Ironroot (33 page)

“Not by military law, Varro. And no matter how much slack I cut you habitually, I am your senior officer and you will not talk to me like that!” The marshal’s word became quiet and menacing as he finished speaking from between clenched teeth.

Varro nodded to himself and looked up.

“My apologies, marshal. No disrespect was meant.”

“Good.” Sabian smiled but with little or no humour. “That sounds more like you. Neither you nor I can afford you to go vengeance-mad right now. Corda made some stupid decisions, and he’s suffered for them, believe me, but that matter’s now done with. However, I have seven men in custody that I still have to play with. I am using them against each other. Iasus is down with them now. After the noon bell tomorrow they’ll go on trial. None of them will walk away free, I assure you.”

Varro glared, but nodded.

Sabian sighed. “I would estimate that, by the time of the trial, at least half of them will have delivered the others to the headsman and given us every ounce of evidence we will need to bring Cristus to justice. They’ll get a custodial sentence, along with loss of all pay and position, with a dishonourable discharge. The others will be a little less lucky. I have men taking the wheels off a cart right now.”

“That’s not a good idea, Varro. I can understand how you feel. I’ve been in a vaguely similar situation of betrayal myself, remember. But we have rules and regulations now and an army worth upholding them for. And besides, if you got into an arena with Cristus, he’d cut you to ribbons.”

Varro growled. “I think you underestimate me, marshal. And Cristus is a politician, not a fighter.”

“Maybe, Varro; maybe. But you are on the verge of falling to pieces without his help. He doesn’t need to fight you. If he breathes too hard at you, you’ll fall apart.”

He shook his head as Varro opened his mouth to speak once more and cut him off, mid-breath.

“Varro, that’s an end to it! They will be judged and punished according to military law. And the information they give us will allow us to remove a traitor from power and all his lackeys. It will be done ‘by the book’ and I will do it myself. I would rather you were with me, to give evidence, to sit in judgement and to oversee the whole thing.” He sighed. “But if you’re going to insist on revenge, I’m going to have you locked in your room for the next few days, do you understand me?”

As she stood and grasped one of Varro’s wrists, she saw Salonius’ face for the first time during this exchange and she nearly recoiled. Salonius looked furious. Trying not to catch his eyes, she helped Varro upright. The burly young man took the other and together they turned him and walked him out of the office. The guards opened and closed the doors for them and stood to attention as they slowly made their way down the corridor. As soon as they’d turned two corners, Varro struggled. They stopped and he pushed them away from him gently. Catilina stared.

“You know I’ve got to do this, Cat. I can’t just let this get bureaucratic. I need to look him in the eye as I skewer him. The best thing you can do for me is to keep quiet and not let anyone know I’m gone until we’re well and truly out of the way.”

Catilina frowned.

“He’s right,” added Salonius from between gritted teeth. “Cristus needs to pay in a personal way. Even if Varro didn’t want to do it, he’s not got a choice. There’s a higher power involved in all of this. It’s fated. Varro’s going to kill Cristus even if he tries not to. And I’ll be there to help whether I like it or not.”

Catilina stared at the young man.

Varro smiled. “It sounds insane, but he’s right, Catilina.”

The pale, elegant woman lowered her face and scratched her head for a moment. When she looked up there was a sparkle in her eye that made Varro frown nervously.

“Sorry, my dear, but I won’t be able to keep quiet about your absence.” She unpinned her hair and threw her head back, shaking the black curls out. “Because I’ll be with you.”

Varro shook his head.

“Not this time,” Varro stated flatly. “Your father will…”

“What?” she interrupted. “Kill you? Don’t be naïve, Varro. I’m coming with you and the quicker you accept that, the quicker we can be gone.”

Varro sighed. He looked round at Salonius and was surprised to see the young man’s vicious expression had slid back into its habitual good natured smile. “You too?”

Salonius wandered along the corridor. His analytical mind gave him an edge, he thought, that the over-emotional sometimes lacked, particularly when combined with his alertness which led to him needing only five hours sleep a night, give or take, and remaining fully functional. While the others had slept or bathed for the six hours last night before everything went to hell, Salonius had spent time exploring the palace. Combined with his part in the search this morning and further explorations while Varro had slumbered, he had put together a surprisingly complete mental map of the complex.

He had accompanied captain Iasus to the cellars when the seven traitors had been incarcerated. On the way there he noted that they passed a subterranean chapel to the Goddess of the hearth. Lying on the stone benches in this dark and cool place had been the bodies of Petrus and Corda, safe from wandering folk down here in the cellars beyond locked doors and now black clad guards.

He smiled at the guard by the heavy oak door. It was the very same guard that had been placed on the door three hours ago when he’d been here with the captain. The guard, not much older than Salonius, saluted. He continued to smile, raised his arm to salute, and at the last moment, brought it round in a hammering blow to the man’s temple.

The man collapsed in a black heap without a sound. Salonius crouched over him.

“Sorry about that. You’ll have a hell of a headache, and I suspect you’ll be cleaning latrines for a few weeks, but you’ll live.”

