Interregnum (64 page)

Chapter XXXIII.

Sabian gripped and ungripped both fists rhythmically as he strode from the command tent. The sound of his teeth grinding together drowned out the sounds of camp being broken after the night. He swept his gaze back and forth around the camp. Since the disappearance of Cialo, he’d no one to talk to on a personal level. His position was becoming untenable in this place. Velutio was making command decisions and then forcing him to deal with them and the various lesser lords in the army were bypassing him and taking their gripes directly to the old lord. He might as well not be here other than the fact that Velutio still claimed he valued Sabian’s battlefield expertise. True enough that he’d taken Velutio’s army through months of warfare and their army had suffered only minor losses and no defeats, but morale was at an all time low now. They’d lost more men in two weeks of desertions than they’d lost in months of battle. So far no individual lord had tried to pull out, but Sabian had a feeling such a state wasn’t all that far away. Perhaps he should’ve been more decisive in those days on Isera. If he’d taken up with Caerdin then, none of this might have happened. Equally, if he’d not let the islanders and the Wolves leave, the same applied. It was his fault directly that this was happening and, having given his oath to Velutio and supported his stand against Darius as a rival claimant. The most irritating thing was that less than a half dozen people the world over knew that Darius actually had a direct claim to the throne rather than some spurious one that Sarios had invented. Velutio, on the other hand, had no claim. In all truth, he was supporting a usurper, but it was too late to do anything about it. All he could do was bring the army to the Tosco valley as Velutio had ordered and try to beat the rebels there and claim the high ground. All he could do was try his best to win the battle before their entire army deserted.

And yet…

He strode down the hill from the headquarters and kept his eye on the troops folding tent canvas and gathering their equipment; perimeter guards relinquishing the night’s passwords and heading back to their units. In the last few days the camp guard were much more concerned about people crossing the boundary from the inside than the outside. Was Sabian the only one who thought of that as a sign?

Perhaps he should just give up and walk away. There would be no dishonour in that. Not desertion, of course, but resigning his commission. He could turn round and stride back into Velutio’s tent and leave his sword and uniform there. Walk away.

No. Not now.

He continued to march down the hill, anger still flooding through him. Velutio was being unusually sentimental wanting to re-fight an old battle with Caerdin and he could see why, but Caerdin had almost certainly engineered it to happen this way. Sabian knew he was a good strategist and a damn good commander, but could he hope to beat Caerdin on level terms and especially on ground Caerdin knew and had the advantage on?

Damn… damn… damn!

He spotted Lord Dio standing outside his tent in full armour, slugging back watered wine from a goblet. Dio was a man who in the right circumstances would have been a friend and probably a staunch imperialist. He’d served Quintus as a governor in the last days of the Empire and had been a friend to Caerdin. Steeling himself, he changed tack and made for Dio’s tent.

The elderly lord placed his goblet on the small table next to him and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He turned and smiled at the approaching man.

“Commander. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Sabian regarded Dio. The old man had long, grey hair tied back neatly after the fashion of the northern barbarians from whence his family had come many generations back. He was clean shaven with startling blue eyes and a tall, thin frame. He certainly didn’t look as old as Sabian knew him to be.

“Lord Dio. Are you in a rush? I’m in need of some conversation…”

The elderly lord nodded. “As a matter of fact I was just going to do the rounds and check on the men. They like to know I take an interest. Care to join me?”

“Actually,” Sabian replied, “I’d prefer to talk in private if I can tear you away. Your troops don’t really need to see you anyway. They must love you; they’re one of very few units who haven’t suffered desertions yet.”

Dio nodded soberly. “Very well.”

He turned and, picking up his goblet and helmet, walked back into his tent. Sabian consciously stopped grinding his teeth and strode in after the man. Inside, the tent was organised much as a military command tent, rather than a lord’s personal habitation. Four chairs sat around a table full of charts and maps and lists and the insignia of Dio’s forces hung from the rear. A small bed and a travel chest were the only concessions here to comfortable living.

