The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (10 page)

METROTIS WAS GLAD TO be at the villa. Nowhere else in the world made him feel so relaxed. The Felix family seat for virtually the entire history of the Empire, it was more of a city now than a villa, the original building having been expanded and altered into a vast and labyrinthine palace that encompassed almost six acres of land. The villa itself was now merely the centre point of a thriving town. It was the main port of call for the convoys and caravans which moved north along one of three main artery roads
 
leading into the heart of the Empire, and ultimately to Adarna itself.
 

The whole town was built of sandstone, and it shone, ruddy and glorious, in the failing afternoon light. Already servants scurried around the hallways and courtyards of the villa, lighting lanterns and fire pits. They were on high ground, a mound of earth rising from the plain, a landmark for miles around. The budding military strategist in Metrotis could see why his distant ancestors had chosen the spot to make their home; it dominated the plains for miles around. The hill the town sat upon, and took its name from, was, for reasons long forgotten, known as the Deakin. The Felix family villa sat on its peak like a red-gold crown.
 

The town of Deakin spilled down the sides of the hill all around but did not reach the plain; its stout and ancient walls stood proud over the lands below. High and safe.

As a child, Metrotis had run screaming through the streets and alleys as he played with the other children of the household. Sometimes they would dare each other to run down the steep hill of the butchers’ row that led to the temple of Lord Terran, then sneak past the worshippers and priests to touch the foot of the great sandstone bear that stood – as if waiting to ambush the unwary – just inside the main entrance, before running back out into the light, giggling with delight at their endeavour.

One time, lulled into an unwary sense of security, they were caught by great Aunt Patricius, mother of Martius and, at the time, unquestioned matriarch of house Felix. Patricius had marched all four boys into the main sept of the temple. Dismissing the priests with an imperious wave, she had forced the children to kneel before the great wheel that sat above the main altar. Lord Terran, at the top in his bear form, dominated the great circular idol that formed the centre of worship in the temple. Metrotis learnt many years later that Aunt Patricius herself had commissioned the wheel, after the style of the Sacreun faith she had been raised in.

“What is that?” Patricius had snapped, voice waspish, hand pointing at the wheel.

The boys remained silent. Grenius, the youngest by a year, sobbed quietly, the sound echoing off the stone walls.

“
What is that
?” Patricius repeated, venom dripping from every word.

“It, it’s the wheel,” Metrotis squeaked out in reply

“I know it’s the wheel! What
is
it?” She walked over to stand before a terrified Metrotis, who found himself examining the scuffs on her boots in great detail. One looked like a smiling face, he recalled.
 

The smiling-face boot began to tap an impatient rhythm.
 

“Do not make me repeat myself!” Patricius snarled menacingly.

“It’s the wheel of the world,” Metrotis, afraid to look up, informed his smiling leather interrogator.

“Yes, Nephew, it is the wheel of the world. Look at me when I speak to you!” Patricius began to pace up and down in front of her captives. “And what does it represent?”

“It, it’s the Gods in the earth, Aunty Patricius.” Metrotis contrived to make his voice respectful, but could not erase a terrified tremor. “Lord Terran, he’s the father of the earth and, and his children are in the circle of the wheel. All spokes lead to the earth, all lines lead to Lord Terran… Yes, yes, that’s it. It’s the holy circle.”

“Good, good,” Patricius purred. “And why don’t we disrespect the gods?”

Grenius, tears streaked down his face, snot hanging from his nose, looked up. “Because they are terrible in anger, madam Patricius, miss.”

Stopping before Grenius, Patricius reached down and grabbed his chin between thumb and forefinger. “Very good, little Grenius, very good. The gods have great issues to deal with. The sun must rise, the sun must set. The plants must grow and the fruit must ripen. They grow angry when we disrespect them because they are busy with the work of the world.” Releasing Grenius, she marched up to the wheel and pointed at two carvings. “Why did Toruss and Syke ask their Lord father to create us?”

“Because they were lonely,” Metrotis replied, desperately searching his brain for a logical answer. “They wanted friends.”

