Ironroot (42 page)

“Cristus’ men came for us in the night, father, just like they did at Vengen. I defended myself. Valiantly, I would say. I hurt my fingers; they’ll heal.”

Sabian shifted his glare to Cristus but said nothing. Finally, grinding his teeth, he turned and bellowed back up the slope.

“Surgeon! To me!”

There was a brief commotion among the medical staff and a small group of men came down the slope. Several orderlies ran ahead, coming to a halt at attention close to the marshal. The chief surgeon strode on behind with an air of supreme unconcern and finally sauntered to a halt behind his subordinates.

Mercurias shunned both the white robes common to private medical practitioners within the Empire and the crisp military uniform of their military counterparts, preferring as his standard mode of dress a casual, often worn and creased grey tunic and breeches bearing no insignia. His personal relationship with both Sabian and the Emperor was deep enough that no question would ever be raised over his behaviour, which was, some said, a damned good thing, given the old man’s acerbic nature.

“What is it?” he demanded irritably, as though interrupted from a pleasurable pursuit.

Sabian waved his hand at his daughter by manner of an explanation while his eyes remained locked on the two men before him. As the surgeon approached the young lady, Catilina smiled warmly.

She laughed as Mercurias grasped her gently by the wrist and began to unwrap the binding she had used. Sabian raised an eyebrow in question without shifting his gaze. As though by some sixth sense, Mercurias shrugged and reported.

“Looks like two or three fractures on two fingers. She bound them quickly and correctly. She’ll be fine, though I’ll splint them better.”

He cackled.

“But judging by the placement and the depth of the bruising, some well-built young man somewhere is having his dinner fed to him with a spoon.”

“In hell” added Catilina with a grin.

Though the doctor continued to cackle, Catilina looked up and caught the expression on her father’s face and allowed herself to regain her composure.

A distant pounding noise that had been growing gradually became more insistent and Varro turned to see a large group of men marching down the hill towards them. As they approached, they veered off into two lines and shuffled into position to form a large square around the two men, presenting their shields as an internal wall. Sabian cast his eyes over the makeshift arena and then beckoned to his daughter. The two of them, accompanied by Mercurias, Iasus and Salonius, strode back up the hill a way until they were high enough to obtain a clear view over the double line of infantry forming the arena wall.

Salonius’ breathing was becoming tense and short. Sabian glanced across at him and narrowed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned and addressed the assembled masses on the hill.

“I want Cristus’ command here to form into a unit at full attention. You may be under suspicion, but you are still soldiers in my army. Act like it!”

Hurriedly the various clusters of men and odd individual soldiers rushed to a position on the hill, where captain Crino bullied them into a semblance of order.

The marshal looked around and nodded with satisfaction. With the masses out of reasonable earshot, he allowed his shoulders to drop a little and relaxed. He glared at the two men in the makeshift arena.

“I’m really not sure, sir. Yesterday I wouldn’t have pitted him against a sheep with any confidence, but he’s dosed himself to critical, probably fatal, levels and he claims to be on top of his game. If he really does feel like he claims to, I think he’ll do it.”

“You have as much right to accuse and challenge Cristus as Varro has. This may sound heartless, but frankly I cannot afford to let Cristus leave this field alive. If Varro can’t do it, I need you to go in and finish the job.”

Salonius stared at the marshal, but the surprise quickly vanished from his face and was replaced with a mix of determination and distaste.

“It would be my duty and my pleasure, sir. But I still pin my hopes on the captain.”

“So do I, soldier. So do I.”

The two of them turned their eyes back to Varro and Cristus who stared at each other with open hatred. Sabian squared his shoulders.

“Let this be official, then. We have an arena. We have two challengers. Military law dictates what must happen here. Both combatants must be on equal terms.”

He grumbled something under his breath as he stared at the blood-stained mess that was captain Varro and the clean, limber figure of Cristus.

“We’ll agree that this is as equal as you’re likely to be, I suppose.” He drew a deep breath and announced loudly.

“We have a challenge to trial by combat between prefect Cristus and captain Varro. According to tradition, we need a judge who is impartial. Since that is an impossibility in the circumstances, I shall appoint captain Iasus to arbitrate this dispute. Everyone who knows my guard captain will know of his keen instinct toward law, order and tradition; tradition which, I believe, also requires both parties to have a second?”

Sabian shifted his gaze to the named captain, standing with his unhappy troops, enclosed in a ring of men emanating a low but clearly discernable air of detestation and disapproval. Crino grimaced, clearly unhappy with his lot, and finally nodded reluctantly.

“Very well. Varro and Salonius; Cristus and Crino.”

He gestured to Iasus, who adjusted his black cloak and removed his plumed helm. The strict guard captain squared his shoulders and stepped forward, opening a gap in the shield wall and entering the arena.