Sabian stopped in the entrance and glanced around to make sure Dio’s guard were not attending too closely. Fortunately the old lord was respected enough that the guard felt safe to keep a perimeter some distance away. Just in case, he closed the flaps of the tent and tied them shut anyway.

When he turned round, Dio was watching him quizzically. “If I didn’t know you better commander, you have the look of a man about to desert.”

“Funny you should say that…”

Sabian walked across and sat heavily in one of the chairs. “Do you mind?” he enquired, gesturing to the jug of wine on the table.

“Be my guest. Pour me another while you’re at it.”

Sabian did so, a half smile as far as he could push his face.

“I’m not deserting, Dio. Don’t worry about that. As much as I can’t see you deserting either. We’re both men of honour and we don’t betray our oaths.”

A simple nod.

“But some things; most things even, about this campaign disturb and annoy me and I’m on the verge of resigning my commission.”

Dio nodded again. “It’s no secret you’re not happy. Most of the army talk about it. You’d be surprised at just how popular a subject you are right now. No.” He picked up his goblet again and took a sip. “I’m not planning to desert either, but should you or I go, I think a lot of this alliance would fall apart. I would like to think, anyway.”

Sabian gritted his teeth again and took another swig.

“Problem is: Velutio wants us to fight a battle that I think is wrong in the very last place I would choose to do it with an army that, by the time we get there, may be outnumbered.”

Dio smiled. “Your conscience playing you up, Sabian? You’re not old enough to remember the Empire when it was a power. Maybe the battle will be fought in their favour, but the Gods will be with us and we can’t fail. The Gods know our cause to be right, so you’ve got one thing wrong there.”

“Why’s that?” muttered Sabian, staring into his goblet.

“Because Avitus was the second most powerful man in the Empire after Quintus. Caerdin was the most important military man, but Avitus was also a governor and destined for office at the Emperor’s side. He’s got a claim and precedence. This Darius was just the son of some courtier or officer or some such. We’re in the right and the Gods know when you’re in the right.”

“You’re a pious man, then?”

“Of course.” Dio took another sip. “I wouldn’t say the Gods ruled my life, but I certainly try to respect their wishes whenever I can and not fly in the face of their rules.”

Sabian smiled. “And what if I told you that you were wrong, Dio. What would you think then? If the Gods had deserted us?”

Dio narrowed his eyes. “What is it you know, Sabian?”

“I know who the ‘Emperor’ Darius really is. And having spent some time with him, I’m of the horrible opinion that he might be just the man the world needs.”

“What do you mean who he ‘really is’?” the old lord leaned forward in his chair.

Sabian shrugged. “I’m sworn to silence. I’m straining to keep that vow, because it’s suddenly more important than I could ever have thought when I made it.”

Dio growled. “Sabian… if this is as important as you seem to be suggesting, the Gods will be your judges, not whoever you made a vow to. Speak!”

The commander sighed and leaned back in his chair. “If I do tell you, you cannot make it public. I may take you and even others into my confidence, but I’m not about to announce this for a whole variety of reasons.”

He shuffled in his seat and took another swig of wine before refilling his cup.

“He’s the Caerdin child.”

He watched the startling serious of expressions crossing Dio’s face with some satisfaction. He’d been holding that particular secret in so long he couldn’t believe how freeing it felt opening up to someone.

“He’s Caerdin’s son and that makes him Livilla’s son too, and a member of Quintus’ Imperial household by blood.” He smiled weakly at the elderly lord. “Now tell me who’s got the true claim.”

Dio sat for a long moment and whistled through his teeth. “I think I can see why Velutio’s keeping this under wraps. But the enemy don’t know either, do they, or we’d have heard it by now.”

“Very astute,” agreed Sabian. For a number of reasons there are only a couple of people in Caerdin’s camp who know and they can’t reveal it either. That’s a personal matter and not something to be lightly undertaken. It’s not for Velutio I’m keeping this quiet, but for Darius and Caerdin. Even the general and the boy are unaware and it has to stay that way.”

