It was the very icon of the family’s crest and displayed on the banners of the Valerii Legions. Castus turned and looked to one of the standards against the wall. Above the legion numerals a stylised raven was depicted in flight, with talons out for the kill. Corvinus followed the prefect’s gaze and walked over towards the Corvus Banner.
The young general paused.
‘The Third Legion still needs to find its footing; it has yet to prove its right to be counted among the other legions. The Fourth is already a respected and feared power whose leadership and ability is not in doubt,’ Corvinus said, running his hand against the image, feeling the newness of its fabric. ‘This banner has yet to fly in the storm of war, or claim victory over a field. It is something I must do, alone with my legion. The heat of battle this night will either forge my legion into the force I envisioned or else it will perish. My father would understand.’
Castus nodded, knowing there would be no point arguing the matter. The young general had made up his mind and there would be no changing him. Just like his father, he thought.
‘Now, please send for my armour bearer to ready me,’ said Corvinus.
Castus promptly beat his fist against his breastplate in salute and took his leave from the general’s tent.
***
Outside in the cold, the Third Legion readied for war. Gathered in circles around campfires, the legionnaires made their final preparations. The scraping of swords on whetstones could be heard all throughout camp as men made last minute adjustments to the kit on which their lives would soon depend. Those that could write penned letters to loved ones back home whilst others prayed, making silent promises and sacrifices in the hope for protection. Each man had his own private ritual before battle.
Centurions marched up and down the rows of tents, checking equipment and barking orders to keep the younger men busy and distracted from their nerves.
First Centurion Hector Valko watched the muster from outside his general’s tent in the centre of camp. He stood rigid as he waited for his general. The segmented plates of his armour were polished to a high sheen and looked nothing less than respectable. One hand rested on the wooden hilt of his gladius whilst his other arm cradled his helmet; its red plume running laterally across its cap to distinguish him as a centurion.
Looking on, so far he had seen nothing to warrant his displeasure. The Third Legion was forming up neatly in disciplined ranks before him, and he was proud to see every face was an expression of complete seriousness and utter focus. Though they could not be faulted now, the First Centurion knew that the chaos of battle would soon be the true test of his efforts in training them.
A fellow centurion approached him.
‘Sir, the cohorts are ready,’ said the centurion, saluting sharply as he did so.
‘Very good,’ Valko nodded.
The other centurion hesitated for a moment, obviously wanting to say something.
‘What is it? Speak freely,’ said Valko.
‘Sir,’ said the man cautiously, his breath fogging in the cold, ‘are we really going out tonight? I mean in this?’
With the sun long down and the beginnings of another snowfall brewing, the winter night was particularly dreadful.
First Centurion Valko nodded, trying not to show his own discomfort at the prospect of it all.
‘We are,’ said Valko, swinging his free arm to try keep the metal plates of his armour from freezing stiff. ‘General Corvinus has given the order. I believe he is counting on the Evastii to consider such a raid as unthinkable as it really is.’
The centurion shared a nervous laugh before saluting and rejoining the ranks.
Let’s hope he is right, for all our sakes, the First Centurion thought, looking up at the dim outline of the mountain. Otherwise it could turn into a real mess up there.
***
Stepping out from the warmth of his tent Corvinus was momentarily taken aback by the chill of the night air. Clad in refined armour that had cost a fortune at the hands of master weapon-smiths, each plate of steel in his attire had been custom made to fit and was a work of art. From the engraved vambraces protecting his forearms, to the plumed helmet he carried in his arm, Corvinus looked every inch the part of a young Romanus ready for war. Much better than the standard armour he had worn in his service as a rank and file legionary, he thought.
Corvinus smiled, appreciating the way the sword-and-wreath symbol worked into the metal of his breastplate shone proudly in the moonlight.
He paused at the thought.
A brief glance around the camp square told him the legion was feeling the cold also. Wearing chainmail shirts and gleaming armour plates that were rigid with the frost, they shivered in their ranks.
Corvinus looked up that the night sky and felt his anger grow as he saw the crescent moon shining brightly.
‘I will have my priests expelled for this,’ he whispered.
‘General, is something the matter?’ said First Centurion Valko, saluting.
‘Yes, something is very wrong, look how much our armour stands out,’ said Corvinus, ‘The Master Augur had assured me the auspices promised the cover of a moonless night, the senile fool. If the Evastii have sentries we’ll be spotted coming for miles.’
The augur had also promised a great victory for Tribune Fulvio and the Fourth Legion that day too, but Valko dared not point it out.
‘Shall I have the men stand down sir?’ he asked instead.
Corvinus sighed in frustration.
If he proceeded then he risked defeat and the lives of his legionnaires, but if his orders fell through now Corvinus would be shamed, losing the faith of his men whilst giving his critics fresh arguments against his command.
‘It is too late to back out now,’ he said, trying to think of a way to overcome this obstacle. They needed to gain entry to the Evastii camp without being spotted. Everything depended upon the success of a concealed first strike.
‘Valko,’ he said at last, ‘pass word for the men to be equipped with their cloaks and have them rub soot on their armour.’
