Varro barked a laugh.
“No options, Cristus! No way out today.”
The prefect shook his head sadly.
“Were I to find myself at the marshal’s mercy today, remember two things, Varro: firstly, I will kill you before I finish. That is not a boast or a threat but a simple statement. I am a better swordsman than you, despite all your frontline experience, and I am fully healthy and rested, while you are dying and weak.”
He smiled.
“And secondly, I am a master of politics. I can assure you that when all is done here, I will go on. I shall be leaving the military, of course, but I believe my place in the ruling council is still secure. No matter how sentimental over you Sabian gets and no matter how angry he may be over my dirty little secret, I have tricks up my sleeve and information in hand that will guarantee my safety and my future.”
“You lying turd!”
Cristus chuckled.
“Come, Varro. Do you really think I haven’t planned for this kind of eventuality? That I did not set wheels in motion to protect myself decades ago? It will be a shame to have my commission removed and be mustered out without a triumphal parade and great show, and I daresay one or two of my senior men will have to be sacrificed for the look of the thing, but Sabian is practical and it will be much more trouble to punish me than to promote me, I can assure you.”
Varro bared his teeth.
“Then, skill or no skill, I’ll just have to make sure you don’t leave this field, eh?” he growled.
The two men stood for a long moment, their eyes locked on each other; Cristus’ expression an unreadable mix of smugness and satisfaction, Varro’s a look of pure hatred. Slowly, distrustfully, the pair tore their gaze from each other and looked up at the approaching column of men. The troops of the four armies had begun to move into position in a wide arc with one tip at the wood’s edge and the other at the crest of the hill, enclosing the men on the slope. The standard bearers and musicians had fallen into ranks on either side of the command unit and had ceased their bleating and thumping. In the centre, the black-clad guardsmen settled into a protective cordon behind and alongside their captain and the marshal, who gently walked his steed forward.
Cristus lowered his sword and gave a crisp military salute as the marshal and his men drew up their horses twenty yards from the combat. Varro merely let his sword drop and nodded a casual greeting.
The marshal regarded the scene, allowing his gaze briefly to wander to the edge of the woods and scan the ranks of men on the hillside. He sat comfortably in the saddle, his face a blank mask. Cristus appeared not to read anything into this, but Varro had known the marshal on a personal level long enough to see through the mask and recognise the very dangerous current flowing beneath. Sabian was just about as angry as Varro had ever seen him. The marshal spoke in a flat, dead tone.
“Gentlemen…”
His expression unreadable, Sabian dismounted and passed his horse’s reins to one of Cristus’ soldiers standing nearby, who took them nervously. Behind him, Captain Iasus and two black-clad sergeants also dismounted and stepped up to join their commander. The marshal clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously as he approached the two combatants.
“Speak to me. It would appear that two of my senior officers are ready to cut each other to pieces and I am very much in two minds as to whether to stop this and have you both locked up or to let you kill each other here and now and solve all my problems.”
Cristus remained at attention and bowed his head briefly.
“My lord marshal, there are a number of baseless accusations that have been made against me by men driven by greed and jealousy. You will discover that there is no evidence for any of this bar the hearsay and rumour spread by captain Varro and his cronies. I was on my way to Vengen with my officers to bring this distasteful matter to your attention and resolve any questions when I was waylaid by the necessity of confronting the man over his behaviour. As is good and proper by military law, I was about to bring Varro to justice through trial by combat since violence appears to be the only solution that he understands.”
Varro let out a mirthful chuckle. Sabian looked across at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Something to add there, captain?” he said in a quiet, yet deadly tone.
Varro’s laugh stopped, his smile sliding into a feral grin.
“I believe you’re well aware of my opinions concerning this piece of shit, marshal.”
Sabian allowed his flat glare to pass across them both before he drew a short breath.
“Prefect Cristus, I think we’re beyond denials now, so be quiet and wait.” He turned to lay his gaze on the other combatant. “And Varro? I’d need extra hands to count the number of times you’ve broken rules and deliberately disobeyed my orders. I’ve given you a great deal of elbow room due to your condition and your past record, but it stops now. I’m thoroughly sick of the sight of both of you. If you’re determined to carve each other to pieces, I’m more than happy to accommodate you, but you will do it according to military etiquette.”
Turning his back on them, he issued quiet orders to captain Iasus. Varro watched him warily, the point of his sword wavering. Iasus saluted and strode off.
“Now,” barked Sabian, “Where is my daughter, Varro?”
Varro raised his sword and pointed to the woods with it.
“She and Salonius are watching, sir.”
“Catilina!” the marshal bellowed angrily.
The pale, graceful figure of the marshal’s daughter appeared at the edge of the wood, followed by Salonius wearing an expression of hopelessness. For just a moment the lady paused at the altar of Phaianis nearby. The gentle depression in the top was stained red with both wine and blood. Reaching up to her neck and wincing at both the dull ache in her shoulder and her broken fingers, Catilina unclasped the necklace that she wore.
Varro breathed in deeply. Even at this distance, he recognised the golden chain and locket; Catilina’s most prized possession: a cameo of her mother made the week before she died. Without even a visible hint of regret, she dropped the necklace into the bowl and strode on toward the waiting figure of her father. Salonius stopped for a second to stare at the item and then hurried to catch up.
“Father,” the young woman said in a business-like tone as she approached. A greeting; no hint of submission.
“Catilina, look at you. What have they done to you?”
His daughter raised her head, her back straight and proud.
“As they say in taverns the world over, father, if you think this is bad, you should see the other man!”
Varro chuckled for a moment and then clamped his mouth shut.
“Explain!” the marshal barked, glaring at the captain.
She sighed.
“Cristus’ men came for us in the night, father, just like they did at Vengen. I defended myself. Valiantly, I would say. I hurt my fingers; they’ll heal.”
Sabian shifted his glare to Cristus but said nothing. Finally, grinding his teeth, he turned and bellowed back up the slope.
“Surgeon! To me!”
There was a brief commotion among the medical staff and a small group of men came down the slope. Several orderlies ran ahead, coming to a halt at attention close to the marshal. The chief surgeon strode on behind with an air of supreme unconcern and finally sauntered to a halt behind his subordinates.
Mercurias shunned both the white robes common to private medical practitioners within the Empire and the crisp military uniform of their military counterparts, preferring as his standard mode of dress a casual, often worn and creased grey tunic and breeches bearing no insignia. His personal relationship with both Sabian and the Emperor was deep enough that no question would ever be raised over his behaviour, which was, some said, a damned good thing, given the old man’s acerbic nature.