Dio stared at him. “You’ve perhaps too much honour to do your job properly, Sabian.”

The commander laughed out loud. “You have no idea how sick I’m getting of hearing that. But you’re a man from the same mould, Dio. Hell, you supported Caerdin against Avitus after the Emperor’s fall from grace, I seem to remember.”

“True.” Dio sat cradling the goblet between his hands and staring at the floor. “I’m in a quandary now, commander. You know that, because you put me there and I can’t help thinking you did that on purpose. You won’t desert, but your conscience is pushing me to do it for you. I should, by rights, turn and walk away with my men.”

Sabian nodded. “But then by rights, so should I. If you went with your men, I wonder how many of the other lords would follow you?”

“You’ve given me a lot to ponder commander. I am, of course, taking your words at face value despite their importance, but I have the feeling you’re telling me the truth. I think I’ll come with you to the Tosco valley before I make my decision. I think I’d like to see this Caerdin child first.”

Sabian nodded. “I hope the Gods grant you a reasonable path and that it’s the right one, for I can’t help but think I’m on the wrong one and heading for hell.”

As Sabian and Dio sat within the lord’s tent, deep in discussion, a figure moved among the men of Lord Vassario’s army a few hundred yards away. He was of average height and average build in a red tunic bearing Vassario’s emblem of a tree and a sword, with a military scarf pulled up around his throat. A common soldier carrying a sack was a figure to be ignored and no one paid any attention whatsoever as the extremely average man threaded his way between other soldiers carrying gear.

Certainly no one examined him closely enough to spot his swarthy, Pelasian skin under the dirt covering that was so common of soldiers in autumn campaigns. He struggled with the sack of grain on his shoulder and found his way to a tent. It was only a small tent by the standards seen elsewhere on the camp; certainly not the size of the lords’ command tents and considerably smaller than the eight-man tents the troops shared. A medium-sized affair, it nevertheless had the unit’s insignia on a standard thrust into the turf outside. The Pelasian looked around quickly and disappeared inside.

Terrico was once of lord Vassario’s three captains and probably the least popular. A martinet, he had a reputation for cruelty and it was possibly only that reputation that had prevented more desertions from the army, or so Terrico would like to think. A stocky man with a thick black beard, he turned in the midst of shaving his upper lip, a silver mirror in one hand and a sharp razor in the other. He glared at the intruder.

“What in the name of Bellas’ arse are you doing in here?” he demanded.

The dirty soldier dropped the sack at the doorway and saluted hurriedly.

“Sir, I’ve a message from the quartermaster. He says it’s urgent.”

The captain scraped another patch of foamy hair from his lip and then nodded, examining his face in the mirror. The soldier walked across the tent, reaching into his tunic and producing a rolled parchment. He bowed his head and held the parchment out of the captain, who replaced the mirror and blade on the trunk by his side and grasped the parchment, unfurling it as he did so. His surprise at being confronted with a blank sheet was as nothing compared to his surprise when the dirty, unimportant soldier reached past him with lightning speed and drew the razor back and up, drawing it in one smooth move across the captain’s windpipe.

There was a rush of expelled air and blood frothed from the man’s neck as he arched backwards, his eyes wide with surprise. He never even got the chance to scream. Dropping the parchment, he clutched at his neck, but nothing he could do would help now. He floundered around for a moment, trying to get past his attacker and to the tent flap, but the soldier was always in the way wherever he moved. With a sigh he finally slumped to the floor, the whistling noise dying as he did so.

The Pelasian pulled a stylus from his tunic, dipped it in the captain’s blood and began to scribble on the parchment. Finishing his note with a flourish, he laid the parchment flat on the captain’s chest and pinned it there with the shaving knife. With a last ironic salute, he stepped away from the figure and collected his sack of grain. Plodding to the rear of the tent, he crouched and glanced under the leather side. Empty. With a grin he pushed the sack underneath and crawled after it, disappearing from the scene an ordinary soldier with a job to do.