Interregnum (10 page)

He leaned back and slumped onto the bed.

“Except in Velutio of course.”

Chapter V.

The sun was starting to project some heat at last. It had floated, watery, above the horizon for perhaps an hour and the Grey Company had been on the road an hour before that, leaving Tythias and his unit slumbering in the inn. Last night Mercurias had collapsed into a heavy sleep early, leaving Quintillian to read his text. The rest of the company had barged noisily up the stairs some time after midnight, finding their rooms while Tythias’ men made their way to the bunk room at the end of the floor. Almost an hour after the unit had succumbed to sleep, Quintillian had closed his book and, pushing back the chair, stood to retire, when some sixth sense made him glance out of the window. The solitary figure of Kiva could be seen walking slowly around the yard behind the Inn. The Captain had spoken little when the unit arose this morning and remained quiet and detached all through the march.

Athas had taken charge of the unit today and had announced a breakfast halt a few minutes ago, once he’d spied a grassy hollow by the side of the road. The dip was comfortable, with a higher ridge around the edge scattered with crooked rocks that formed an excellent defensive line. The company sat around the dell digging deep into packs for their dried beef and pork rations and the bread and cheese purchased from ‘The Rapture’. Kiva, less companionable even than usual, sat on guard by a large rock near the road. Quintillian laid down his kit, taking great care to prop his new blade against a tree. Turning, he stretched his shoulders, wincing at the weight and discomfort of the metal plates and leather jerkin that chafed between his shoulder blades. Athas had taken him to collect his armour while it was still dark and had helped him in to the heavy plated tunic. He did feel more like a soldier now, but it would be a long time before he could wear the heavily armoured tunic with as much ease as the others. Throwing his arms out to his side, he wandered around the edge of the dell until he reached the captain, who spoke without even turning.

“Now’s not a good time, Septimus.”

Quintillian frowned. It would take a long time for him to get used to a different name. He’d assumed the pseudonym would vanish once the unit were alone again, but no one had called him by his real name this morning. He gritted his teeth. There was never a good time with this man. He continued to walk until he reached the rock, where he turned and faced the captain. Aware as always of the difference in the way he was treated compared with the easy familiarity between the others, he attempted to adopt a more relaxed and professional attitude in front of the older man. He leaned back against a tree trunk and pulled a piece of dried blood sausage from his pouch. He’d never have believed people would eat such a thing when he was on the island. The sausage was bitter and thick and cloying and Quintillian had to struggle not to gag, though he was proud of the way he was now managing to take these discomforts in his stride. He looked up at the captain as he swallowed the mouthful and fixed him with a steady look.

“Captain,” he began. “I don’t think you’ll ever find the time. Frankly, although I realise that everyone thinks I’m spoilt, I’m the one who’s trying to clear things here. I think you need to start to speak to me as an equal. The amount of money I paid for your company at least deserves that, doesn’t it?”

Kiva raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to treat you like an equal, hmm?” the older man replied. “I can treat you like an adult, true, but don’t try suggesting to me that we’re equals in any way. You and I have nothing in common, lad. I’m not saying that I’m a better man; In fact I damn well know I’m not, but we’re far from equal.”

There was a moment of silence and Kiva gestured with his palm.

“You wanted to speak to me?” the captain relented with a distant look in his eye. “Speak.”

Quintillian sighed. The captain may well be the most infuriating man he’d ever met. How could Caerdin manage to make him feel so small and petulant when he knew he was in the right? There was nothing for it now but to plunge in headfirst.

“Captain, are we safe enough from prying ears to talk? I don’t mean the unit, but we can move away from them too if you wish. I think you might want to.”

Kiva said nothing but shook his head and waited for Quintillian to continue.

“Hear me out, then” the boy continued, “and don’t fly into one of your off-hand dismissals without giving me the chance. Firstly, I feel it’s only fair to admit that I do know full well who I am. I know my family; my heritage; my uncle. No one’s ever told me and no one expects anything of me, but I’m not stupid and I am a great reader.”

The lad stopped for a moment and looked up at the captain again. Silence.

