Age of Fealty: Issue 1
Forum Home > Public : Stories > Age of Fealty: Issue 1In an age of clashing swords and battling kingdoms, it is the shining knight and regal kings whom history remembers. But behind them, the grim machinery of politics and intrigue directs the flow of history. These are the stories of those who find their part in the great tapestry of fate cut short. For as great families and ordained kings rise to glory, the headsmans’ blade awaits those who fall short in their struggles. For it is often proved, when one seeks to win the throne, ones’ reach too often exceeds ones’ grasp…
The Sovereign City of Valenci, Year of the Divines 2907
Whispers passed from man to woman, from neighbour to stranger, as the crowd shuffled around the raised platform. Before them, red and black stone of the fortress-prison of Ila Trascares loomed, tall and ominous. They had been arriving for close to an hour, passers-by and foreigner joining them as the growing cluster of people drew interest. The story passed from person to person, letting all know what was to happen.
Oh, what a scandal! That Signor Mattalani would plot so, to discredit his rivals in the Parlia, why, it is beyond belief.
How terrible, and that he plotted with the Vetiri family to bring mercenaries into the city, when his plans at impeachment failed, what is the city coming to?
That is not all, the Capulares also tried to becoming involved in the coup, as if the Parlia had not honoured their family enough. Treason, it was nothing but treason!
Hanged they were, and rightly so, thus suffer all tyrants. But is this not too much? Signora Mattalani could not have known of her husbands plots, and what of Signora Capulares? Both she and her daughter will mount the scaffold today. And the maids are to die tomorrow!
Bah, they are kin to traitors, and their willing! This city did not survive nine hundred years by allowing the seed to traitors and tyrants to grow. The Vetiri women are to go with them, and good riddance I say.
Hear hear, and it’s not as if they’re going to kick and dangle like their menfolk. No, one quick swing and it’ll be over, floating in the clouds with the Seven Who Decree.
Ha, more like shrieking in the Lands Beneath while the Five Accursed have their sport!
These, and a hundred other comments flitted amongst the crowd.
The gates of the prison opened wide on squeaking hinges, and the crowd held their breath. As five female figures in rich fabric were marched out into the light, escorted by a dozen of the City Guard in mail and tabard, the jeers began.
-/-
As the guards escorted her forward, Signora Andrea Vetiri felt tears pricking her eyes. How could it have come to this? Her husband and his brother had been two of the most influential figures within the Parlia, the ruling council of Valenci. Their power had only been curtailed by the doddering old men of the conservative elements, and the traditional view of any ambitious family as budding tyrants. It had been a good match for her, but now she, her sister-in-law, and the ladies of two other august families were to be put to death for such associations. Behind her, Signora Constanza Capulares comforted her weeping young daughter Julita as best she could, given that both of their hands were tied in front of them.
They emerged into the bright sunlight, making Andrea squint. At her side, her sister-in-law Maria Vetiri did the same. The women walking in front of them, Signora Violeta Mattalani, stumbled slightly, her head shaking. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, watching the other woman’s haughty bearing break. Then, her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she saw what had truly made Signora Mattalani flinch. Ten paces in front of them, surrounded by the jeering crowd, the scaffold rose six feet above them. A man in the robes of a city magistrate stood atop it, but that was not what mattered. Even at this angle, Andrea could see the rounded shape of the block. The very block upon which their heads were to be struck off. Tearing her eyes away from the terrible sight, Andrea looked around, desperate for some sign of hope. She found none. Of the crowd seething around the scaffold, not one seemed distraught or resolved to protect them. Looking behind her, Andrea could see men with crossbows patrolling the battlements of Ila Trascares, their eyes searching the crowd. Clearly, the Parlia had no intention of allowing any rescue attempts.
A sound to her left drew her attention. As their escort came to a halt and split in half, six guards moving to surround the scaffold, a further four approached in the company of two men, one in black, the other in white. The man in white wore the robes of The Anointed, priests of the Divines, but it was the black-cloaked figure who drew her immediate attention. A great, two-handed sword was gripped in his hands, pointing up towards the sky, while a black hood obscured his face. The executioner. A strangled sob came from behind her, and Andrea turned to see Julita practically collapse to her knees, her mother barely managing to hold on to her right arm. The young woman wore a high-waisted gown of deep green with padded and slashed sleeves, her dark hair protruding in a braid from a sort of cap.
