Hungerblade

Part Twelve: Nero’s Move

                 Shortly after Julius Laminus’ departure with Jacques’ sword, Circe and Orientius left the cell together. A muscular slave pulled the door shut, once more reducing the chamber to near-darkness. Jacques could hear an animated conversation between the two senators just beyond the cell door, but couldn’t make out its contents. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the thickening gloom, and then looked up at the shackles that bound his wrists, and the chains that suspended them from the cell’s ceiling. The chains hung from an iron hook fixed to a wooden beam.

                At least three obstacles stood in the way of his freedom: the chain, the shackles, and the door. After that, there would also be guards and so forth, but that would be getting ahead of himself. So far he only had a solution to the first problem.

                He swung himself on the chain, gaining momentum until his feet neared the wall. Jerking himself upward, he planted his feet flat against it, pulling the chain taut. Breathing methodically, he moved one foot upwards, then the other, gradually walking his way up the vertical surface. He took the rusty chain in his shackled hands. With each laborious step, the length of the slack links behind his hands grew, and the tight side shortened. He groaned his way up to the roof beam, his body parallel to the ceiling. Finally he had his head near the hook and his feet flat against the wall. By lunging forward, he slipped the chain off the hook.

                Jacques plummeted to the stone floor, landing on his back. He laid there, stunned, for a long interval of half-consciousness. When his breath came back to him, he rolled onto his side. Extricating himself from the chain, which was wrapped around him, he pulled his wrists up to his face for a better look at the shackles. There was no obvious keyhole. It appeared as if the shackles had been somehow forged onto his wrists, but his skin was undamaged.

                The door opened. Circe stood at the top of the steps, flanked by the burly slave, plus another who looked like his twin. Although not trolls, based on their size and appearance the pair likely had troll ancestors.

                “Oh,” she said. “I was just about to have my fellows lower you from the chain.” She seemed to make a calculation, and then swept down the steps to kneel beside him. The near-trolls followed quickly behind their master, faces alert with implied menace.

                “I don’t suppose you also planned to remove the shackles?” said Jacques.

                She knelt to inspect him for injuries. “I’ve always had a soft spot for reckless men, but enough is enough. Now that the others are gone, you can give me the locus without shame.” She moved in closer, brushing her lips against his. Jacques checked her guards to see if they were averting their gazes. They took it all in as if their mistresses’ near-clinch with one of her prisoners was a matter of dull routine. Their vigilance ruled out any attempt to grab her as a hostage.

                “Return it to you alone, you mean, and restore the previous balance of power,” he said.

                She ran her fingers through his hair. “Why not?”

                “I might just do that—once I’m sure it’s the right choice.”

                “So you admit you have it.”

                “There’s a more pressing matter—we’ve got to get that sword away from Laminus, before he—“

                A third functionary, a gray-bearded man whose bearing and clothing suggested rank and education, rushed in through the open door. Unlike the guards, he showed the good grace to blanch slightly at catching Circe in a quasi-embrace. “May I approach?” he asked, his tone urgent.

                Jacques sat up, pain orbiting through the muscles of his back, as she conferred in low tones with the functionary. The guards, unfortunately, kept themselves fixed on him.

                Jacques thought he saw a flicker of suppressed panic as Circe turned back to him. “Nero is making a move,” she said. “He’s mustering an army.”

                “I thought your magic prevented that.”

                “The geas renders him incapable of making decrees, or give orders to any state official outside his own household staff. He’s circumvented it by seeking outside help. He’s retreated to his villa, a few miles outside the city walls. There gathers a force of rogues, brigands, and foreign mercenaries.”

                “I’m impressed” mused Jacques. “Wigandus must have started collecting his forces immediately after our first meeting with the emperor. How could he do that?”

                “His hiring was extremely discrete,” offered Circe’s majordomo. “He must have hired them in small groups and sent them separately to the emperor’s villa.” Jacques eyed Circe for confirmation.

