Interregnum

Interregnum

S. J. A. Turney

I would like to dedicate this book to my parents, who are largely responsible for who I am today.

Also to Bren and Sue, one of whom was my first reader and has been incredibly supportive, and the other is in it.

I’ll leave you to work out which is which…

This book is available in print at most online retailers

Published in this format 2010

Copyright - S.J.A.Turney

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

By the same author:

Tales of the Empire Series:

Ironroot (2010)

Captain Varro of the Fourth army is about to have the worst day of his life. Wounded in battle and fearing for his life and his future, he stumbles upon a plot that reaches deep into the past and into the roots of everything in which he believes. Accompanied by a young engineer from his unit and the daughter of his commander in chief, he begins to unpeel layers of treachery and murder that threaten not only himself, but the people that he loves. Ironroot is a tale of treason and revenge set in the world of the Interregnum, some twenty years after the events of that book.

Dark Empress (2011)

The desert nomads have a saying:
"When something is broken it should never be discarded. So long as the pieces remains, the whole can be remade."
A time of trials, war and terror is coming to the desert city of M'Dahz, the Empire's southern bastion. As the Empire's government falters and crumbles, the people suffer.
But Samir, Ghassan and Asima, childhood friends and citizens of M'Dahz, are about to discover that while people change the world, the world also changes people and that the best and worst of folk are forged in hardship.

The Marius’ Mules Series, books 1 - 3:

Marius’ Mules: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)

It is 58 BC and the mighty Tenth Legion, camped in Northern Italy, prepare for the arrival of the most notorious general in Roman history: Julius Caesar.

Marcus Falerius Fronto, commander of the Tenth is a career soldier and long-time companion of Caesar's. Despite his desire for the simplicity of the military life, he cannot help but be drawn into intrigue and politics as Caesar engineers a motive to invade the lands of Gaul.

Fronto is about to discover that politics can be as dangerous as battle, that old enemies can be trusted more than new friends, and that standing close to such a shining figure as Caesar, even the most ethical of men risk being burned.

Marius’ Mules II: The Belgae (2010)

57BC. The fearsome Belgae have gathered a great army to oppose Rome and Fronto and the legions assemble once more to take Caesar’s war against the most dangerous tribes in the northern world. While the legions battle the Celts in the fiercest war of Caesar’s career, the plots and conspiracies against him, both at Rome and among his own army, become ever deeper and more dangerous.

Marius’ Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)

It is 56bc. As Fronto and his friends winter in Rome and Caesar in Illyricum, trouble is brewing in the north. The tribes of Armorica, driven to desperate action by the harsh rule of Crassus, raise their standards in defiance of the Roman eagle, causing a chain reaction that threatens everything the legions of Caesar have achieved. Can the general's commanders stamp out the fires of rebellion before the whole of Gaul is ablaze?
Meanwhile, in Rome, the conspiracies against Caesar take an unexpected turn, plunging Fronto and his friends into a world of crime, violence and intrigue that threaten everything the legate cares about. The city is in turmoil and the republic is teetering on the brink of disaster.
In a year that takes the legions and their commanders to the heaving Atlantic Ocean, the treacherous valleys of the Pyrenees, and the seething underbelly of the greatest city in the world, everything is about to change for Marcus Falerius Fronto.

Available from all good online stores.

For more information visit www.sjaturney.co.uk

Part One: Wolves and Sheep

Chapter I.

Kiva hadn’t always looked like this; dusty, grey, scarred and hollow. Once, long ago, he’d been a fresh faced blond youth with piercing green eyes and a lithe build. In the days when he’d come out of the Northlands he’d had a budding, wispy beard and long, braided hair. He’d worn furs and leather and travelled out of the cold, swampy lands of his people into the heart of the Empire, golden and prosperous. It hadn’t been unusual in those days, when the Empire was at its greatest extent; when the borders were being forced north and east by generals whose names even now carried the weight of history and valour. The tribes at the fringes of the Imperial world had sued for peace with the Emperors and were beginning to see the benefits. For the first time in the history of the north the tribes had running, clean water, with aqueducts and drainage systems constructed under the expert eyes of Imperial architects and engineers. The young men had begun to learn the Imperial language, and many of them had begun to travel south to find service in the Empire’s bureaucracy or its military. All those years ago, the idea of a heated floor was unheard of in the north.