Patricius laughed, a strangely musical sound for the temple, Metrotis considered. “They were
bored,
boy. Now, they have moved to greater things. Have any of you heard the tale of the misbehaving quartail?”

Metrotis nodded vigorously. “Yes, Aunty. Yes I have.”

“And what happened to the quartail?”

“He was naughty and he chased the Lady Syke in the sky. It was because she was so, so beautiful. And he almost caught her, and then she got angry and told her dad.” Even as a youth Metrotis had known he lacked social skills, but something in Patricius’s bearing made him pause. “Oh, I mean, the Lord Terran. And then he got really angry and he turned the quartail into a feather grass plant like we have in the garden at the –”

“So what happened to all the other quartails, boy? Have you ever seen one?” Patricius arched an eyebrow with sinister intent.

“Erm, no, Aunty.” Metrotis recalled the shame of his ignorance even now.

“I knows what happened, miss,” said big Finius, who the boys had been teasing all month because his voice had deepened.

“Well done, Master Finius! Would you care to enlighten us?”

“Well, my Papps says that they
all
got turned into grass, madam Patricius.”

“Yes, well done boy, they
all
got turned into grass, not just the naughty one. Do you know what the moral of the story is?”

Silence filled the void of the temple as the boys glanced warily at each other.
 

Big Finius shrugged lightly.
 

The only sound was Aunt Patricius’s foot tapping, in perfect, damning, rhythm on the stone floor.

She marched to stand in front of them then, hands on hips, lips tight. “I will tell you what the moral of the story is. You will not
desecrate
the holy temple again or I will make you wish you were all
grass
as well!”

The boys quivered, shrinking before her rage. But Metrotis was puzzled. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. A lesson he suspected that he would never learn. “But Aunty… how is
that
a
moral?”

Her face reddened, the veins standing out on her temples. “
Out!
”

Metrotis winced at the memory even now. He and his partners in crime had swept the temple floor every day for weeks afterwards; Aunt Patricius seemingly never satisfied that it was clean, or that their sins were cleansed.
 

Metrotis clenched and unclenched his hands; he still recalled the sting of the blisters left by the long toil of penance in the sept. He looked around what was known as the ‘yard’, but was, in fact, the first and largest quadrangle of the villa. Aunt Patricius sat in one corner. She was frail with age now, no longer the striking old woman she had been in Metrotis’s youth. Truth was she could still terrify him though. She was surrounded by children – almost a dozen of them – who sat enraptured at her feet. Metrotis guessed she was telling stories from the
Book.
Patricius’s faith was as strong as it had ever been, and she shared it with any and all who would listen. Metrotis had learnt at her feet in the very same spot fifteen years before, and was quietly proud of the fact that his exploits were largely responsible for her ongoing need to purify the youth of the town.
 

His Uncle Martius sat in the only corner of the yard that still caught some of the failing light of day. Martius was deep in conversation with the young legion father, Conlan, and old General Turbis. Metrotis had tried to involve himself in the conversation some time earlier but somehow they did not seem to notice he was there. He did not mind being left out, but he did feel at times that he had become part of the furniture. As a boy, he had dreamed that one day his uncle Martius would take him seriously, and a part of him still yearned for that acceptance.
 

Eventually, he shook off his lamentation in order to study the issue at hand.
 

Optuss stood close to the centre of the yard, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his eyes fixed on Metrotis but lifeless and dull as usual.
 

“What you think we can do?” said Wulf, a massive hand gesturing towards the silent, empty being that stood before them.
 

“I don’t know, Wulf.” Metrotis reached up, patting the Wicklander on one huge shoulder. “I was sure I’d made a breakthrough today. I swear I saw him look away towards Aunty Patricius. At least, well, he wasn’t looking at
me
anyway.”

“I tell you, little man,” Wulf grunted a reply in broken Adarnan. “Think he act. Wulf trust him not.”

“You know, there must be something we can do to get a reaction out of him,” Metrotis surmised. “I’ve tried everything, I even screamed in his face the other day. The man didn’t even
blink
. Can you believe that?”
Maybe the gods don’t blink though
.
 