He called out in an officious tone “Under article fourteen of the codex of Imperial military law, Captain Varro has requested trial by combat.”

“This traitorous piece of shit has called on himself the death penalty time and again, according to the standards of military law. He consorted with the enemy at Saravis Fork and sold out a garrison to the barbarians to become slaves or worse… penalty: death.”

Some of the weariness seemed to drop from Varro’s frame and he pulled himself upright, his voice gaining volume.

“He lied to his commanding officer and his peers, claiming honours and victories that were not his, gaining prestige and position by condemning his own men and covering his tracks with bloodshed and deliberately heavy losses… penalty: death.”

His arm shot out and an accusing finger pointed at Cristus.

“He employed assassins and secreted them among the men of the Fourth, with orders to kill myself, sergeant Petrus, Salonius, and possibly even the lady Catilina, succeeding in the death of my cousin Petrus, a hero and survivor of the Saravis Fork massacre… penalty: death.”

The captain growled.

“And last night his men besieged us in a ruined villa not far from here. His attack almost killed the marshal’s daughter, who was wounded in the process. And now that I think of it, that’s the third time we’ve been attacked by Cristus’ men. This is basically a declaration of war against two officers and a civilian… penalty: death.”

He stepped back and took a breath.

“If he’s allowed to go on, he’ll continue to lie, cheat, betray and murder, only in higher levels, on the Imperial ruling council. He has to be stopped now for the good of the Empire.”

“Perhaps, if I thought it worthwhile. Captain Varro has fallen under the spell of an unpleasant and thoroughly false rumour concerning my past, spread maliciously by a man who is now conveniently deceased and can no longer confirm or deny it. He has victimised and hounded myself and my officers and, I believe, has already turned most of my peers against me. I fear that in the eyes of my contemporaries, I am already guilty. And so, I am left with only one option: to accept Varro’s challenge and leave the proof of my innocence on his body. I have faith in my cause, my Gods and my skill.”

He folded his arms, the blade of his sword wavering slightly and catching the rays of the morning sun, flashing them back around the crowd.

Varro coughed, though Salonius saw his face and was sure he heard the word ‘arsehole’ disguised in there. In other circumstances the juvenile behaviour would have made him laugh.

Iasus took a step back from the arena’s edge and glanced up the slope at Sabian, who nodded slightly. Clearing his throat, the guard captain once more addressed the combatants.

“Can there be no peaceable resolution?”

Varro growled “No.”

“Very well then.” Iasus pointed to two ends of the makeshift arena. “The regulations laid out under military law for this are as follows: The combatants will separate to a distance of thirty paces before we start. Combat will begin when I call the order. There are no restrictions given to the precise nature of combat, and so the employment of certain tactics is down to the conscience of the individual.”

He paused to let his words sink in and then took another breath.

“A halt can be called at any time by either party by addressing the adjudicator, that is myself. Equally, I have the right to call a halt at any point. No other party may stop the combat, though they may approach me to do so. Combat will end when only one party remains alive. At that point, the second of the losing combatant may elect to issue their own challenge and step into the arena. The winner of the combat is absolved of any crime for which he stands accused and may return to active service on clearance by the medical staff. The remains of the loser will be dealt with appropriately. Are these regulations clear?”

Varro and Cristus chorused their understanding.

“Then let the parties separate by walking a further ten paces apart from where they currently stand.”

Varro crouched and, jabbing his sword in the ground, picked up a handful of dry dirt, rubbing it into his hands before retrieving the blade and standing again. With a quick glance at the retreating figure of Cristus, he spat once on the floor and then turned his back and walked away, counting his paces.

Catilina leaned close to Salonius.

“Can he actually win? Cristus may be more of a politician than a general, but he prides himself on his swordsmanship. He’s won competitions.”

The young man nodded unsurely.

“I didn’t realise Cristus was that good, but Varro’s still going to win. Cristus has rigid thinking. He can only see black and white. Varro’s cleverer than that. The captain won’t win because he’s better with a sword; he’ll win because he can outthink the prefect.”

Catilina swallowed nervously and briefly flicked her eyes toward the eaves of the sacred wood and then focused on Varro, standing poised to one side of the arena, glaring at his opponent, who swung his sword in figure eights with a flourish.

Iasus’ sharp voice made her jump.

“Begin!”

Cristus stepped forward, still swinging his blade in elaborate arcs, smiling confidently. Varro pursed his lips, glanced once, quickly at Catilina and mouthed something that Salonius couldn’t quite see, and then began to walk forward slowly and purposefully, his sword held straight in his hand and his eyes locked on his adversary.

Salonius tensed and felt Catilina’s good hand grasp his wrist. He encompassed her small and delicate hand in his and cast a sidelong glance at her. A single tear ran down her cheek, past her hardened, resolute features.