“Secondly,” he went on, “I’m well aware of who you are, and these other man around you, so there’s really no point in going on with this masquerade in front of me. There are too many glaring holes in your cover. I can’t believe any of those who served in the army all those years ago like Tythias did haven’t made the connection. Why do you persist in using your own first name? In keeping your Wolves canteens?”

He waited for a retort but once more, nothing came.

“And thirdly why, when you must have known about me, and I made it clear that I knew about you, wouldn’t you come clean with me? Why all this dance?”

This time he stood and waited, creating a silence for Kiva to fill. They sat for some time, staring at each other before the captain shifted on the rock, the discomfort of his position finally getting to him. Quintillian wasn’t sure whether he’d pushed the captain further than he should have. The man looked both angry and tired in equal quantities and his voice sounded weary when he spoke.

“Alright Quintillian” he began. “First: our names. You may not be aware of this, but Kiva was a very common name in the days I came out of the north. There were three Kivas just in the intake when I first joined up. Kiva Tregaron, in fact, was a good friend of mine in our first year in the army. He died from an arrow in the throat while protecting my back at the battle of the Galtic Narrows. I got promoted and decorated for the action, but I would have ended my days there with a spear in my spine had Tregaron not been present. He saved the day there more than I did, and it seems fitting in a way to take his name. Besides, taking on an assumed name is something of an art. It can take a long time to get used to something new and not react to your old name. You’ve been Septimus for around seven hours and I’ll bet you keep missing calls to you. I chose a name I could easily get along with.”

As he talked, the captain leaned forward, away from the rock and toward Quintillian.

“Second: the flasks,” he continued. “Yes, we still carry the flasks of the Wolves. We don’t show them around. Yes, you’ve seen them, but then you’ve been in the thick of the unit. We don’t wave them around in front of strangers bringing attention to the symbols.”

Quintillian opened his mouth and drew breath, but Kiva held up a finger and cut him off before he could speak.

“You wanted to know so I’m telling you. Third: if you really know who you are, then there are a whole number of questions that open up about you. I’d be disinclined to place too much trust in you until you or I can answer some of them. If you really do know your lineage, why do you even want to know me? D’you know the history as you claim?”

Quintillian bridled.

“I know my history General,” he said sharply. “I know that you were the stalwart general of the armies. Of the four Imperial Marshals, you were the renowned one. You were the one my uncle loved as a brother and exalted. You were the only one who came to his defence when he was unjustly imprisoned in his Palace on Isera. You fought tooth and nail to put him back where he belonged, on the throne in Velutio. Of course I want to know you. You were a great man and possibly the only friend my family had. How can you ask such a question?”

Kiva was on his feet now and, as the lad looked around, he could see the company getting to their feet. They were paying attention. He and the captain had been raising their voices gradually and now Quintillian realised he was looking more and more foolish and petulant. Damn this bunch, why did they always make him feel like such an idiot. There was no choice but to push this as far as he could now.

“General…”

Kiva cut him off angrily, his eyes narrowing. “There’s the most important question left for me to ask you. What is it that you want?”

Quintillian was momentarily thrown. “What?” he stuttered.

Kiva rounded on him, stepping forward.

“You’ve the Imperial blood,” he said, his voice rising in volume. “The only man in the world now who does. You know what that means: some of the Lords would kill you if they knew about you; others would use you. In fact, I’m assuming you were imprisoned on Isera anyway; last I heard Velutio was using the place as some kind of base. You’ve come out here into the middle of a war zone and found us. Why? Are you wanting power? Protection? What is it that you want?”

Quintillian backed into the tree he’d been slouched against earlier. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut. What did he want? Why had he never asked these questions of himself? Then he’d have been in a considerably better position to answer them.

“I don’t have a plan,” the boy blurted out. “I want to go home. As for the future, I don’t know what it holds, but I know I’d rather have people like those who risked their lives for my uncle running the world than the Lords of the big cities now, who tax and torture and press the populace into their armies. They’re killing the Empire. You think I want to rule in place of my uncle? You’re wrong. I don’t want to run the damn world! I can’t even run my own life. I’m a scholar and I just want to be a scholar.”

Now the whole company were looking at him, but he felt less foolish than he had before, the conviction and the anger rising and eclipsing his uncertainty. He planted his feet firmly on the turf and pointed angrily at Kiva.

