S. Turney - Interregnum

He looked up to see Quintillian watching him with a look of concern. He smiled weakly. “Sorry. Getting soft in my old age.”

Quintillian laughed gently. “Somehow I can’t see that.”

The captain stopped and the other four clustered around him. “What now?” asked the young man.

“Now?” Kiva repeated. He pointed ahead. “Now we go in there and hope there hasn’t been a change of priesthood in the past ten years.”

The temple of the Divine Triad dominated the square more even than the public Tribunal. Law and order had never been a great issue in Serfium, quiet coastal town of wealthy homes. The Tribunal had only really been used for regular public meetings and occasional minor disputes. The temple on the other hand, had to be grand enough to support some of the most important families in the Empire. There were only three cities in the Empire with larger temple complexes than Serfium, and one of those didn’t count, being dedicated to strange eastern Gods in Germalla.

The temple itself was circular, but with a curved porch of high marble columns facing the square; a portico of impressive dimensions itself. A triangular pediment above showed the birth of the Gods in a marble frieze that had seen better days, much of the paintwork having faded or flaked off. Behind the colonnade stood two high embossed bronze doors. They would not be locked; the doors of the Triad temples were never locked.

Quintillian whistled through his teeth. “That’s a big temple. The Temples of the triad on Isera are small comparatively.”

Kiva nodded. “A lot of that’s down to your grandfather. Basianus wanted no temple on the island to be bigger than his own. You see he may have been called ‘the fair’, but nicknames are rarely accurate.”

Quintillian frowned. “I didn’t know there was a temple to my grandfather on the island?”

“There isn’t now” the captain replied. “You see, your uncle became very egocentric long before any serious slide into … well anyway, you know what I mean. He had the temple Basianus built torn down and his Golden House built over the site. In fact some of the stonework was reused; I remember him building the place. He had all the statues of your grandfather put to one side and the bases were re-chiselled. Your grandfather’s name was removed from them all and replaced with his own. In fact, there aren’t many Imperial statues left now, but any time you find one of Quintus, there’s at least half a chance it’s actually Basianus with the name changed.”

Quintillian frowned. “You mean that even before he went insane he destroyed statues and temples of his own uncle?”

Kiva nodded. “Of course. It was standard practice when a previous Emperor had been condemned for anything in the public eye. He had to distance himself from Basianus you see?”

Quintillian nodded and stepped to keep up as the captain had begun to stroll toward the doors of the great temple.

They stepped into the shade of the colonnade and it was only then that Quintillian realised that the sun must actually officially be up now. A quarter of an hour ago there had been little difference in the grey half-light between being sheltered or in the open air. Now the eyes had to adjust as one stepped from the open air into the shade of a canopy.

The captain reached the doors and grasped a huge bronze handle, wrenching it to one side and heaving the doors slowly open. Normal practice was for the doors to be opened just after sunrise by the priests, but Kiva was in a hurry. The handle squeaked and screeched as it turned and strained and the veins stood out of the captain’s forehead as he hauled on the heavy bronze door, pulling it gradually open.

The main room of the temple within was a domed circular span, with small chapels and rooms leading off in various places. The main area of habitation was to the rear, through doors denied to all but the priesthood. This alone was the public space, but what a space! The dome was perhaps forty feet high in the centre, with a huge diameter. The room itself could easily contain the entire population of the town of Serfium. A dark look crossed the captain’s face. That very ability had been proved over twenty years ago while Velutio’s army had rampaged around Serfium hunting down the remaining soldiers of his opposition while the frightened populace flocked to the one place they felt safe. Hundreds of terrified people crowded into this room, listening to screams and sounds of battle outside; to occasional sounds of collapsing buildings and the roaring of flames. The captain shook his head to clear it of such memories. Not his memories, for he had been miles away with his horse on a hilltop, but he knew well what had happened in the town. Some of them had been his friends, and some of his friends had not made it to the temple and had been trampled, speared, burned or even raped in the streets before they could make it to sanctuary. A victorious army always had to be tightly controlled by its commanders, or it could easily become a mob, but it seemed that Velutio had wanted a mob once the battle was over. A mob would give him fear, and fear was a very useful weapon to a new power.

As they stepped into the wide open central dome, a figure in a white robe stepped forward from the rear doors. He was an old man, perhaps even what one would consider venerable, with a short and well-tended beard and white hair cut in the old fashion. With a slight limp he stepped up the stairs onto the circular central platform and held his hand up in greeting.

“Kiva, my boy, it really is good to see you. I had feared the worst. Messengers ride into town every day now asking whether people have seen you. It must have been hell out there.”

The captain smiled and mounted the central platform himself, reaching out to shake hands with the elderly priest. “Pelian. You’re looking good. I’m afraid I’m going to have to impose on you and ask for sanctuary for myself and the rest of the company.”

The priest nodded. “Well you’d better come in the back and divest yourselves of your packs.”

Quintillian stepped up onto the platform, but the captain just watched the priest turn and walk across the room. “Pelian…” Kiva said, “what’s up?”

The priest stopped and turned. “Nothing Kiva. Why?”

The captain’s hand went now to his sword hilt. Quintillian opened his mouth, but got barely a syllable out before Kiva interrupted him. ”Shh!”

The priest smiled. “Come on, we have much to talk about.” This time, Quintillian picked up on the look in the old man’s eyes and realised that he hadn’t actually agreed to the captain’s request for sanctuary, more side-stepped it. The young man’s hand now also went to his sword pommel. Something was very wrong here and he had the feeling the priest was doing his best to warn them. The old man turned again for the rear door and it was at that moment that an arrow whistled out of the air above and struck the priest through the chest. Quintillian drew his sword, as did Kiva ahead of him and the other three behind. A figure appeared on the balustraded gallery that ran around the circumference of the dome, with a crossbow in hand. Quintillian’s sharp mind told him there were more than one, as his bow was loaded and he’d not had time to reload. Before he could think what to do, the captain had wrenched his throwing knives off the thongs round his neck and hurled them up into the open canopy. More by luck than by judgement, one of them grazed the bowman on the shoulder, the other fell considerably short and clattered to the marble floor, skittering across to the wall. Behind them the huge bronze doors clanged shut with a sound that reverberated around the central room. Simultaneously, ahead of them the door to the priests’ chambers slammed.