The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  The only sound to be heard came from the few legion horses as they shifted in their pens, huddled together for warmth. Panting softly in the cold, the breath of these great mounts instantly fogged in the winter air.

  The figures hurried past, attention fixed purely on their destination. From all over camp, one by one they converged in the central laneway.

  Corvinus had called his war council.

  Safe in the middle of camp, surrounded by those of his legionnaires, the general’s quarters was the largest tent. A solid structure of timber frame and hardy leather, its walls could withstand the fiercest of storms. Despite the fact the legions had marched light in order to maintain a swift pace against the Evastii, the interior of the headquarters was quite lavish compared to the straw beds of the other tents.

  Great furs carpeted the floor while above them hung a great crimson banner with the sword-and-wreath symbol of Arcem woven in gold thread. Hot coals smouldered in the corners of the great tent, warming the chamber from the frosty night air. Corvinus found a sense of guilt creep upon him more than once that evening at the thought of the legionnaires camping on the cold ground. He did not keep it so as a matter of vanity or weakness to require such comforts. Rather, if he was to be recognised as a general of Arcem, he had decided it best to have the quarters of one. They were after all, no richer than any other general’s he had known, except of course Fulvio’s.

  The tribune had managed to bring close to two dozen of his house slaves on the march to cater for his excessive needs. Obviously the single legion slave provided for each officer on campaign was not enough and so a small mule train had followed in the wake of the legion’s march, carrying comforts like silk pillows and feather stuffed mattresses along with the tribune’s personal effects. Whether it was just another ploy for Fulvio to compete against the young general or if the tribune was naturally that spoilt Corvinus could not tell. In the end he did not really care. He was in command and it would stay that way so long as he did not fail – which by the gods he swore would not happen.

  One by one, the officers and senior legion staff assembled. Greeted by the pleasant warmth inside, legion servants received them as they shrugged off the snow from their coats.

  Only the most senior officials had been summoned and most had arrived on time, though Corvinus still contemplated whether to attribute this to their eagerness to show loyalty and respect for their young new commander, or simply their desire to escape the mountain chill.

  They all stood, for there were no chairs to be found – such was their encumbrance to transport on a march – and gathered around a small table, the handiwork of the legion carpenters that afternoon.

  Strewn across its surface was a series of local maps, with the occasional scout report scribbled on their edges, detailing potential avenues of approach and likely obstacles of the land. Many of the legion staff were already busy examining the maps; Corvinus noted Hector Valko amongst them. The First Centurion was pointing out some tactical insight to Camp Prefect Castus and other centurions nearby.

  Besides Xaphia stalking unseen in the shadows, the First Centurion had been the first to attend that night and Corvinus knew his loyalty was the most genuine of those gathered. Unlike many, Valko had showed no hint of discontent at following a man ten years his junior.

  But as a career soldier, the First Centurion did not enjoy the company of the senators and aristocrats that often comprised such war councils. Corvinus noted and somewhat shared the man’s frustration in having to deal with some of the less talented military minds of Monarx. Even in the relatively small confines of the command tent, Valko kept a more than courteous distance from one such person in particular – the wealthy aristocrat of House Furii.

  On the other side of the table, Tribune Bantius was busy in conversation with some of the younger centurions from the legion. From what Corvinus could make out, it sounded as if the man was trying to impress upon them the lineage of his family.

  As much as Corvinus privately despised Bantius, he vowed not to jump to any hasty conclusions and to at least give him a chance to prove he was capable of command in the field – hopefully in a way that would not be detrimental to the war. He needed things to work between them, because either way Corvinus would be stuck with Bantius as his military tribune for the next two years.

  Corvinus sighed, wondering if it would not be better if some unfortunate fate befell the tribune during the upcoming battle – a frontline command perhaps? It would be all too easy to delay his requests for reinforcements; it was a common occurrence in the chaos of battle, runners could get lost on the field, orders misunderstood. War was a messy thing and it was always the amateurs who died first. But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than Corvinus dismissed it.