Carefully, he retrieved the black tunic with its white raven and wolf emblem and slipped it over the top of his own green one. He grunted as the tunic split beneath the arm. Sadly there would be few guardsmen that matched his own large frame. Still, he mused, no one would have time to examine his armpit. With a smile, he threw the black cloak over his back and, scrabbling around, found the man’s helmet. That was no good, No way would that go over his head. Oh well, the thought as he retrieved the key ring from the guard’s belt. He stood, brushing down and straightening his stolen uniform.

Unlocking the door with the heavy iron key, he pulled it open and stepped through, locking it behind him. He would have to be careful down here. He’d seen some of this massive complex of tunnels, but apart from the chapel and the cellars, there were also the dungeons, some store houses and, presumably at least one guard room somewhere. With a deep breath, he strode off into the dark, dank tunnels, lit only by occasional tiny skylights high in the outer wall.

Holding his breath, he reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs and turned right, deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels.

As he turned the corner at the next junction, the tunnels now lit by guttering oil lamps, he almost walked straight into a servant carrying a sack of something over his shoulder. He stepped aside and the servant made very apologetic sounds and sidled round him before rushing off. Salonius took another deep breath and walked on. Two more corners and the shorter flight of stairs. Ahead he could see the corner he didn’t want to get to. Light flickered around the bend and there would be at least a couple of men, if not more, guarding the outer door to the prison area. But before then, just ahead, the doorway to the right led into the small chapel. Hurrying now, he ducked aside. He could clearly hear the voices of the guards round the corner and was glad, for the hundredth time, that he had worn soft leather boots and not the hob-nailed standard military fare he usually wore.

The chapel was lit by a flame on the altar at the far end. A barrel-vaulted room, it was not much larger than one of the guest rooms in the palace above. The walls and curved ceiling were of plain grey stone, with just a touch of nitre glistening. The far end wall was decorated with a mural of the gods of house and family, with the Goddess of the hearth, protector of the home, at the centre. Her altar burned forever with a single flame. It was said that nothing was required to fuel the flame on her altar. Salonius had surreptitiously checked the one at Crow Hill and had discovered that the priests filled a recess in the altar with oil every few hours and a clever spring-loaded mechanism kept the oil at the top of the container to burn visibly.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the task at hand.

As if to facilitate their retrieval, the thoughtful priest who’d prepared them on the stone benches had removed all of their armour and accoutrements, leaving them in only tunic and breeches. With only a slight grunt, he lifted Corda from the bench and tested the weight. The sergeant had been a wiry man. Tough, but far from large. Damn. The man’s leg was tangled in the black cloak. With another grunt, he dropped the body back to the stone and removed the cloak, casting it away to the side of the chapel.

Stepping to the other block, he tested the weight of Petrus. Just as he’d thought, a decade of deprivation had left the veteran with a spindly light frame and very little muscle. Sheer determination had been driving him where muscle couldn’t. He could have carried five Petrus’.

Making sure the scarred body was securely in position on his left shoulder, he stepped sideways and lifted Corda with his massive muscled arms, hauling the man onto his shoulder. Bending his knees a couple of times, he tested the weight and how securely they were held.

Satisfied, he stepped slowly and carefully to the entrance of the chapel and peered around the wall. The laughter continued to issue from the lit area further on, but the corridor was empty. Taking another deep breath, he stepped out and turned the other way, carefully and slowly making his way up the first, short flight of stairs.

Under his breath, he continued to mutter prayers to Cernus and any other God that he could name that he make it to the stables unobserved. In retrospect, he should have asked Varro to come with him. The captain couldn’t have carried anything, but he could have acted as lookout.

He reached the top step and turned, peering carefully around the corner. Nothing. He stopped and listened. The now-distant sound of laughter behind him down the stairs. Somewhere up ahead was the sound of tramping military boots. Two pairs by the sound of it. Well he couldn’t stay in the stairs. He’d just have to hope they were in some other side tunnel.

He stepped out into the corridor and moved along it as fast as he could, his footfalls soft and delicate for a man his size. For a moment, he uttered a quiet curse, as Corda’s body slipped on his shoulder and almost fell. He jerked his shoulder to reposition it and changed his grip on the corpse’s wrist.

The corridor seemed to go one forever, but finally, the next junction came into sight. As he approached it, he paused for a moment and listened. Those heavy footsteps were now worryingly close; coming from the other branch to the one he needed, but too close for comfort. He held his breath and sank against the wall of the tunnel in as much shadow as he could manage, given the bulk on his shoulders.

A few moments passed and he let his breath escape with a quiet hiss. The steps were going the other way, disappearing off down the corridor.

He shook his head in amazement. Just over a week ago the most exciting thing he’d ever done was oversee the assembly of a giant bolt thrower while scores of enemy stood on the opposite ridge. Now here he was stealing corpses from the dungeons of the greatest Imperial fortress in the north. Astounding. How the hell had he got himself involved in this?