‘Sir?’ said Valko with a bewildered look about him. Never in his many years of service in the legions had he ever heard such an order.
‘Soot from the campfires, to dull the sheen of their armour, First Centurion,’ said Corvinus, his eyes bright with thought, ‘and their cloaks to keep them from freezing, over their armour please, so as to further ensure there is no chance of any reflections.’
‘At once, General,’ said Valko, giving a hasty salute before marching off to pass the orders. The shouts of centurions quickly spread the word and the legion dispersed from the square to do as ordered.
As they left, Corvinus turned back inside his tent, to do the same.
***
Xaphia ran the whetstone down the curved length of her sword, sharpening its razor edge to deadly perfection. Behind the bronze faceplate of her mask, a smile creased her thin, grey lips. There were a great number of tribesmen on the mountain and soon enough she would be able to put the blade to use.
Outside, she could hear the bustle of her master’s legion going about similar preparations for the coming battle. She had often heard the humans say that on the eve of battle, the waiting was the worst part, as if it were a dark time when fear crept into a man’s soul. “The dreadful calm before the storm,” that was how they would describe it, but Xaphia had never understood them. She loved storms. To her, the waiting was beguiling. It was the moment of anticipation that made the killing all the more pleasurable when it came. Enjoyable as it was however, this battle could not come soon enough. It had been far too long since her last and her body now shivered with excitement at the promise of bloodshed. Monarx had been so boring, but this – Xaphia licked her lips, imagining the death to come – this would be most enjoyable.
Xaphia sheathed her blade and stood as she saw her master return. The young general paced over to the corner of the tent where his personal belongings were stored.
; ‘Gods beneath, it’s cold out there,’ he said, rummaging through the contents of a wooden chest until he finally pulled out the folded fabric of a dark crimson cloak. Xaphia recognised it as the standard issue winter attire of Arcemite legionnaires. It was the type of woollen cloak favoured by those pulling sentry on cold nights, but never had she known it to be worn in battle.
‘The battle, you are still going through with it?’ asked Xaphia tensely.
Corvinus turned to face her. ‘I am. The men who died today would have done so in vain if the Third Legion does not march tonight. The attack goes ahead as planned.’
Xaphia nodded, smiling beneath her mask with relief.
‘You however, will stay here,’ her master said suddenly.
‘What did you say?’ she hissed.
‘As I am sure you heard me tell Prefect Castus not long ago, this battle is something I must do alone, with only my legion,’ Corvinus said. ‘I am not taking you with me on this.’
Xaphia felt her body twitch for a blade, such was the venom of her anger, but she quickly mastered the urge. She had sworn oaths in blood to serve this human and so serve she must.
‘Must I remind you there are greater things are stake here. Your father’s plans will be for nought if you are killed. Spolia Opima or not, up there against an army you are just as mortal as any other,’ she said. ‘I am your guard, vowed to protect you. You cannot cast me away from my duties.’
‘Your objection is noted, but my answer remains the same,’ said Corvinus, making his way to where one of the tent’s braziers smouldered weakly in the corner. ‘We are not on an estate in Septem Hill or travelling the alleyways of the city after dark; this is war. The politics of Monarx are far behind and the dangers to be faced are much more unsubtle and brutal. Tonight, I do not require a bodyguard, but a legion, and I shall begin earning its respect by facing the same risks as my men.’
In response Xaphia hissed a string of harsh, serpentine syllables, cursing in her alien tongue.
Corvinus turned and looked his guard over with disgust clear on his face. ‘I would not expect a thing such as you to understand, but there are expectations of Arcemite leaders in the field and I shall not be found wanting. You will not be coming with me tonight,’ he said firmly to the gangly figure before him. ‘One more thing – stay out of sight while I am gone.’
Xaphia’s grey lips scowled behind her mask. ‘Yes, master,’ she said, the words like poison on her tongue.
***
When Corvinus returned outside, he looked as plain and dirty as any of his men. His elegant armour was dulled black and was indistinguishable of rank. Except for his plumed helmet, the young general could easily have been mistaken for any of the four thousand-odd soldiers of the Third Legion standing before him. Over the upper breastplate and pauldrons of his armour he wore his cloak. Pinned around his right shoulder so it did not hinder the movement of his sword arm, the rest of its length hung behind him like a cape. Corvinus was not surprised to see many centurions and legionnaires in the ranks wearing their cloaks in a similar fashion.
Corvinus gazed across the camp square, studying the faces of his men carefully. Though it was a tense moment being on the edge of battle, his legion stood grubby and smiling. Corvinus attributed their mood partly to the novelty of their outfit and partly to the added warmth of their heavy winter cloaks.
At the forefront of the formation First Centurion Valko stood, likewise dressed and dirtied, looking completely at odds with his usual faultless presentation.
Corvinus smiled.
Beside the First Centurion, Tribune Lucius Furius Bantius stood with a disapproving look on his face. Unsurprisingly the tribune had chosen to refrain from taking part in concealing his expensive armour by smearing soot on it. He is much too proud for such an act, Corvinus thought. Bantius had at least agreed to adorn his armour with the fur pelts he had worn when they first met in Ultor and Corvinus could accept that much from the aristocrat.