The two men mounted the scaffold, taking up positions on either side of the block. Two of the soldiers went up with them, standing to either side of the steps. The official standing right at the front unrolled the parchment he grasped, and began to speak. Andrea refused to listen. The words were all lies, deriding her husband for his ambition and accusing him of aspiring to tyranny. Ridiculous. It was the small-minded oafs of the Parlia who refused to acknowledge his brilliance. But these shallow, vulgar peasants would never understand that. No, all they would do is cheer and rage as their betters commanded them. Her husband had always said that the ‘Will of the People’ held too much sway over the Parlias’ decisions. As the magistrate finished his speech, the crowd roared their approval of this terrible injustice. He read off the first name to forfeit her head.
“Signora Violeta Mattalani, for foul and perverse treason.”
The thirty-something woman, clad in a high-waisted blue gown and with brown hair in the long ringlets currently fashionable, was seized by two of the guards and dragged forward to the steps of the scaffold. Andrea looked on, fear spiking through her heart. Signora Mattalani was forced to climb slowly by her skirts catching on the steps. While having her hands bound in front allowed her to lift them, progress was still slow.
Eventually, the woman reached the top, and Andrea felt her heart quail at the thought that, soon, she too would mount the scaffold. Beside her, her sister-in-law Maria and young Julita Capulares both whimpered.
-/-
The seething mass of commoners and city-folk watched as the noblewoman came into view. A rather plain-faced woman, but wearing fine cloth worth enough gold to feed a family for a month, she was everything they expected the wife of a would-be tyrant to look like. Several of the rougher men started call out.
“Show us ‘er tits!”
“Come on, ‘how us some leg!”
The tall lady remained imperious, instead lifting her skirts slightly and turning to kneel before the Anointed with her head bowed. Over the jeers of the crowd, the condemmed lady received her final blessing, wishing her eternal peace in the hereafter. Rising to her feet, Signora Mattalani approached the block, prodded forward by one of the guards.
As the assembled men and women watched, she knelt before the upraised log that formed the headsman’s block. Too wide across for her to lay her head down comfortably, there was no notch or indentation in which the lady could place her chin. Instead, Violeta Mattalani laid her entire chest across the bare wood of the block, leaving her chin hanging just over the edge. Even so, she could see the rounded wicker basket just on the other side of the block. Her hands, still bound by rope, remained on the other side of the block, fingers clasped together in prayer. The executioner lifted his sword. A long, two-handed thing, the blade as wide as three fingers at the narrowest point and ending in a blunt, rounded curve. The headsman raised it up and over his head, until it was practically pointing at the wood of the scaffold. The crowd held its breath. Then suddenly, the sword came flashing down in a great gleaming arc.
The blade thudded into the wood of the block barely two inches from the edge, cleaving through meat and bone as it did. Blood sprayed, and Signora Mattalani’s head tumbled down in a whirl of brown hair and crimson fluid. It landed in the basket with a dull thump as the headless torso, blood still leaking from the stump of the neck, twitched. As the movement ceased, the crowd cheered, glad to see a traitor to the city perish. The two guards stepped forward and took hold of the corpse, dragging it away to the side of the scaffold, where it was wrapped in a sheet by a handful of men in the white robes of the lay clergy. The executioner gazed down into the basket at his work. Signora Mattalani’s lips were firmly pressed together, her eyes closed. Wiping the block down with a cloth, the executioner quickly cleaned his sword, before preparing for the next prisoner to mount the scaffold.
The Sovereign City of Valenci, Year of the Divines 2907
Whispers passed from man to woman, from neighbour to stranger, as the crowd shuffled around the raised platform. Before them, red and black stone of the fortress-prison of Ila Trascares loomed, tall and ominous. They had been arriving for close to an hour, passers-by and foreigner joining them as the growing cluster of people drew interest. The story passed from person to person, letting all know what was to happen.
Oh, what a scandal! That Signor Mattalani would plot so, to discredit his rivals in the Parlia, why, it is beyond belief.
How terrible, and that he plotted with the Vetiri family to bring mercenaries into the city, when his plans at impeachment failed, what is the city coming to?
That is not all, the Capulares also tried to becoming involved in the coup, as if the Parlia had not honoured their family enough. Treason, it was nothing but treason!