                “It could be done,” she sighed.” Apparently it has been done. An outlander hiring outlanders is hardly news in the city. he would need a place to hide his growing forces, but the emperor’s villa is perfect. We, I, assumed Nero powerless. We barely bothered to have him watched.”

                “How soon can you muster an opposing force?”

                “Ancient law prevents the stationing of troops in the city.”
                Jacques, who was familiar with this tradition, nodded in understanding. It had been enacted at the height of the Republic, to prevent generals from seizing the throne. Now an emperor was relying on it to reverse a coup.

                “We can’t call in a legion without first convening the Senate and reaching an agreement. Even then, the nearest forces are . . .”

                She turned to her majordomo for the answer: “Several days away, milady.”

                “I’ll straighten this out,” said Jacques. “Of course, you’ll have to free me first.”

                The enchantress warily cocked her head. “You’re not sure you want to return the locus, but you do know you want to stop Nero?”

                “The first thing he’ll do if he retakes the city is have the three of you killed. That will counter the geas, won’t it?”

                “It’s more complicated than that, but yes.”

                Jacques stood. “I admit, captivity and beatings aggravate me. But the last thing this city needs is a wave of mayhem and bloodshed. There is also the matter of Wigandus. No matter how this turns out it is unlikely to reflect well upon my sovereign.”

                “What can you do against hundreds of mercenaries?”

                “I’ll start by asking nicely, and work my way up from there.”         

                Circe patted at the pockets of her robe. “The key . . .”

                “I have that already.” Jacques revealed it, hidden in his palm, and held it to the light. It looked like a small silver shell on length of tiny iron chain. He’d taken it while she was leaning over him. “Of course, I hadn’t quite figured out how to work it yet.” He held is sheepishly to Circe who snatched it from his hand. Removing a hairpin, she jabbed the small finger of her left hand, while chanting softly. Continuing the chant she caught some of the blood in shell and then held it over Jacques outstretched arms by the small chain. With a final word, she dipped the shell once on to each shackle. There was a slight pop and each shackle split in two. Circe replaced the shell into her pocket.

Jacques rubbed his wrists and shoot out his fingers. Although the opening enchantment was painless, hanging by his wrists had caused his hands to go slightly numb. He levered himself to his feet. “Now, I simply require your muscular employees to step aside. Oh, and directions to Laminus’ place.”

                “You mean the imperial estate.”

                “That too, but first I need the sword. It’s much more persuasive than I am.”

                Jacques bolted from the cell; it exited outdoors, inside Circe’s estate. He dashed for the stables, followed by one of the slaves. The slave told the livery workers to give him a horse. They led him to a towering, white-coated steed; he swung onto its saddle and impelled it through the estate’s back gates.

                He could see Laminus’ villa from the road, but the chaotic layout of Romulus afforded no direct route to it. It was located on another of the city’s seven hills, and to get to it, he would have to take the winding lane he presently rode into the congested heart of Romulus, turn around, and ride back along another of the wide, circuitous lanes that led to the widely dispersed manors of the equestrian class. He spurred the horse on, rehearsing arguments, hoping to get there before Laminus made the inevitable mistake.

***

                His son Antonius at his side, Julius Laminus stood before his largest and most ornately carved weapons case in the family armory. Hungerblade hung inside it, still in its sheath, against its backing of crimson velvet. To its left was the gladius with which their ancestor Vitellus had slain the dwarf chieftain Alfsigr. To its right, the trident of Gaius Magnus, the renowned gladiator, which Julius’ father had purchased from the late warrior’s trainer for a lordly sum.

                “It doesn’t look right,” said Antonius.

                “How so?” mused his father.

                “The other weapons are exposed to view, yet Hungerblade is covered by that dowdy sheath.”