He sighed when he thought of that first day in the army. His braids had been cut away, his beard shaved and his favourite furs burned for fear of infestation. He’d stood with other young men of all colours both skin and hair, naked in a parade ground, while they were shorn and prepared for their training. Very little made Kiva smile these days; not properly, as though he actually meant it, but he’d laughed loud and often in those early days with his comrades. He shuffled under his blanket, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position against the rough wall. Pieces of plaster broke off and dust showered down his back causing him to shrug uncomfortably. He reached out and picked up one of the larger pieces. Painted plaster; an image of some sort of ornamental lake with a colonnade. This place must have been a rich house once.

He could remember just such decorative plaster work at the commanding officer’s house in the Northern Army’s headquarters fortress of Vengen, when he’d received his first military decoration. Over a mere three years, he’d made it through the lowest ranks and had become a non-commissioned officer. Then, little over a year later, as he received a golden torc for his defence of the Galtic Narrows against the barbarians, he’d also been made Captain, with his own unit. Barbarians? Now that really did threaten to make him laugh. The force of northmen he’d held back with less than a hundred troops had been his own people, or people very much like them. It had been in that action he’d met a young soldier called Athas from the far south, his skin dark as night, who had grown throughout the following years to be Kiva’s best friend and most trusted lieutenant. Others came to be trusted; his men had been a good crew even then, in the early days.

He glanced across the ruined building to Athas. The man slept little, but loud. Currently the big man crouched on a low and broken wall, watching the countryside in the night, alert and guarded. The charcoal-grey tunic, along with the colour of his skin, made him barely visible except for the eerie dancing light of the fire. The rest of the unit were asleep around the floor as Athas would be soon, once he’d woken the next watch. Then there would be snoring like the collapse of a marble quarry.

As he watched the fire flickering in the light breeze, his memory strayed once more to the age of glory in the Imperial army. In those days, the tunics had been emerald green and the arms and armour had been a standard issue. He remembered when he’d finally reached a position where he was not bound by the uniform code. He’d been made Prefect and given command over a thousand men, all new and eager for glory under the acclaimed commander. By that time he’d stopped wearing his military honours. They’d become numerous and bulky and had been taken to safety at the new estate that he was building at Serfium by the sea. Meteoric, people had called his ascent to command. No one in living memory had risen from the lowest ranks, without even Imperial citizenship, to become such a high officer. He’d made sure too that his trusted friends moved with him. Athas had been made Captain shortly before, and continued to hold a position as Kiva’s right hand man. By then there had been others; men who had proved time and again that they could be trusted in and out of battle. In those days of fire and steel and the glory of Kiva’s campaigns, with the ever-present Athas and a dozen men of skill and virtue, the Wolves had been born.

That was what they’d been called. Despite his command of a thousand, Kiva continued to travel chiefly with a party of a dozen men as his close companion unit. He’d made sure that they all achieved at least the rank of Captain; his influence in the Imperial bureaucracy was becoming powerful indeed. They’d taken to wearing wolf-pelts as a shoulder cloak. He’d also put in requisitions and had them agreed such that the regimental insignia was now a profile of a howling wolf, on both flag and standard. Their shields came to be painted with a wolf’s head. And the analogy was good, too, for they became predatory. The army no longer held the borders against the Empire’s enemies, guarding passes and constructing fortifications. Now, the Wolves forced campaigns into the wilderness, bringing the light of civilisation on the tip of a sword. They’d become hunters of barbarians and heroes of the Empire.

Once more Kiva’s attention was drawn back to the camp. The firelight was beginning to burn low. He would have to get some wood before long or the light and heat would be gone altogether and the unit would have nothing to cook breakfast on in a few hours. Across the fire he could see the wiry Thalo, hunched asleep by the wall, his grey, oval shield propped next to him. No lupine symbols in evidence these days. The days of heroes were gone, and the Wolves had been consigned to legend.

Even when he’d been made Marshal, one of the four commanding Generals of the Imperial Army invested by the Emperor himself, he’d been wearing his distinctive shoulder cloak as he received his baton of office. Behind him, the Captains of the Wolves had stood straight and true, pride and discipline emanating from them. Those had been such great days. The glory and the vigour of constant battle, secure in the knowledge of a righteous cause and a goal: to bring culture and civilisation to the whole globe. He’d been proud; but then he’d been ignorant... they all had. To serve in the Imperial army was to serve blindly, and no yet man can stay voluntarily blind his entire life.