  He could not do such a thing so needlessly. Though the time may well come for the tribune to be dealt with, Corvinus figured he had until the end of the campaign – a month at the least – to determine where the tribune’s loyalty would lie, come civil war.

  Though the position of military tribune was more of a political role in the army, a way for the Senate to keep its eyes on legion commanders and ensure its laws were upheld, rarely would they be stoic as the Praetorians in the face of promised power. Judging by the man’s obsessive need to be seen as aristocratic, Corvinus suspected Bantius could be swayed to their side in the impending takeover, if he could be convinced of the possibility of a rising status.

  As he waited for the last guests to arrive, Corvinus gazed across the room and considered who else may become enemies in the coming months. Many of the junior centurions would simply follow their superiors, still too young and engrained with fear of their senior commanders to question their orders. The legionnaires would be much the same. As a man who shares in their hardships, their first allegiances lay with famous generals like his father. So long as there were spoils enough to seal the deal, they would fight. Dictator, Consul, Senate, the leadership in Monarx would mean little to the lower class troops or their families, their rural lives would go on largely unchanged.

  It was the senior legion figures that were vital for success. They were the ones to be affected, with their ambitions and wealth. They had the military authority and if negotiated correctly – the incentive to use it.

  Corvinus looked around.

  Prefect Castus he could count on. An old friend of his father, Corvinus had known the man for over a decade and still had childhood memories of the two as lowly centurions in their prime. Castus could be trusted, his brotherhood and service had earned him that much.

  The Camp Prefect suddenly looked up, as if sensing the young general’s scrutiny, catching his gaze. He smiled and nodded to Corvinus before looking back down to study the charts on the table before him.

  Corvinus considered the First Centurion next to Castus. He too shared a history of faithful service to the now Consul Valerius. Valko worked his way up the ranks of the Fourth Legion for many years until agreeing to the position of First Centurion when the Third Legion was formed. He had personally overseen the training of all the recruits and had beaten them into shape. Corvinus was thankful for the man’s martial skill and believed he too would follow the Valerii in the civil war once he learnt the cause. A true son of Ultor, stoic and staunchly loyal to his fellow comrades, Valko was surely trustworthy.

  All in all, there were not many Corvinus feared would be problematic in their allegiances; he did notice however two particular faces were not present. It was no surprise that Tribune Fulvio and First Centurion Kaeso were the only ones yet to arrive and it made Corvinus seethe inside.

  But it did raise the question. Can they be trusted when the time comes?

  It was hard to tell. Kaeso, the animal he was, could be persuaded simply by the promise of bloodshed and the chance to vent his notorious rage. He would paint the marble steps of the Senate house red just for the sport of it, if he was allowed. As much of a liability as he could be, Corvinus was sure Kaeso would fight for them. If it wer
e not for the legion, the man would likely be some gang lord in the slums of Monarx – or a dead one at least. He was lower class through and through and would not side against his general in support of the upper aristocrats and the Senate; on that much they could depend. Though he would have to be kept on a short leash if he was to be of use.

  The tribune however, was harder to gauge. A man of wealth and ambition, Fulvio would follow the consul’s coup only if it was in his interests to do so. Unlike Bantius, the Tribune of the Fourth Legion would require an incentive of much greater magnitude to whet his expensive appetite. Corvinus had already discussed as much with his father and decided to promise Fulvio the consulship for his loyalty – begrudging as it may be at the moment. He would not refuse such generous terms or the chance of promotion.

  Corvinus’ thoughts were interrupted as these last two guests arrived. Loud and unapologetic, the giant armoured figure of First Centurion Kaeso pushed his broad frame through the entrance flaps of the command tent, flakes of snow blowing in with him as the wind outside began to howl. Enjoying the warmth inside, he let out a raucous sigh and threw off his heavy cloak, letting it fall to the ground for the servants to collect.

