produced a tight lipped smile. “Isn’t it obvious, boss? The bear, the bull, the hawk.”
“Hawk?” Conlan echoed.
“The woman, Con. You saw her breastplate, her hair. The red hawk…”
CHAPTER NINE
Martius
THE SUN SHONE IN Martius’s eyes, a reflected rainbow haze rising from the pool at the centre of the vast courtyard. He had not visited Turbis as often as he should have, and he was surprised to see how much had changed. In the past, Turbis had always relished a soldier’s simplicity, despite the vast fortune he had accrued over the years. Now, though, it seemed to Martius that Turbis’s villa was the epitome of ostentation.
Martius’s footsteps echoed off polished rose marble slabs, and he marvelled at the statuary that now surrounded the once plain swimming pool. The beauty of the carving, he found, was impossible to deny, but the garish painting of the marble detracted from the overall aesthetic, the true artistry of the sculptor buried beneath layers of paint. The pool was ringed by statues of past emperors, stone arms raised in salute, and generals on horseback, one seemingly reviewing the landscape, another at attention, helmet under arm. Heroes all. In pride of place, Turbis had a new addition: Standing on a plinth in the centre of the pool was a larger than life statue of Turbis himself. Not the Turbis of today, but the man that Martius remembered from his youth – stern, lean and grim. The sculpture of the saviour of the Empire sat astride a rearing battle mount, looking like a god, sword drawn and pointing skyward, cloak flowing in the wind. Martius was quite disturbed to see that the whole edifice appeared to be sculpted in gold. He had little doubt that it was solid, or at the least hollow cast. Turbis could afford it; he was, after all, one of the richest men in the Empire.
Approaching the pavilion at the Southern end of the pool Martius saw slaves, assistants, fan bearers and a lone minstrel had all gathered for their master’s pleasure. Turbis sat atop a throne of cushions, sweet meats and candied fruits within reach on the right. A scribe, conspicuously plain amongst the opulence, in a woollen tunic and leather sandals, to his right, clutching a stack of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.
Turbis was clearly deep in thought, eyes glazed and distant, his voice sonorous but low as he recited to all. “... But that was not the issue, you see. We had no hope of keeping them alive and so on the seventh day I ordered the horses slaughtered.” His words were accompanied by the timid scratch of quill on parchment. “They would provide good meat for the men. But with the horses gone, there was no dung to cook the meat, so I had the men slice it thin and dry it in the sun in the manner of the sandmen themselves…”
Martius paused, head cocked, not wanting to disturb the legend. The ghost of Turbis of old still lives in you, old man, he thought. But you are stuck in your past. He cleared his throat a little louder than intended, but it had the required effect.
Turbis’s head snapped around, his eyes squinting up in irritation. But his face brightened when recognition dawned. “Ah, Martius. I had not expected you till later.” Eyes twinkling, he reached for a jewel-encrusted goblet and took a noisy sip. “Come, sit. I was just dictating the next chapter of my memoirs. Perhaps you would like to listen for a while?”
Martius grinned broadly, suspecting his friend was more than a little merry. As he entered the open face of the pavilion, a servant moved an ornate cushioned stool directly before Turbis.
“So I am to learn at the feet of the master again,” Martius said, sitting obediently, remembering his many years in Turbis’s service. “You know I am an avid reader of your work Antius Turbis,” he said respectfully. “But I worry that I would disturb your thinking… interfere with your flow.”
Turbis took another sip from his goblet, this time allowing the
“Hawk?” Conlan echoed.
“The woman, Con. You saw her breastplate, her hair. The red hawk…”
CHAPTER NINE
Martius
THE SUN SHONE IN Martius’s eyes, a reflected rainbow haze rising from the pool at the centre of the vast courtyard. He had not visited Turbis as often as he should have, and he was surprised to see how much had changed. In the past, Turbis had always relished a soldier’s simplicity, despite the vast fortune he had accrued over the years. Now, though, it seemed to Martius that Turbis’s villa was the epitome of ostentation.
Martius’s footsteps echoed off polished rose marble slabs, and he marvelled at the statuary that now surrounded the once plain swimming pool. The beauty of the carving, he found, was impossible to deny, but the garish painting of the marble detracted from the overall aesthetic, the true artistry of the sculptor buried beneath layers of paint. The pool was ringed by statues of past emperors, stone arms raised in salute, and generals on horseback, one seemingly reviewing the landscape, another at attention, helmet under arm. Heroes all. In pride of place, Turbis had a new addition: Standing on a plinth in the centre of the pool was a larger than life statue of Turbis himself. Not the Turbis of today, but the man that Martius remembered from his youth – stern, lean and grim. The sculpture of the saviour of the Empire sat astride a rearing battle mount, looking like a god, sword drawn and pointing skyward, cloak flowing in the wind. Martius was quite disturbed to see that the whole edifice appeared to be sculpted in gold. He had little doubt that it was solid, or at the least hollow cast. Turbis could afford it; he was, after all, one of the richest men in the Empire.
Approaching the pavilion at the Southern end of the pool Martius saw slaves, assistants, fan bearers and a lone minstrel had all gathered for their master’s pleasure. Turbis sat atop a throne of cushions, sweet meats and candied fruits within reach on the right. A scribe, conspicuously plain amongst the opulence, in a woollen tunic and leather sandals, to his right, clutching a stack of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.
Turbis was clearly deep in thought, eyes glazed and distant, his voice sonorous but low as he recited to all. “... But that was not the issue, you see. We had no hope of keeping them alive and so on the seventh day I ordered the horses slaughtered.” His words were accompanied by the timid scratch of quill on parchment. “They would provide good meat for the men. But with the horses gone, there was no dung to cook the meat, so I had the men slice it thin and dry it in the sun in the manner of the sandmen themselves…”
Martius paused, head cocked, not wanting to disturb the legend. The ghost of Turbis of old still lives in you, old man, he thought. But you are stuck in your past. He cleared his throat a little louder than intended, but it had the required effect.
Turbis’s head snapped around, his eyes squinting up in irritation. But his face brightened when recognition dawned. “Ah, Martius. I had not expected you till later.” Eyes twinkling, he reached for a jewel-encrusted goblet and took a noisy sip. “Come, sit. I was just dictating the next chapter of my memoirs. Perhaps you would like to listen for a while?”
Martius grinned broadly, suspecting his friend was more than a little merry. As he entered the open face of the pavilion, a servant moved an ornate cushioned stool directly before Turbis.
“So I am to learn at the feet of the master again,” Martius said, sitting obediently, remembering his many years in Turbis’s service. “You know I am an avid reader of your work Antius Turbis,” he said respectfully. “But I worry that I would disturb your thinking… interfere with your flow.”
Turbis took another sip from his goblet, this time allowing the
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