Wulf stretched and yawned, raising his arms high.

Metrotis masked a wince as the acrid smell of the barbarian’s body wafted over him. He made a mental note to give the beast a lesson in bathing.
Just as soon as these damned bandages come off
, he thought, his mind consumed by a ferocious itch from the healing wound in his leg.

“Wulf have idea,” said the form within the noxious cloud of musky odour that stood next to Metrotis.

“And what, please tell me, might that be?”

Wulf shrugged his massive shoulders and flexed his biceps. “Wulf try kill Optuss. Simple. He lose he die.”

Metrotis glanced incredulously at the giant Wicklander. “
No,
Wulf, surely you’re not serious?” He had begun to enjoy his idle banter with the Wicklander. The man was smarter than he smelled and he possessed a cutting wit, albeit diluted by his poor, but rapidly improving, understanding of Adarnan.

Wulf answered with a toothy grin. “Watch me,” he said, and sprinted towards Optuss.
 

Metrotis’s mouth dropped. He had seen the man move and fight during the assassination attempt in Adarna but, somehow, during the mayhem, he had not appreciated just how swift and surefooted the giant Wicklander was. He moved like a man half his size. Metrotis's chest tightened as he struggled to shout a warning. “Wai-!” he gasped through his constricted throat.

But Wulf had already reached his target. Drawing close, he jumped high, pulling both legs up into his chest, he stretched them forward, his impetus propelling both booted feet at Optuss’s head.
 

For Metrotis, time slowed to a crawl, he felt his heart’s weedy rattle in his chest. He was vaguely aware that he had raised both arms in a vain attempt to ward off the inevitable. In the corner of his eye he saw Martius and Conlan jump up from their seats, the younger reaching to his scabbard as he did, his honed reflexes fast but not sufficient to stop the upcoming collision.
 

They were all too far away to stop it, in any case.

Before Metrotis could gather his thoughts, Wulf tumbled away from Optuss. He hit the ground awkwardly, but the great barbarian found his feet quickly. He stood and shook his head like an enraged bull.
 

Optuss did not appear to have moved.
 

With a great roar Wulf charged again, this time dodging from one foot to the next, seemingly seeking to disorientate his opponent. Optuss was not facing the charge, but at the very last moment he twitched round. He seemed to slide around Wulf whilst simultaneously pushing him in the direction he was travelling, using the barbarian’s own great weight against him. Wulf hit the hard-packed earth of the yard; a great whoosh escaped his mouth as his lungs emptied.
 

Optuss turned to face the Wicklander, his eyes unfocused but his body seemingly prepared for another attack.

 
“Wulf,
no!
” Metrotis screamed, his voice finally returning.
 

From all around the yard now people gathered around the combatants in a loose and wary circle.
 

Conlan, his sword drawn, seemed intent on breaking up the fight, but Martius laid a hand on his arm and whispered something in his ear. The young legion father nodded in response and stood stock still, tight lipped, a frown fixed to his brow.

Wulf rose quickly, but not as fast as before. He drew in huge gasps of air and winced as he did. His right hand held his rib cage. Wulf turned to Metrotis and smiled. Not a smile, Metrotis realised as he saw the huge brows furrow, a
snarl.
 

The Wicklander launched himself at Optuss again. More wary this time, he feinted with a left jab first; Optuss did not react, then Wulf swung a huge right hook. Optuss blocked the blow with a lightning fast slap of his open palm, then pushed Wulf away with both arms.
 

Wulf span though the air, hitting the floor with such force that a shockwave seemed to shake the whole yard. The barbarian’s body rolled over and over along the ground, his arms and legs flailing wildly. Finally, he came to rest; his limbs limp and unmoving, at least ten metres from his foe.

Metrotis stood transfixed in shock. Optuss turned to face him again. His eyes appeared to focus for a split second before, as if nothing had happened, he resumed his familiar, passive, pose.
 

Conlan raced across the yard and knelt by the prone form of Wulf. He heaved the Wicklander onto his back and held an ear to his mouth. “Doctore!” he shouted. “Someone get the doctore.
Now!
”