  The First Centurion saw Corvinus across the table and struck a closed fist against his breastplate in salute, before moving out of the doorway for his companion.

  Following behind came the noble face of Gnaeus Tarquinius Fulvio. Wearing a smug grin, the tribune knew he had kept the war council waiting.

  He entered and marched straight over to the table, taking a place opposite Corvinus at the far end of the table, as if to make it the new head.

  ‘Right gentlemen, shall we begin?’ Tribune Fulvio began. Had Corvinus not held such volatile authority, he would have had Fulvio punished just for his tardiness. But he managed to hide his annoyance behind a civilised pretence.

  ‘I was just thinking that, given the time, Tribune,’ Corvinus replied as the other council staff joined them around the table.

  ‘Every hour the Evastii spend on Arcemite soil is an insult,’ Fulvio continued, ignoring the young general’s comment. ‘We need action.’

  A few heads nodded their agreement at this.

  ‘What do you propose?’ asked Bantius. ‘The legions of General Horatius cannot be more than a few days out.’

  ‘With our allies yet to arrive we must commit as if they were not coming, for we cannot allow the enemy any more time to fortify their position. Tomorrow at first light we shall put the barbarian to steel,’ said Fulvio. The tribune ruffled through a few maps on the table without paying them too much consideration. ‘Given the nature of the terrain we face, our traditional staggered cohort formation will be adequate.’

  ‘I would support such an action,’ announced Kaeso loudly and was joined by a murmur from the other Fourth Legion centurions. Bantius too was among the voices of agreement.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I believe General Corvinus to be in command,’ said Valko. The Third Legion’s First Centurion was met with the bitter stares of Fulvio and Kaeso. Valko did not flinch. ‘What’s more, I do not agree with such a line of attack. The Evastii have chosen this ground well and like a cornered beast, they will fight all the harder, we cannot expect them to break from a single clash.’

  ‘Your lack of faith in the might of Arcem grieves me, First Centurion,’ said Fulvio snidely. ‘The barbarians have fled from our legions here to the mountains and now they are trapped, tomorrow we need only show them the weakness of their ways. Even the gods have said as much, Master Augur tell them.’

  All eyes turned to the legion priest as he pushed his way through the junior staff to stand before the tribune. As seers of the divine mysteries, augurs could interpret the future and guide Arcem’s armies accordingly. No legion went to war without consulting one. The priest took a place at the table, his features shrouded by the dark purple hood of his robes.

  ‘I examined the liver of a beast this day and can say Almighty Taranis watches over us. The signs all confirmed a great triumph is due for us on the morrow,’ said the priest with a smile.

  A cheer went up through the ranks, as junior centurions from both legions went about congratulating each other as if they had already won.

  ‘Master Augur, you are certain of this?’ Corvinus asked, interrupting the banter.

  ‘Never have I been surer of a portent, the signs were unmistakable,’ said the priest. ‘Victory will be ours.’

  More cheers passed through those assembled.

  Corvinus nodded, obliged to accept the man’s message. He turned to address Fulvio, whose smirk had grown ear to ear. The tribune was evidently pleased at things.

  ‘Well I cannot argue with the gods now, can I? Being your design I suppose is it only proper that you lead this action Tribune,’ Corvinus said to the surprise of all those present. A fleeting look of surprise crossed Fulvio’s face, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. The man had come expecting to fight for such a position, but now it had been handed to him without struggle, he had to think on his feet.

  ‘How good of you to say so,’ said Fulvio.

  ‘Just tell me, where in this plan you would have the Third Legion?’ asked Corvinus. ‘I propose some sort of flanking manoeuvre. If we can coordinate both legions to-’

  ‘Your suggestion is noted,’ said Fulvio, a wicked smile returning to his features. ‘However I understand your... legion to be largely undermanned and unproven in the field for such a task. If you wish to take part, I think it would be best you assume your usual position as reserves.’

