Cristus, I think we’re beyond denials now, so be quiet and wait.” He turned to lay his gaze on the other combatant. “And Varro? I’d need extra hands to count the number of times you’ve broken rules and deliberately disobeyed my orders. I’ve given you a great deal of elbow room due to your condition and your past record, but it stops now. I’m thoroughly sick of the sight of both of you. If you’re determined to carve each other to pieces, I’m more than happy to accommodate you, but you will do it according to military etiquette.”

Turning his back on them, he issued quiet orders to captain Iasus. Varro watched him warily, the point of his sword wavering. Iasus saluted and strode off.

The pale, graceful figure of the marshal’s daughter appeared at the edge of the wood, followed by Salonius wearing an expression of hopelessness. For just a moment the lady paused at the altar of Phaianis nearby. The gentle depression in the top was stained red with both wine and blood. Reaching up to her neck and wincing at both the dull ache in her shoulder and her broken fingers, Catilina unclasped the necklace that she wore.

Varro breathed in deeply. Even at this distance, he recognised the golden chain and locket; Catilina’s most prized possession: a cameo of her mother made the week before she died. Without even a visible hint of regret, she dropped the necklace into the bowl and strode on toward the waiting figure of her father. Salonius stopped for a second to stare at the item and then hurried to catch up.