Miles Cameron - The Fell Sword

Any laughter was chilled by the Emperor’s pained expression.

Irene turned her cold indifference on the Chamberlain. ‘You presume too much,’ she said.

They walked on in silence, their steps soft in the vast caverns of marble that were the outer halls of the Great Palace. Once, these halls had been packed with envoys and eager visitors. Above them, vast mosaics recorded the deeds of the Emperor’s ancestors. There was Saint Aetius defeating the Wild in a battle that covered almost fifty paces of perfect mosaic tesserae. The polished stones glittered far above them, and the solid gold in the hilt of Aetius’s sword gleamed like a rising sun in the near dark of early morning.

The Emperor paused and looked up at his distant ancestor, a thousand years before. The saint’s gladius was stuck to the hilt in Amohkhan’s breast, and the great daemon towered over him with a flint axe ready to fall. The torches of the Ordinaries at the back of their procession lit the scene fitfully, and the permanent breeze that passed through the halls of stone made the flames ripple and brought the scene to life.

‘He murdered all of the old Emperor’s family,’ the Emperor said. ‘Saint Aetius. He murdered Valens and his wife and all their children and grandchildren. He thought he would prevent civil war. Instead, he cut the head off the Empire.’ He looked around him. ‘He stopped the Wild at Galuns. But he destroyed the Empire. There’s a lesson there.’

The Grand Chamberlain nodded sagely. The Mayor waited patiently.

Irene looked at her father with a slightly horrified expression. Aeskepiles caught it.

As soon as the Emperor started walking again, the Mayor said, ‘So it seems to us, Majesty, that the solution is to implement some economies.’

The magister wanted to choke the life out of the Mayor. He glared at the man, who looked surprised – and hurt.

Why now? Today? Why not ten years ago – when we still controlled enough territory and enough taxes to rebuild? The magister’s eye caught high above him in the tesserae of history. The die is cast, indeed.

The Emperor’s eyes met the Mayor’s. He nodded ruefully. ‘I agree,’ he said.

The two scribes wrote quickly on their wax tablets.

The Emperor held up his hand as if he’d had enough of business, which he probably had. He strode through the main doors of the outer hall, and found two Easterner servants waiting with a dozen horses.

The horses were tethered to the columns of the great portico. They looked incongruous, to say the least, and their fretting emphasised the emptiness of the massive courtyard and the two columned stoas that ran away into the distance.

‘Perhaps we could invite the Etruscans to come and quarry our marble,’ the Emperor said. He raised his too-perfect eyebrows. ‘They own everything else.’

One of the scribes began to write. The other poked him.

An Easterner held the Emperor’s stirrup and he mounted with the trained elegance of a skilled horseman. As soon as the white gelding felt the man on his back he stilled, and the Emperor backed the horse a few steps and accepted his robe for riding from an Ordinary. The morning air held a chill.

The Grand Chamberlain handed the Emperor his sword. ‘Still time for me to get you a proper escort, Majesty.’

The Emperor shrugged. ‘The Duke asked me to come without one. Is it time to start distrusting my officers?’

Aeskepiles hated him just then. Hated his feckless, useless optimism and his endless trust and good will.

The Emperor turned to his magister. ‘You seem out of sorts this morning, scholar.’

‘Your concern is gratifying, Majesty,’ said the magister. ‘I’m sure it is simply something I am having trouble digesting.’

The Emperor nodded. ‘You have our permission to withdraw, if that seems best to you, my friend.’

The words ‘my friend’ struck Aeskepiles like a mace. He set his face. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said in a harsh croak.

The Emperor looked at his daughter. ‘And you, my child, seem bitten by the same fangs.’

The Princess Irene inclined her head in submission to her father. ‘I am out of sorts,’ she confessed. ‘Pater, I am disturbed by a report-’ She paused and the Emperor smiled benignly.

‘My dear child,’ he said. ‘You are a princess of an ancient house and estate.’

She cast her eyes down.

At her movement, the Mayor and Chamberlain bowed deeply. Most of the servants fell on their faces. The effect was a little ruined by the steward, who unrolled a sheet of linen canvas and threw it on the ground before throwing himself on top of it.

The Emperor’s daughter curtsied deep, so that her skirts spread about her like the blossoming of a silken flower.

‘My dear!’ the Emperor said. ‘I thought you were coming with me.’

The magister had thought so, too.

‘I’m most sorry, Majesty.’ She remained in her full curtsey.

The magister thought she must have magnificent legs to bear the strain. Why isn’t she going with him? Does she suspect?

The Emperor smiled beneficently at them all. ‘See you at dinner,’ he said, and put his heels to his mount.

Five miles away outside the walls of the city, Andronicus, the Duke of Thrake and the Emperor’s cousin, was also a handsome man. He was in his mid-forties, wore his age with dignity, and while he had grey in his beard and on his chest, he clearly came from the same stock as the Emperor. He was dressed in plain blue, his favourite colour. He wore the knight’s belt of an Alban – not an affectation, but the sign of his office as Megas Ducas, the commander of the Emperor’s armies.

He waited for his Emperor on the Field of Ares, an enormous grass arena where sixty thousand men could be mustered. Had, in fact, been mustered, many times. He loved to be on the field – to feel the grass where Aetius might have walked – where Livia certainly walked. Where Basil II, Hammer of the Irks, had formed his great armies up and reviewed them.

Today, despite the snappish late spring weather, the sun shone on armour and colourful banners. The Duke had an army on the field – almost three thousand men. The field dwarfed them. They didn’t make a brave display, but instead, seemed to suggest the opposite.

Andronicus reviewed them from habit. He always made sure the turnout was the best possible before his men were inspected by the Emperor. He rode along the front of the Latinikon – mostly Alban mercenaries, with a scattering of Galles and Etruscans.

He turned his horse and rode down a file. ‘What’s this man’s name?’ he asked in Archaic.

Ser Bescanon, an old and very tough Occitan from south of Alba who served as commander of the Latinikon, smiled. ‘Ah, m’lord Duke, I’ll see to this.’

The man in question had a mail hauberk and no more – no helmet, no body armour, and no shield. In fact, he had no saddle. He was sitting bareback on a warhorse.

The Duke leaned over and gave the animal a sharp poke. It backed a step.

‘That is a cart horse,’ he said.

‘I believe Ser Raoul has had a disagreement with his landlord. His armour and horse are not, I think, currently available. I’ll see to it he’s ready for the next muster.’

‘Dismiss him,’ said the Duke.

The mercenary shook his head. ‘Nah – m’lord, that would be hasty. We’re not fighting anyone today – no? No need to make an example, mmm?’

The Duke raised his eyebrows.

Bescanon flinched from his gaze. ‘As you wish. Ser Raoul, you are dismissed.’

Ser Raoul laughed. It was not a normal laugh. ‘Pay me and I’ll go, you useless sack of shit.’

The Duke backed his horse away from the man.

Bescanon nodded. ‘My friend Raoul has a point, messire. None of us have been paid.’ Bescanon smiled softly. ‘In a very long time, messire.’