  The room froze, all stood in deadly silence waiting to see how the young general would respond to such a slight after relinquishing his advantage. In the corner of his vision Corvinus saw a crestfallen Bantius sag in his armour, his hopes of glory crushed by the prospects of the rearguard.

  From his right, Corvinus felt the icy stare of Valko bore into him. Demanding retribution for such dishonour, the First Centurion’s eyes seethed with a fury only contained by years of discipline and an enormous strength of will.

  Corvinus ignored him and kept his gaze firmly on Fulvio.

  ‘If that is how you feel, I will leave tomorrow in your experienced hands and call this council to an end,’ Corvinus said, much to the confusion of the council. ‘The Third Legion however, shall remain in camp.’

  The tribune dismissed this with a shrug and laughed before turning to leave.

  ‘Prepared, should you be unsuccessful,’ Corvinus added.

  The tribune briefly paused in his step, before continuing to the doorway with Kaeso and the other officers of the Fourth Legion.

  ***

  First Centurion Valko stood by the brazier in the corner of the room, pretending to warm his hands as he waited for the last of the war council to leave. They left in silence, many without salutes but none failing to give a puzzled, almost pitiful look in Corvinus’ direction before they went. Valko felt his guts churn at the thought of what the young general had done.

  As the last of them finally shuffled out, Valko turned from the coals of the brazier and faced Corvinus.

  ‘What was that?’ he said. Though it was not his place to question his general’s orders, he did so anyway, for it seemed much had already been forsaken this night.

  ‘Tribune Fulvio desires command and I cannot continue this campaign with him a constant thorn in my side. He needs a sense of authority, to feel in control, I let him have it.’

  ‘Why? You let him take our honour, just like that?’ said Valko. ‘The Fourth Legion is laughing at us. How do you expect to hold any influence now?’

  ‘Fulvio will fail,’ said Corvinus bluntly. ‘You saw the Evastii numbers up that mountain. Even a rabble could hold the Gaur Mons against the best of us when committed to such a blind plan. When Fulvio retreats tomorrow, which he will be forced to do, he alone will be to blame. Leaving the Third Legion-’

  ‘-to win back the glory,’ Valko finished. The First Centurion paused as he considered this. ‘I
trust you have prepared a real strategy to defeat the Evastii.’

  ‘The Evastii know of the hatred Arcem holds for the north and the threat they pose to Arvum Superior. They will expect us to hurl legion after legion against them until we are a spent force,’ said Corvinus. ‘Let them think us predictable, Fulvio can reassure them of that. Let them taste victory and they will grow complacent in their confidence. Then I will land the killing blow.’

  Valko straightened, his natural calm returning to him.

  ‘There’s just one other thing that troubles me with that sir,’ he said. ‘The Master Augur promised Fulvio will be victorious tomorrow and the priests speak with the words of the gods.’

  ‘Then for the first time in our lives we must hope the gods are wrong,’ the young general smiled.

  ***

  Fulvio swept back the leather flaps of his tent and stepped out into the morning air. The sun was just beginning to crest the mountains, its first rays of light pierced through the mountain mists catching the polished plates of the tribune’s silver armour. The gilded Tarquin lion on his breastplate gleamed proudly as if the gods were smiling upon him. Fulvio could feel his ancestors watching from above and knew they would find no fault in his character. The Tarquins were the oldest and noblest of the ancient families in Arcem and Fulvio was the embodiment of this legacy. From his well oiled hair down to the shine of his boots, no citizen in Arcem could mistake his name.

  Before his tent, a white stallion waited. Like all the possessions his family’s immense wealth afforded him, it was the very finest. It stood proudly. Far taller than any adult man, its coat shone as brilliantly as the tribune’s armour: the horse was worth a small fortune. Bred by horse masters of the greatest Oirthiran princes from beyond the Great Plains, it was a magnificent animal, utterly unrivalled by any other in Arcem and Fulvio took much pleasure in that simple fact.