“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.
“What is it?” he demanded irritably, as though interrupted from a pleasurable pursuit.
Sabian waved his hand at his daughter by manner of an explanation while his eyes remained locked on the two men before him. As the surgeon approached the young lady, Catilina smiled warmly.
“It’s been too long, Mercurias.”
The grizzled doctor cracked a grin.
“I’d heard about your arrow wound. Now some broken fingers too eh? You trying intentionally to piss your father off?”
She laughed as Mercurias grasped her gently by the wrist and began to unwrap the binding she had used. Sabian raised an eyebrow in question without shifting his gaze. As though by some sixth sense, Mercurias shrugged and reported.
“Looks like two or three fractures on two fingers. She bound them quickly and correctly. She’ll be fine, though I’ll splint them better.”
He cackled.
“But judging by the placement and the depth of the bruising, some well-built young man somewhere is having his dinner fed to him with a spoon.”
“In hell” added Catilina with a grin.
Though the doctor continued to cackle, Catilina looked up and caught the expression on her father’s face and allowed herself to regain her composure.
A distant pounding noise that had been growing gradually became more insistent and Varro turned to see a large group of men marching down the hill towards them. As they approached, they veered off into two lines and shuffled into position to form a large square around the two men, presenting their shields as an internal wall. Sabian cast his eyes over the makeshift arena and then beckoned to his daughter. The two of them, accompanied by Mercurias, Iasus and Salonius, strode back up the hill a way until they were high enough to obtain a clear view over the double line of infantry forming the arena wall.
Salonius’ breathing was becoming tense and short. Sabian glanced across at him and narrowed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he turned and addressed the assembled masses on the hill.
“I want Cristus’ command here to form into a unit at full attention. You may be under suspicion, but you are still soldiers in my army. Act like it!”
Hurriedly the various clusters of men and odd individual soldiers rushed to a position on the hill, where captain Crino bullied them into a semblance of order.
The marshal looked around and nodded with satisfaction. With the masses out of reasonable earshot, he allowed his shoulders to drop a little and relaxed. He glared at the two men in the makeshift arena.
“You two just wait for a minute.” He turned to the young engineer close by.
“Salonius,” he said in hushed tones,”What’s his chances? How bad is he?”
The young man took a deep breath.
“I’m really not sure, sir. Yesterday I wouldn’t have pitted him against a sheep with any confidence, but he’s dosed himself to critical, probably fatal, levels and he claims to be on top of his game. If he really does feel like he claims to, I think he’ll do it.”
Sabian pursed his lips and frowned.
“There is another possibility in the event of failure.”
“Sir?”
The marshal placed his hand on Salonius’ shoulder.
“You have as much right to accuse and challenge Cristus as Varro has. This may sound heartless, but frankly I cannot afford to let Cristus leave this field alive. If Varro can’t do it, I need you to go in and finish the job.”
Salonius stared at the marshal, but the surprise quickly vanished from his face and was replaced with a mix of determination and distaste.
“It would be my duty and my pleasure, sir. But I still pin my hopes on the captain.”
“So do I, soldier. So do I.”
The two of them turned their eyes back to Varro and Cristus who stared at each other with open hatred. Sabian squared his shoulders.
“Catilina…”
“I know father. Later.”
The marshal watched her for a moment and then nodded, raising his eyes to the arena.
“Let this be official, then. We have an arena. We have two challengers. Military law dictates what must happen here. Both combatants must be on equal terms.”
He grumbled something under his breath as he stared at the blood-stained mess that was captain Varro and the clean, limber figure of Cristus.
“We’ll agree that this is as equal as you’re likely to be, I suppose.” He drew a deep breath and announced loudly.
“We have a challenge to trial by combat between prefect Cristus and captain Varro. According to tradition, we need a judge who is impartial. Since that is an impossibility in the circumstances, I shall appoint captain Iasus to arbitrate this dispute. Everyone who knows my guard captain will know of his keen instinct toward law, order and tradition; tradition which, I believe, also requires both parties to have a second?”
Sabian glanced across at Salonius, who nodded.
“Officer Salonius of the captain’s guard in the Fourth will second Varro. And Cristus?”
The prefect smiled.
“I nominate captain Crino as my second, though I cannot imagine for a second that I will need him.”
Sabian shifted his gaze to the named captain, standing with his unhappy troops, enclosed in a ring of men emanating a low but clearly discernable air of detestation and disapproval. Crino grimaced, clearly unhappy with his lot, and finally nodded reluctantly.
“Very well. Varro and Salonius; Cristus and Crino.”
He gestured to Iasus, who adjusted his black cloak and removed his plumed helm. The strict guard captain squared his shoulders and stepped forward, opening a gap in the shield wall and entering the arena.
He called out in an officious tone “Under article fourteen of the codex of Imperial military law, Captain Varro has requested trial by combat.”
He turned to the captain.
“State your accusations for the record and be witnessed by all here as representatives of the Emperor and his council.”
Varro shrugged wearily.
“This traitorous piece of shit has called on himself the death penalty time and again, according to the standards of military law. He consorted with the enemy at Saravis Fork and sold out a garrison to the barbarians to become slaves or worse… penalty: death.”
Some of the weariness seemed to drop from Varro’s frame and he pulled himself upright, his voice gaining volume.