Hanged they were, and rightly so, thus suffer all tyrants. But is this not too much? Signora Mattalani could not have known of her husbands plots, and what of Signora Capulares? Both she and her daughter will mount the scaffold today. And the maids are to die tomorrow!
Bah, they are kin to traitors, and their willing! This city did not survive nine hundred years by allowing the seed to traitors and tyrants to grow. The Vetiri women are to go with them, and good riddance I say.
Hear hear, and it’s not as if they’re going to kick and dangle like their menfolk. No, one quick swing and it’ll be over, floating in the clouds with the Seven Who Decree.
Ha, more like shrieking in the Lands Beneath while the Five Accursed have their sport!
These, and a hundred other comments flitted amongst the crowd.
The gates of the prison opened wide on squeaking hinges, and the crowd held their breath. As five female figures in rich fabric were marched out into the light, escorted by a dozen of the City Guard in mail and tabard, the jeers began.
-/-
As the guards escorted her forward, Signora Andrea Vetiri felt tears pricking her eyes. How could it have come to this? Her husband and his brother had been two of the most influential figures within the Parlia, the ruling council of Valenci. Their power had only been curtailed by the doddering old men of the conservative elements, and the traditional view of any ambitious family as budding tyrants. It had been a good match for her, but now she, her sister-in-law, and the ladies of two other august families were to be put to death for such associations. Behind her, Signora Constanza Capulares comforted her weeping young daughter Julita as best she could, given that both of their hands were tied in front of them.
They emerged into the bright sunlight, making Andrea squint. At her side, her sister-in-law Maria Vetiri did the same. The women walking in front of them, Signora Violeta Mattalani, stumbled slightly, her head shaking. It nearly brought a smile to her lips, watching the other woman’s haughty bearing break. Then, her eyes adjusted to the brightness, and she saw what had truly made Signora Mattalani flinch. Ten paces in front of them, surrounded by the jeering crowd, the scaffold rose six feet above them. A man in the robes of a city magistrate stood atop it, but that was not what mattered. Even at this angle, Andrea could see the rounded shape of the block. The very block upon which their heads were to be struck off. Tearing her eyes away from the terrible sight, Andrea looked around, desperate for some sign of hope. She found none. Of the crowd seething around the scaffold, not one seemed distraught or resolved to protect them. Looking behind her, Andrea could see men with crossbows patrolling the battlements of Ila Trascares, their eyes searching the crowd. Clearly, the Parlia had no intention of allowing any rescue attempts.
A sound to her left drew her attention. As their escort came to a halt and split in half, six guards moving to surround the scaffold, a further four approached in the company of two men, one in black, the other in white. The man in white wore the robes of The Anointed, priests of the Divines, but it was the black-cloaked figure who drew her immediate attention. A great, two-handed sword was gripped in his hands, pointing up towards the sky, while a black hood obscured his face. The executioner. A strangled sob came from behind her, and Andrea turned to see Julita practically collapse to her knees, her mother barely managing to hold on to her right arm. The young woman wore a high-waisted gown of deep green with padded and slashed sleeves, her dark hair protruding in a braid from a sort of cap.
The two men mounted the scaffold, taking up positions on either side of the block. Two of the soldiers went up with them, standing to either side of the steps. The official standing right at the front unrolled the parchment he grasped, and began to speak. Andrea refused to listen. The words were all lies, deriding her husband for his ambition and accusing him of aspiring to tyranny. Ridiculous. It was the small-minded oafs of the Parlia who refused to acknowledge his brilliance. But these shallow, vulgar peasants would never understand that. No, all they would do is cheer and rage as their betters commanded them. Her husband had always said that the ‘Will of the People’ held too much sway over the Parlias’ decisions. As the magistrate finished his speech, the crowd roared their approval of this terrible injustice. He read off the first name to forfeit her head.
“Signora Violeta Mattalani, for foul and perverse treason.”
The thirty-something woman, clad in a high-waisted blue gown and with brown hair in the long ringlets currently fashionable, was seized by two of the guards and dragged forward to the steps of the scaffold. Andrea looked on, fear spiking through her heart. Signora Mattalani was forced to climb slowly by her skirts catching on the steps. While having her hands bound in front allowed her to lift them, progress was still slow.