Corvinus walked slowly into the square before them all, feeling the eyes of every man weigh upon him. He paused, looking across his assembled legion with a mixture of pride and nervousness.
Like all noblemen raised from birth to be a senator of Arcem, Corvinus had been tutored in the art of public speaking. He still remembered the ruthless thrashings of his tutor’s cane, used to distil the skill. But when he gazed across the camp square, he had no words prepared.
He took a deep breath before continuing, not knowing how to focus their minds to the task ahead. Nevertheless, he began.
‘Men of the Third Legion, I have never been one for grand speeches, for I am no orator. I believe in the strength of our actions to prove our merits,’ said Corvinus loudly, his words carrying easily in the night air. ‘I am a soldier, plain and simple. War is the trade of my family, you all know this. I tell you we go now to make history this night. Up there, our foe sleeps drunk on a false victory and thinks himself safe in his numbers on the mountain. I think it is time we wake him and remind our enemy that it is our mountain on which he sleeps and he is here uninvited,’ Corvinus paused, thankful to hear a few chuckles among the ranks and see some backs straighten. Even Valko gave an approving smile.
‘Soldiers of the Third,’ said Corvinus, his voice growing louder. ‘I swear I shall always be in front of you. Look to me on the field and have no fear, for we are men of Arcem and we shall prevail.’
In his left hand Corvinus held the legion’s standard, the Corvus banner high for all to see.
‘Remember your training, protect your brothers and give no quarter,’ he said to finish. ‘Now, follow me and together we shall earn your name.’
Corvinus began walking towards the camp gate. Standard in hand, he passed Valko and Bantius, who both turned and followed in step. Behind them the rest of the legion followed in an ordered column without need for the calls of their centurions. Eager to prove themselves, the Third Legion marched to war.
Nearby the battered men of the Fourth Legion watched this procession from their tents and campfires. Many were still caked in blood and ash from earlier that day. The moans of their wounded comrades could be heard through the open doorways.
Many watching dropped their heads in defeat as their brother legion passed by. They knew that they would not have the chance to redeem their honour that night.
Several looked on with resentment clear on their faces, some detested being left behind, denied the chance to avenge the fallen whilst others held the young Corvinus responsible for their defeat that day.
As he led his legion to the camp gates, the young general felt all their stares. The night air seemed to grow suddenly cold and his grip on the legion banner tightened. Corvinus knew he needed victory that night. His legion, his life and his family name were all at stake.
***
Amidst the mass of onlookers, Victor Kaeso yearned to be with those marching out that night. It was not in him to play the part of a simple spectator and the First Centurion felt his temper rise because of it. He needed to go, to spill blood and sate the darkness inside him. War was his cure. It was the ultimate distraction from one’s own misery, for once committed there was no time to think, only act and vent one’s emotion. But he would have no second chance to do so and knew his demons would not let him sleep easy in his beaten state.
Kaeso looked down at his sword arm, tied uselessly in a splint, and cursed. During the thickest of the fighting that day he had come up against a massive Evastii warrior, taller even than Kaeso: the tribesman had shattered his vambrace and the bones beneath with a thunderous strike of his war-hammer. Though the encounter had almost cost the First Centurion his life, Kaeso could not wait to return to the field.
Even if the Fourth Legion had been ordered up the Gaur Mons with their brother legion, he knew it would be weeks before he could fight again and the knowledge scratched at his nerves.
The First Centurion watched the passing column of legionnaires. They were young and hungry, that much was clear. He di
d not know if they could succeed on the mountain where his veterans had failed. All things in war are uncertain. More than once in his career Kaeso had found himself living through the impossible – outnumbered or cut off from his brothers in the chaos of a melee. Though he had always attributed his survival to good fortune, others would speak his name like they would some god of war. Kaeso had a reputation for killing and could tell the young Valerius intended to make a name for himself in similar fashion. If he succeeded tonight he would. Nothing in Arcem promoted a man faster than war.
Even if he lost, Corvinus would earn a reputation just from the outfit of his legion. The appearance of their young brothers in the Third Legion did not go unnoticed as they marched past. Never had soldiers of Arcem gone to war like this, in armour anything but polished and respectful. Yet their armour was dulled and hidden beneath their cloaks – like those used by the poor bastards on midnight sentry duty.
‘There goes the night guard,’ said Kaeso, a little louder than he had intended. The comment was followed with a few chuckles of the veterans looking on from their tents and received the passing glare of First Centurion Hector Valko – an old acquaintance, Kaeso smiled.
***
As the middle child of a minor family in Ultor, Valko had made the military his career. While his brothers back home spent their days toiling over the hard earth of the family estate, Valko had risen through the ranks of the Fourth Legion. With time and relentless personal training he had eventually earned his place as one of the veterans of the First Cohort under Kaeso, until he was promoted to the rank of fellow centurion. By the time of the Third Legion’s formation two years ago, Consul Valerius had ordered many of his veteran officers to seed the ranks of his son’s legion. As the gods would have it, Valko had been offered a promotion as First Centurion in this founding – a chance he graciously accepted and thanked Taranis for every morning.
The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1) Page 11
