Varro stopped. The argument was persuasive, he had to admit. He thought for a moment of the trials that were to come; of the sizeable portion of the officers and men of the Fourth who would be brought to justice and many of them executed. It was a waste. It was all history. And then for another moment, he thought on his own history. Petrus; a cousin he had loved, murdered in the night. Corda, tricked and cajoled into treachery himself. The men who had died these last two weeks on both sides of the game, just because of this man’s greed. And finally he thought of his future. The future he didn’t have.
“You’re a traitor, a liar, a murderer and a monster, Cristus. There can be no deal. Now I know you’ve always thought of yourself as a swordsman… well here’s your chance to prove it. Let the Gods decide and draw their own conclusions. Your men here will respect if you face me, and it’ll be real respect; the sort you earn through blood, sweat and sacrifice; not the sort you buy.
Cristus smiled.
“That’s your only offer?”
Varro nodded.
“To the death for the honour of the army. I’ve no fear, because even without divine retribution against lying scum, I know damn well I could gut you like a fish on a slab.”
The prefect’s hearty laugh rang out again.
“Varro, just look at yourself, man. You’re wounded and sick; dying even. You’re covered in your own blood. You haven’t rested properly in weeks. You’re a mess. I don’t need a sword; I could beat you to death with a tunic for heavens’ sake. Just see reason and end this with negotiation. This is my last offer of peace. We can try and get you healed and back to normal.”
Varro’s feral grin marched across his face.
“Take your offer and jam it up your arse sideways. Are you going to fight me or not?”
Cristus sighed.
“Very well. No armour. Just tunics and swords, yes?”
“Fine by me.”
With a growl, Varro hefted his blade and stepped forward.
Cristus unbuckled his cuirass and handed it and his helmet to one of the staff officers beside him. He looked for a moment at the leather bracers on his wrists.
“Would you mind if I keep these on? Personal reasons, you see. Awards for meritorious service. One doesn’t like to be without them.”
Varro snarled.
“Just get ready.”
Cristus smiled again, broad and relaxed.
“You must calm down, captain. Your skills with the sword will be of no avail if you blow a blood vessel and expire before you even reach me.”
He stretched his shoulders and drew his sword, giving it a few experimental swings.
“Feel free to invite your young engineer friend and the lady Catilina out. I will guarantee their safety. After you’ve needlessly thrown yourself away, the young man will certainly have a place with me in the Fourth, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for the lady.”
“Just shut up and get ready.”
Varro stopped five yards from the prefect who smiled and removed his scarf. With a flamboyant sweep of his arm, he handed it to another officer, who took it silently.
“Now, gentlemen… if you’ll all step the requisite twenty paces back and give us some room.”
The party of officers retreated up the hill a way and took up position with Crino’s men. Cristus flipped his sword around in his hand expertly a few times.
“Isn’t it said for the modern military that bravery and stupidity are so often aligned in a man.”
He grinned as he began to slowly circle Varro. The captain started to move likewise dropping his shoulders and holding his sword ready.
“I’ve got to kill you Cristus, just to stop you talking if nothing else!”
He stepped forward with lightning speed and lunged out towards Cristus. The prefect laughed and ducked to one side, knocking the blade out of the way with his own sword.
“Fast, but sloppy and obvious.”
Varro smiled and circled once more. After a momentary pause, Cristus suddenly twirled back on himself, bringing his blade out in a wide, flashing arc at shoulder height. Varro ducked, but only just in time. The damn contraption Salonius had made might save his life, but it meant he couldn’t bend low enough. Damn it! He would have to adjust. Adapt and adjust, like his friend would.
“Flashy. Does that impress your friends, Cristus?”
The prefect smiled an unpleasant smile.
“Sadly, every move I make tells me something about you. And now I know that you can’t duck. Nasty wound and that evil toxin destroying you from within. I’m surprised you can move. Scortius must have done wonders with you to keep you upright.”
Varro growled.
“I’m not going to exchange chit chat with you, Petrus, you piece of shit. Just fight me.”
“With pleasure.”
Almost unbelievably fast, the prefect’s sword lashed out and caught Varro a stinging, if minor, blow to the thigh.
“I’m really trying not to kill you, Varro. I’d like to give the men a bit of spectacle first.”
“Sir!”
Cristus’ head snapped round. For a moment Varro wondered whether to take advantage of the distraction, but decided against it. If this was to be done, it had to be done right.”
“What?” Cristus demanded of the young cavalryman who’d just rode close to the combat and reined in.
“Sir, marshal Sabian is on his way. He and his guard have just crossed the stream.”
Varro was pleased to see the prefect’s smug expression slide for a moment.
“Now we’ll get an audience, Cristus!”
Chapter Fifteen
Marshal Sabian arrived on the scene in spectacular fashion. Though a practical and realistic man, the marshal was well aware of the effect that pomp and splendour could have on a situation when used to its maximum effect. The trumpets calling the army to order were clearly audible before a single man became visible. Then, a few moments later, the standard bearers appeared over the slope, their banners fluttering in the light breeze and displaying the insignia of the marshal, the Northern Provinces, and all four armies under his command.
At the first blast of the horn and without the need of a command from Cristus, every soldier on the hillside came to attention, and nervously maintained their posture as the standard bearers hove into view, followed in quick succession by the trumpeters and the drummers, beating out a marching cadence. Behind the musicians came Captain Iasus of the marshal’s guard, astride a magnificent black horse that matched his uniform in shade, giving him the appearance of some sorting of avenging spirit from the underworld. Iasus was accompanied by a dozen of his men in full dress uniform who rode in an arrow formation, forming a protective shield around the marshal himself on his white mare. The column went on behind them, with several of Sabian’s senior officers, more of his personal guard and two thousand troops split into four columns, representing the northern armies.
It was a spectacular and fearsome force to behold and the effect was not lost on the two men facing each other with drawn blades. Regardless of whether Cristus won their melee, the day was now lost to him. Sabian’s force outnumbered the prefect’s by hundreds to one, and the sudden glorious reminder of the marshal’s power and influence would already be melting away the resolve of even Cristus’ most avid supporters. He smiled an odd smile.
“It appears that my options are diminishing at an alarming rate, Varro.”
The wounded captain snorted.
“You have no options, Cristus.”
“I fear you may be disappointed there, Varro; I make it a point to always have a way out. However, I feel bound to offer you one last time my hand in friendship. We could still walk away today. The marshal could be persuaded to put aside any animosity were the two of us to stand side by side.”