Eventually, the woman reached the top, and Andrea felt her heart quail at the thought that, soon, she too would mount the scaffold. Beside her, her sister-in-law Maria and young Julita Capulares both whimpered.
-/-
The seething mass of commoners and city-folk watched as the noblewoman came into view. A rather plain-faced woman, but wearing fine cloth worth enough gold to feed a family for a month, she was everything they expected the wife of a would-be tyrant to look like. Several of the rougher men started call out.
“Show us ‘er tits!”
“Come on, ‘how us some leg!”
The tall lady remained imperious, instead lifting her skirts slightly and turning to kneel before the Anointed with her head bowed. Over the jeers of the crowd, the condemmed lady received her final blessing, wishing her eternal peace in the hereafter. Rising to her feet, Signora Mattalani approached the block, prodded forward by one of the guards.
As the assembled men and women watched, she knelt before the upraised log that formed the headsman’s block. Too wide across for her to lay her head down comfortably, there was no notch or indentation in which the lady could place her chin. Instead, Violeta Mattalani laid her entire chest across the bare wood of the block, leaving her chin hanging just over the edge. Even so, she could see the rounded wicker basket just on the other side of the block. Her hands, still bound by rope, remained on the other side of the block, fingers clasped together in prayer. The executioner lifted his sword. A long, two-handed thing, the blade as wide as three fingers at the narrowest point and ending in a blunt, rounded curve. The headsman raised it up and over his head, until it was practically pointing at the wood of the scaffold. The crowd held its breath. Then suddenly, the sword came flashing down in a great gleaming arc.
The blade thudded into the wood of the block barely two inches from the edge, cleaving through meat and bone as it did. Blood sprayed, and Signora Mattalani’s head tumbled down in a whirl of brown hair and crimson fluid. It landed in the basket with a dull thump as the headless torso, blood still leaking from the stump of the neck, twitched. As the movement ceased, the crowd cheered, glad to see a traitor to the city perish. The two guards stepped forward and took hold of the corpse, dragging it away to the side of the scaffold, where it was wrapped in a sheet by a handful of men in the white robes of the lay clergy. The executioner gazed down into the basket at his work. Signora Mattalani’s lips were firmly pressed together, her eyes closed. Wiping the block down with a cloth, the executioner quickly cleaned his sword, before preparing for the next prisoner to mount the scaffold.
Part 2
As the shrouded corpse was carried away, the guards stepped forward once again to take hold of the next prisoner. Andrea felt her heart clench. Is it me, am I the next to be butchered like an animal? The magistrate held out a hand for silence, halting the jeering of the crowd. His eyes returning to his list, he called out the next name.
“Julita Capulares, for offering aid unto the enemies of the city, and treasonous associations.”
The young woman shrieked as the mail-clad guards took hold of her arms. As Andrea looked on his horror, the pleading Julita was dragged to the scaffold. She struggled the entire way, begging, and calling out ‘Mama! Mama!” at the weeping Signora Capulares. Under any other circumstances, Andrea would have been disgusted at such undignified conduct on the scaffold, but in this case, it was justified. Julita Capulares was guilty of nothing but being the daughter of an overly ambitious man, and supposedly attempting to entice some of the younger noblemen into supporting the plot. Andrea knew that no such attempts had been made, at least in her husband’s own plan. Such accusations were the slander of peasants, nothing more.
As the green-clad girl was forced up the steps of the scaffold, she continued to wail and thrash, her dark braid whipping about like a snake. The Anointed held out his hand to give the last blessing, but the wailing young woman would not keep still. As Andrea looked on, she begged for mercy, refusing to kneel. Eventually, the magistrate waved his hand, and the two guards trying to restrain her tightened their grip, and hauled her roughly to the block. Andrea forced herself to look away. She did not wish to see this.
The wailing of both mother and daughter were bad enough.
