Interregnum

“You’re suggesting I step down?” asked Velutio with some surprise.

“No, Lord. Not that. But there are other ways than direct conflict on such a scale. We know where the enemy are, but not their composition. They could even have a force approaching the size of ours now. Why cause that bloodbath if it could be avoided?”

“Go on” said Velutio, one eyebrow raised.

Sabian took a deep breath. “Peace. Publicly declare your intention to adopt Darius and offer him co-rulership. After all, that was your intention in the first place, before Caerdin pitted him against you. Offer amnesty for their army and its leaders. You could bring this whole thing down to a political hand-shake without a single drop of blood.”

Velutio laughed. “For a man of war, you seem to do everything you can to avoid it, Sabian.”

The commander shrugged. “A real soldier will always avoid the battle if there is another way round. Only psychopaths seek battle for battle’s sake, lord.”

Velutio shook his head. “I might be willing to adopt Darius now and even pardon the various lords that have fallen in with them, but there is no way this side of the river of Death that I’ll let the Wolves, the Lion Riders or any of the Islanders live after this. They’ve pitted themselves against me, not I against them, and now I’ll see it through to the bitter end.”

Velutio looked sidelong at his commander, who seemed to be fighting his irritation. “I agree in principle with what you say. I’ll have my scribes draft a letter offering Darius exactly what he wants and amnesty to the other lords on the condition that Caerdin, Tythias, Sarios and their supporters give themselves up to me. That is as far as I will compromise.”

Sabian nodded. It was a small gesture that would likely fail, but it was better than he’d expected. Velutio was not known for his leniency. “Very well,” the commander sighed. “I’ll have a small party put together to deliver your terms, lord.”

“Sabian,” the old lord laughed, “you really try to be the voice of reason in an unreasonable world. Your principles are always of the highest quality and you are a great believer in ethics, itself an unusual characteristic in a military commander, but the Empire is a corrupt and debased place these days, and there’s precious little room for idealism. Still,” he smiled, “it’s refreshing to see at times.”

Sabian bowed slightly and saluted before he turned and walked away down the hill toward where sergeant Cialo was issuing instructions to groups of soldiers. As he walked he mulled over choices he’d make for better or for worse. Perhaps he had been unwise to allow the islanders to leave Isera, and particularly to let Caerdin free to wage his own war but when it all came down to it the Empire, once it was back on its feet, would need men like Caerdin and Sarios. Velutio was blinded enough by ancient vendettas that he couldn’t see the value of men like that, but Sabian could look past the foundation of a new dynasty to where men of vision and intelligence would be needed. Still, Velutio had pushed hard for the last half year and had dealt with whatever appeared before him with the surety of a man possessed. Sabian had played his part as best he could not to be just a general for his army, but to be advisor, counsellor and conscience. It would be satisfying to think even in a small way how much innocent blood had been spared by his interjection but, since there were limits to his influence and his lordship would not follow his counsel along certain paths, he may well be the cause of the greatest war to shake the Empire in over two centuries. That was a disturbing thought and one that came back to him at night when the shadows lengthened. He’d done everything he could to avoid innocent victims but, in doing so, he’d pitted two great armies against each other. In a way, he’d created the rebel force.

Grumbling, he tossed around the decisions he’d made and opportunities he’d missed as he walked, staring at the ground, and almost knocked over a man carrying a wounded soldier.

“Watch where you’re going!” A little unjust and harsh, but the way his mood was taking him… He stopped and stared at the man with the wounded soldier.

“Wait…” the sentence went unfinished as Sabian looked down. Though the man was a ragged conscript soldier in the clothes of a peasant spearman, the body he was supporting was clearly a dead man up this close and, as his eyes strayed downwards, the knife the man had pressed against Sabian’s liver, just under the edge of his armour, was a well-honed and beautiful blade.

“You have my attention” he said, satisfied that if the wielder had wanted to kill him, he could have done it by now.

The man smiled and Sabian was suddenly aware that the peasant was anything but what he seemed. Indeed, he was a man of lithe and energetic frame, short but elegant and with a dark, weather-beaten face.

“Commander Sabian. Interesting. I’ve no orders for your death, though I doubt the Emperor would lament it under the circumstances.”

Sabian frowned. “If by ‘Emperor’ you mean young Darius, I would think twice. I doubt he would look favourably on you. You’re a Pelasian I guess? One of Prince Ashar’s spies or assassins?”

“I would call myself a scout,” grinned the small man, “though I am multi-talented. An interesting situation we find ourselves in. What are we to do now? Shall I kill you?”

Sabian relaxed a little and the blade scraped against his cuirass as he sank back. “You have the advantage. You can kill me or leave, but I would urge the latter. We have a message to deliver to general Caerdin and you could deliver it for us.”

A smile. His only answer.

“A letter,” repeated Sabian, “offering terms for a cessation of hostilities. We know you’re at or near Munda and there’s no way you can beat us in a land battle. I know it and so does Caerdin.”

The small man let the dead body next to him drop to the ground and sheathed his knife. “I trust to your word. My Prince and the Emperor both hold you in high esteem. Give me this letter and I will carry it for you.”

Sabian smiled. “Just wait here for a moment. I must speak to my sergeant, then I’ll be back to see you and we’ll go and visit his lordship.”

Without taking his eyes off the Pelasian spy, Sabian walked further down the hill to where Cialo stood watching him with interest. The veteran pulled himself to attention and saluted.

“Commander. Nothing much to report sir.”

Sabian nodded distractedly. “I wish I could say the same.” He looked around to see if they were alone. Two soldiers stood digging a pit out of earshot and the Pelasian watched him from the slope with interest. Unlikely the man would be able to hear anything.

“Cialo, his lordship is sending a letter of terms to the rebels. The man over there,” he gestured at the small figure, “is a Pelasian; one of Ashar’s, and I’m sending him with a letter back to Munda where Lord Pelian informs us the rebels are based. I’m afraid I’ve a job for you, sergeant.”

Cialo nodded wearily. “I expect so, sir.”

“I need a small party of men to accompany this Pelasian. Needless to say, it could be extremely dangerous. If you get taken to Caerdin, you’ll be able to confirm that’s where their base is and that bodes rather badly for you, but I think their commanders are honourable enough that they won’t hurt you.” He frowned. “And for all my bluster to his lordship about certainty, I’d give a lot to know exactly what this force consists of. You can find that out for me. Take a half dozen of your most diplomatic men with you… men like Crispin; people who got on well with the islanders, you know.”

Cialo nodded. “Yes, commander. I’ll get some men and some horses and report to the command post as soon as, sir.”

As Cialo hurried off to put together a party of men, Sabian sighed and gazed around the battlefield once more. It had been an easy victory, but then they’d outnumbered Pelian by a huge margin. This might not always be this easy.

Julius Pelianus had turned eight years old this summer. In his short life he’d watched three other lords of lands hereabouts fall to mercenary forces or retributive strikes by their enemies, but it had always remained a distant thing; a ‘something that happens to other people’ affair. And then this afternoon, he’d seen his father’s throat cut by the man whom he had apparently served. Anger coursed anew through his veins as he thought of his mother where he’d left her, heaped over the body of his father, crying in anguish. He’d not cried. There was grief, of course, but something stronger, hard and heavy as a rock had settled in his chest and he couldn’t have shed a tear now if he’d tried. He’d waited until the soldiers had been ordered back into formation and marched off over the crest of the hill in search of fresh slaughter and then with only a single, wordless glance at his family, had walked purposefully back into the courtyard of the palace.