“What about you?” he demanded. “What do you want? Does what Captain Tregaron want differ from that of General Caerdin? Are the Wolves destined to limp from the pages of history?”

He stopped, ruddy faced and drawing ragged breaths. Kiva looked around, only now noticing that his men were watching. He ground his teeth.

“Boy,” he growled, “you live in a fantasy world built around what you think the Empire was like. It wasn’t like that. What do I want? I want to live until tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll want to live to the next day and so on. I don’t want any of my men to fall, but that’s about it. The Wolves ‘limped’ as you put it from the pages of history twenty years ago. Now there’s just the Grey Company and we’re renowned and feared in our own right. What would you have us do? March against the world and rebuild the Empire? Fiction! Stupidity!”

Quintillian’s shoulders slumped.

“I don’t want you to march on Velutio and claim the throne, General” he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone. “I’m not asking anything except that you have a little pride. Pride in what you were and what you are. There’s no one around who would take offence at General Caerdin and the Wolves except Velutio, and he doesn’t like you anyway. You’ve lost all your pride and your glory. That may not worry you, but how do you think these men feel?”

He waved his arm, taking in the rest of the company.

“They have constant reminders” he continued. “D’you think they’d use their Wolves flasks still if they had no pride?”

“The world has changed, little boy” Kiva growled. “The glory’s gone. What we use to respect and protect has gone.”

Quintillian stepped forward, bringing his nose just inches from Kiva’s.

“It hasn’t gone” he growled; “it’s still there, but it’s fading. If people don’t care anymore then it really will go. Look around you General. Your bitterness is blinding you to what there is.”

He gestured around the hollow. Kiva actually stopped for a moment and followed his gesture. The company stood in silence, their faces grave as they watched. They wouldn’t interrupt; not on this subject. Other than them, there was just the grassy dell.

“What are you talking about?” the captain demanded.

Quintillian rushed over to the rock the captain had been leaning against. “Look!” he replied, anger and hope vying in his voice. “Actually look at it.”

Kiva turned and looked down at the rock. He hadn’t actually noticed the carving before. The rock was the fractured torso of a large statue, the robes and breastplate all but worn away. The captain stepped back.

“What is this place?” he asked, his voice now low and unsure.

Quintillian grasped the captain by the elbow and turned him, pointing into the deep grass nearby. The head of the statue stared back up, weathered, but better preserved. Despite the weather damage, the resemblance to the boy was uncanny.

“How many temples have you been in during all that time you commanded the army, General Caerdin?” the boy asked. “How many sanctuaries to the Imperial Cult? Don’t you recognise my uncle when you see him?”

The lad immediately regretted his words. Though it was barely perceptible, he could swear that the captain was shaking a little, with his shoulders hunched over. For a moment, Quintillian actually believed that the man was shedding a tear, but then he turned again. The look on his face was one of cold, calculated anger.

“That’s it, boy” he barked. “You’ve lectured me enough. I’m entirely the wrong man to appeal to a sense of nostalgia. You’d have been better targeting Athas; he’s still a romantic at heart. You may be the last of the Imperial Line and by all the Gods there’s a lot of your uncle in you, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Quintillian asked, with a rising tone of apprehension.

Kiva had fallen quiet, his hands shaking slightly. “What do I mean?” he continued. “Have you never read your histories? I thought you prided yourself on your reading? Your family are prone to the most brutal insanity, Quintillian. Never read about the madness? The death and mayhem this dynasty caused? Your grandfather had to be put down by priests of his own cult so he could be buried and ascend to the Heavens. He tried to bite them as they held him down frothing at the mouth, while they cut his throat in the fountain of his own temple. But that wasn’t until after he’d had a thousand heads removed just for his amusement. Soldiers, senators, peasants, anybody. Hell, even one of the Marshals fell foul of Basianus the fair when the Emperor started to get paranoid thinking people were plotting against him. Problem is: by the time his madness was becoming obvious, they were! And your uncle? I couldn’t believe your uncle would succumb; I knew him so well. Yes, he was my best friend, and I tried to save him when the Senate condemned him for his insanity. I didn’t believe the rumours, but it was with my own ears that I heard him command me to crucify a city. A whole city, Quintillian. Men, women, children. Even the cats and dogs!”