-/-
The jeering of the crowd began again, as the thrashing Julita came into view. Said struggles stopped as the girl’s eyes went wide. The executioner had cleaned his sword, but the wood of the block and surrounding scaffold were still splattered with the blood of Signora Mattalani. An instant latter, the girl was struggling once more, pleading with the guards to release her, the executioner to spare her, the magistrate to pardon her. All fell on deaf ears, as the guards forced her down. With a great shove, they pressed their prisoner down onto the block, placing her directly across it with her shoulders just past the lip of the block. The wailing girl was too short to rest her neck on the block as Signora Mattalani had done, her knees unable to reach the scaffold floor, leaving her legs to kick impotently. Her bound arms pinned underneath her, Julita Capulares found herself looking directly over the edge of the bloodstained wood and down into the waiting basket. She immediately started trembling, tears running down her face. Amidst the crowd, townsfolk realised, some with humour and others with horror, that the executioner had not emptied the basket after beheading Signora Mattalani. The wailing noblewoman before them was gazing down at the pale face with its’ bloody brown ringlets, knowing that soon her own head would rest atop it.
Once more, the great sword rose into the air. A handful of the more soft-hearted of the crowd felt a twinge of sadness as the young Julita whimpered in fear. A moment as the blade hung in the air, an intake of breath from the watching crowd, and the executioner swung his weapon. Blood spurted as the sword sliced through Julita’s neck in an instant, the head plummeting into the basket as the long braid trailed behind like a tail. Unlike Signora Mattalani’s death, the blade continued past the block, as rivulets of blood streamed down the already crimson-stained wood. The crowd let out their collective breath, as once more the headless corpse was removed by the guards. Cheers sounded out, celebrating the death of another traitor. Another hurried wiping of the block and sword, and the magistrate was calling out the next name.
-/-
As the poor girls’ body was turned over to the lay clergymen, Andrea felt her heart clench. The upper quarter of the dark green gown was drenched in blood, some of the crimson fluid straining the robes of the priests as the wrapped the little corpse in a sheet and carried it away. She turned her eyes back to the scaffold as the magistrate raised his scroll once more. This was the worst part of the horror. Waiting for her name to be called, not knowing how much longer she had to wait, or how much longer to live. The magistrate cleared his throat, signalled for the crowd to cease cheering, and proclaimed the next of them to lose their head.
“Signora Constanza Capulares, for foul and perverse treason, and plotting to usurp the Parlia.”
The crowd resumed jeering and shouting abuse as the guards strode forward to seize the condemned woman. Signora Capulares was clad in a gown of red and burgundy, her dark hair arranged int a mass of ringlets and curls the spilled down the back of her neck. A woman of forty years or so, she walked to the scaffold without resistance, the guards’ hands gently resting on her shoulders. Andrea could see that she kept her head bowed, as if her will were utterly broken. It was hardly surprising, Signora Capulares had just seen her daughter beheaded before a jeering crowd. Andrea was honestly surprised that the noblewoman could stand upright.
One last shove by one of the guards, and Signora Capulares lifted her skirts and began to climb the steps. Upon reaching the top and stepping forward onto the platform, she turned the Anointed and collapsed to her knees. The priest mumbled his blessing, hurriedly waving his hands above the noblewoman’s head, speaking so quietly and so fast that Andrea could not catch what he was saying. Then, at last, the guards marched her forward to the block.
-/-
As Signora Capulares knelt before the reddened wood, the crowd continued shouting their abuse at her. All knew from the gossip of the last few weeks that she and her husband had sought to corrupt officers of the City Guard and lure younger noblemen into supporting their usurpation of the Parlia’s power.
They would have butchered the men of the Parlia within the great council chamber itself, and hanged their households, and put the wives and little children under the headsman’s sword, and fed the bodies to the dogs, and mounted the heads on spikes, everyone said so!
As the crowd roared insults at her, calling her a slattern and traitors’ whore, Signora Capulares laid her body down upon the block. As with Signora Mattalani, she was tall enough to lie across the block while kneeling, though not quite enough to reach her head over the lip of the blood-stained wood, which was level with her nose. Instead, she rested her head at an angle, looking away from the executioner, who even now was raising his sword. Some in the crowd noticed her moving, as if trying to give the headsman the cleanest blow she could.
It was as the blade was about to fall that Signora Capulares’ composure broke. As she tilted her head, she got her first view of the waiting basket out of the corner of her eye. There, directly beneath her, was the head of her daughter. Julita’s mouth was wide open, her eyes bulging in their sockets. Constanza Capulares screwed her eyes closed at the sight, and issued a piercing scream of horror…
Which was instantly cut off in a gurgling hiss as the sword struck home. As he had done previously with Signora Mattanai, the executioner bent slightly at the waist and held his blade straight, ensuring that it struck straight on rather than at an angle. The head of Constanza Capulares dropped as yet more blood jetted from the truncated corpse to stain the scaffold. The eyes were still shut tight, jaws slack and open. Again, the blade was wiped clean.