                Laminus wandered to a table to chew thoughtfully on a grape. When he had seized the weapon, he was sure that he would promptly loose it from its scabbard for a careful inspection. At first, he had taken the Doturi messenger’s words for the exaggerated squawks of an arrogant bumpkin. Now that there was no impediment to his drawing the sword, he was afflicted by doubt.

                “I was warned to leave it that way,” he said. As the words left his mouth, they felt cowardly, shameful.

                “He would tell you that, wouldn’t he?” said Antonius. “He doesn’t want you using it.”

                Jacques rode from the constricted streets of the city center toward the avenue leading to Laminus’ villa. Private guards rushed from their posts at nearby gates, calling him an outlander and demanding that he turn around. Jacques, riding past them, heard something about needing permission to enter.

                Laminus spit his grape seeds into a tiny dish, which was marked with the symmetrical visage of the deity Apollo. He had selected the god as patron of his austerity movement, because he symbolized both self-restraint and war-like zeal. It occurred to him that his current predicament put these two traits at odds with one another. “The sword is enchanted, Antonius.”

                “I know. That is why it is legendary.”

                “It is a rash and foolish man who tampers with magical forces he does not understand. What would our followers say, if they learned that I had, out of idle curiosity, brought a curse upon myself?”

                Antonius drew nearer to the display case. “What if it’s all a trick? Behind that pointy-toed gait and his stuttering speech, Gardien is a wily fox. I bet he created the legend of the sword, to scare people.”

                Laminus bristled. “He is only half as smart as he thinks he is.”

                Antonius touched the scabbard. “You do intend to use this one day, in earnest?”

                “If I own a weapon of fabulous enchantment, I must use it to enhance our family glory.”

                “Well, then, what if it is a fake? You must test it beforehand, to know if you can trust it in the heat of battle.”

                “You pursue the logic of your position doggedly, my son. Such verbal zeal will serve you well, when you are old like your father, and ascend to his senate seat.”

                “Thank you father, but I will let no one call you old.” Antonius stalked to the table to grab a pear, moving backwards so as not to let the weapon out of his sight. “In the meantime, we must at least substitute a more impressive sheath for it. That worn, dusty piece of dross—it is barely fit to be in our house, much less enjoy pride of place next to the sword of Vitellus.”

                “Perhaps. I will consult with my enchanters, to see what advice they give.”

                “You know what they will advise. Caution.” The young equestrian spat the name like it was an obscenity.

                “Yes,” said Julius Laminus.

                “After all, what does Vitellus say, in his memoirs?”

                Laminus quoted the passage. “The man who is prudent all the time is half the time a coward.”

                Jacques stood at the gates to Laminus’ estate, a pair of armed porters barring his way. The smaller of the two acted as spokesman, while the troll placed himself directly in front of the entrance and struck a pose of quiet intimidation.

                “You must let me in immediately,” said Jacques, his manner stern but measured. “It is the direst emergency.”

                “The Senator does not entertain uninvited guests,” replied the porter. Despite his impassive air, he seemed to be enjoying his power of refusal.

                “I come from Senator Circe, do you understand?”

                “Do you bear her seal or token?”

                “Nero is gathering a mercenary army outside the city. Your master and all of you in his household are in the gravest danger.”

                The porter wavered. “I will call for a boy, and he will see if the Senator is receiving—“

                Jacques grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “Let me in now, or I’ll tear you to pieces!” His expression grew wild. “You too!” he shouted at the troll.

                Antonius handed the weapon to his father. “A blade cannot harm what it cannot reach. I will move back, far out of range. Then you can safely draw the sword, so we can see what it looks like. What harm can there be in that?”

                Laminus held it out, weighing it in his hands. “Very well. Move back, then.”

                Antonius stepped backwards, until he was halfway across the large chamber. He took up a spot on the other side of a table.

                “Move further,” said Laminus.

                “If I go any further I won’t be able to see. What can happen?”

                Laminus sighed and drew the blade.

To be continued . . .

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