The crowd continued jeering. Across the square, the cry went up.
Thus perish all tyrants and usurpers!
-/-
Turning her eyes from the scaffold, Andrea glimpsed something in the distance. To the right of the scaffold, a group of men were assembling a platform. Small, not enough room for many men to stand. It was when she saw the long poles ending in iron points that the men were setting upright across the front that she realised what it was.
The gibbet, the pike-lined construction upon which their heads would be mounted.
Andrea quickly counted the number of poles, both those already in place and those lying in a bundle on the ground. There were too many for just her and the other ladies here…
As the shrouded corpse was carried away, the guards stepped forward once again to take hold of the next prisoner. Andrea felt her heart clench. Is it me, am I the next to be butchered like an animal? The magistrate held out a hand for silence, halting the jeering of the crowd. His eyes returning to his list, he called out the next name.
“Julita Capulares, for offering aid unto the enemies of the city, and treasonous associations.”
The young woman shrieked as the mail-clad guards took hold of her arms. As Andrea looked on his horror, the pleading Julita was dragged to the scaffold. She struggled the entire way, begging, and calling out ‘Mama! Mama!” at the weeping Signora Capulares. Under any other circumstances, Andrea would have been disgusted at such undignified conduct on the scaffold, but in this case, it was justified. Julita Capulares was guilty of nothing but being the daughter of an overly ambitious man, and supposedly attempting to entice some of the younger noblemen into supporting the plot. Andrea knew that no such attempts had been made, at least in her husband’s own plan. Such accusations were the slander of peasants, nothing more.
As the green-clad girl was forced up the steps of the scaffold, she continued to wail and thrash, her dark braid whipping about like a snake. The Anointed held out his hand to give the last blessing, but the wailing young woman would not keep still. As Andrea looked on, she begged for mercy, refusing to kneel. Eventually, the magistrate waved his hand, and the two guards trying to restrain her tightened their grip, and hauled her roughly to the block. Andrea forced herself to look away. She did not wish to see this.
The wailing of both mother and daughter were bad enough.
-/-
The jeering of the crowd began again, as the thrashing Julita came into view. Said struggles stopped as the girl’s eyes went wide. The executioner had cleaned his sword, but the wood of the block and surrounding scaffold were still splattered with the blood of Signora Mattalani. An instant latter, the girl was struggling once more, pleading with the guards to release her, the executioner to spare her, the magistrate to pardon her. All fell on deaf ears, as the guards forced her down. With a great shove, they pressed their prisoner down onto the block, placing her directly across it with her shoulders just past the lip of the block. The wailing girl was too short to rest her neck on the block as Signora Mattalani had done, her knees unable to reach the scaffold floor, leaving her legs to kick impotently. Her bound arms pinned underneath her, Julita Capulares found herself looking directly over the edge of the bloodstained wood and down into the waiting basket. She immediately started trembling, tears running down her face. Amidst the crowd, townsfolk realised, some with humour and others with horror, that the executioner had not emptied the basket after beheading Signora Mattalani. The wailing noblewoman before them was gazing down at the pale face with its’ bloody brown ringlets, knowing that soon her own head would rest atop it.
Once more, the great sword rose into the air. A handful of the more soft-hearted of the crowd felt a twinge of sadness as the young Julita whimpered in fear. A moment as the blade hung in the air, an intake of breath from the watching crowd, and the executioner swung his weapon. Blood spurted as the sword sliced through Julita’s neck in an instant, the head plummeting into the basket as the long braid trailed behind like a tail. Unlike Signora Mattalani’s death, the blade continued past the block, as rivulets of blood streamed down the already crimson-stained wood. The crowd let out their collective breath, as once more the headless corpse was removed by the guards. Cheers sounded out, celebrating the death of another traitor. Another hurried wiping of the block and sword, and the magistrate was calling out the next name.
-/-
As the poor girls’ body was turned over to the lay clergymen, Andrea felt her heart clench. The upper quarter of the dark green gown was drenched in blood, some of the crimson fluid straining the robes of the priests as the wrapped the little corpse in a sheet and carried it away. She turned her eyes back to the scaffold as the magistrate raised his scroll once more. This was the worst part of the horror. Waiting for her name to be called, not knowing how much longer she had to wait, or how much longer to live. The magistrate cleared his throat, signalled for the crowd to cease cheering, and proclaimed the next of them to lose their head.
“Signora Constanza Capulares, for foul and perverse treason, and plotting to usurp the Parlia.”
The crowd resumed jeering and shouting abuse as the guards strode forward to seize the condemned woman. Signora Capulares was clad in a gown of red and burgundy, her dark hair arranged int a mass of ringlets and curls the spilled down the back of her neck. A woman of forty years or so, she walked to the scaffold without resistance, the guards’ hands gently resting on her shoulders. Andrea could see that she kept her head bowed, as if her will were utterly broken. It was hardly surprising, Signora Capulares had just seen her daughter beheaded before a jeering crowd. Andrea was honestly surprised that the noblewoman could stand upright.
One last shove by one of the guards, and Signora Capulares lifted her skirts and began to climb the steps. Upon reaching the top and stepping forward onto the platform, she turned the Anointed and collapsed to her knees. The priest mumbled his blessing, hurriedly waving his hands above the noblewoman’s head, speaking so quietly and so fast that Andrea could not catch what he was saying. Then, at last, the guards marched her forward to the block.
-/-
As Signora Capulares knelt before the reddened wood, the crowd continued shouting their abuse at her. All knew from the gossip of the last few weeks that she and her husband had sought to corrupt officers of the City Guard and lure younger noblemen into supporting their usurpation of the Parlia’s power.
They would have butchered the men of the Parlia within the great council chamber itself, and hanged their households, and put the wives and little children under the headsman’s sword, and fed the bodies to the dogs, and mounted the heads on spikes, everyone said so!
As the crowd roared insults at her, calling her a slattern and traitors’ whore, Signora Capulares laid her body down upon the block. As with Signora Mattalani, she was tall enough to lie across the block while kneeling, though not quite enough to reach her head over the lip of the blood-stained wood, which was level with her nose. Instead, she rested her head at an angle, looking away from the executioner, who even now was raising his sword. Some in the crowd noticed her moving, as if trying to give the headsman the cleanest blow she could.
It was as the blade was about to fall that Signora Capulares’ composure broke. As she tilted her head, she got her first view of the waiting basket out of the corner of her eye. There, directly beneath her, was the head of her daughter. Julita’s mouth was wide open, her eyes bulging in their sockets. Constanza Capulares screwed her eyes closed at the sight, and issued a piercing scream of horror…
Which was instantly cut off in a gurgling hiss as the sword struck home. As he had done previously with Signora Mattanai, the executioner bent slightly at the waist and held his blade straight, ensuring that it struck straight on rather than at an angle. The head of Constanza Capulares dropped as yet more blood jetted from the truncated corpse to stain the scaffold. The eyes were still shut tight, jaws slack and open. Again, the blade was wiped clean.
The crowd continued jeering. Across the square, the cry went up.
Thus perish all tyrants and usurpers!
-/-
Turning her eyes from the scaffold, Andrea glimpsed something in the distance. To the right of the scaffold, a group of men were assembling a platform. Small, not enough room for many men to stand. It was when she saw the long poles ending in iron points that the men were setting upright across the front that she realised what it was.
The gibbet, the pike-lined construction upon which their heads would be mounted.
Andrea quickly counted the number of poles, both those already in place and those lying in a bundle on the ground. There were too many for just her and the other ladies here…
Hello all. Sorry for the delay, laptop crashed and basically had to start over.
Once this story is finished, what should I do next? More Times of Bronze and Stone, more Of Treason and Kings, Days of Revolution, or the 2nd Issue of this story?
And, of course, I have ideas for a story set in not-Ancient Egypt and definitely-not-Imperial Rome...
Once this story is finished, what should I do next? More Times of Bronze and Stone, more Of Treason and Kings, Days of Revolution, or the 2nd Issue of this story?
And, of course, I have ideas for a story set in not-Ancient Egypt and definitely-not-Imperial Rome...
Forum > Public / Stories > Age of Fealty: Issue 1