A legionary broke from the ranks of a nearby melee and approached Fulvio.
‘Tribune,’ said the man, not forgetting to salute, ‘a full two thirds of the legion has been disarmed or killed so far. Fighting remains in the centre of camp, where General Valerius has been spotted personally leading a push towards our position.’
Fulvio chuckled. The old fool will be too late to save his son.
‘Soldier, let me remind you that Gaius Valerius is an enemy of the Republic and as such, the traitor holds no rank. Refer to him as a general again and you will face the consequences,’ said Fulvio, wincing as the movement of his jaw caused the cut on his cheek to tear. He clutched the wound tightly with his hand. ‘Now, where is First Centurion Kaeso?’
‘Sir, the First Centurion was last seen in the holding action for the front gates. There was a heated counter attack by the traitors to retake the gates and deny the Ironclad from entering. It was initially led by Prefect... I mean the traitor Castus, but we believe he withdrew to regroup with Valerius. The First Centurion’s last message informed us the gates were ours and Consul Zeno has engaged in the battle.’
‘Good, send a runner to Kaeso to divert the consul and the Ironclad vanguard here to our position. It will not be long until Valerius comes with the last of his men, and I want him crushed when he does.’
***
General Gaius Valerius ripped his sword free from the armoured chest plates of the legionnaire before him. The man crumbled where he stood without so much as a scream, such was the deadly precision of the strike. Unlike Consul Zeno, Gaius still remained a soldier first and politician second. His years slogging through the ranks of the legions had not left him and the general’s sword arm was as strong as ever.
Another veteran of the First Cohort came against him, charging with a shield raised high to slam him off his feet. Gaius did not pause a second, but brought his own shield up horizontally and punched its end into his opponent’s shield, smashing it back against the man’s face. Pressing the attack before his opponent could recover, Gaius brought his gladius around and thrust it into the weaker joints of the legionary’s side. It was a poor angle and did not make for a clean kill.
The blade twisted awkwardly in Gaius’ grip as he drove it between the segmented plates and into the legionary’s ribcage. Unlike before, this time his enemy went down howling.
‘General! We are too far stretched. If we advance any further from the camp centre, all avenues of retreat will be cut off,’ shouted Prefect Castus through the melee, as he tried to follow in the general’s wake.
Gaius was too occupied in the battle to look back to the prefect – he barely registered the man’s voice through the adrenalin-fuelled killing haze that had befallen him. He discarded the prefect’s words. Retreat was not an option.
‘Push on!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Taranis demands the blood of those cowards responsible for this betrayal. Sons of Ultor, forward!’
***
Sentius Castus watched his general charge deeper into the ranks of the enemy. Valerius was fighting like a man possessed; nothing stood in his way for long as he carved a path through the mutinous legionaries. Despite the general’s last words, Castus knew that the path of corpses they were leaving was not heading towards Fulvio’s or Kaeso’s tent – but to Corvinus’. The general was trying to save his son and Castus feared what they would find there. The First Cohort presence on this side of the camp seemed to be strongest and already the colours of the Ironclad were beginning to appear among them. Just from the numbers alone, Castus doubted very much that the young Corvinus could still be alive. Not to mention that the well-known enmity between Corvinus and Fulvio after the Gaur Mons would have marked him as a likely target for the tribune. Castus cursed his foolishness for not foreseeing this earlier. The thought was quickly cast aside as the fighting demanded his focus on the enemy before him. He sighed with exertion, following his general deeper into the thick of battle – already knowing it would be his last.
***
Leaving a trail of carnage in their path, the remaining legionaries still loyal to Gaius Valerius followed their general down the camp’s main thoroughfare. They were a ragged mismatch of soldiers; men of different cohorts and centuries banded together in the chaos of the fight. They were weary and bloodied, but most of all they were betrayed. The principles of Ultor for which they stood and the dear brotherhood of their legion had all been shattered that morning. Necessity forced their hand and they now marched with the blood of former comrades on their swords.
Turning onto the path towards Corvinus’ tent, they were met by the stare of more than a hundred gun barrels. Lined against them, the entirety of the First Cohort and dozens of Ironclad legionaries blocked the way in a deep phalanx that surrounded the street.
Taking in the situation, Gaius Valerius raised his hand to signal a halt. Following behind, Prefect Castus and the rest of his remaining legionaries came to a stop and formed up beside their general, weapons ready.
The air was tense as the two sides faced each other for the final clash. They all knew how it would end. Those still loyal to Gaius were encircled and outgunned, there was no hope of surviving the force arrayed against them – yet it was not the enemy numbers that made Gaius pause, but the sight of the burnt out ruin of his son’s tent. Behind the ranks of the First Cohort, the scorched and tattered remnants of its fabric walls flapped uselessly in the wind over a mound of smouldering ashes.
Looking on in defeat, Gaius slumped in his armour, knowing he was too late. He had failed both his country and his family. The great plans for Arcem he had strived so hard to achieve were ruined and his son was almost certainly dead because of it. The failure was all his; Corvinus had warned him of the danger in involving Fulvio but he had not listened to his son. Gaius cursed himself for his blindness. Looking up, he saw the mutinous bastard tribune standing in the centre of the enemy formation, next to Consul Zeno.
‘Valerius, it is over. Tell your men to stand down,’ said the aged consul, breaking the silence in a voice that lacked any notion of triumph. The man seemed to have aged since Gaius last saw him. Zeno’s face was drawn and he looked tired down to the bone. Here is a man weary from war and broken by treachery, Gaius thought. He felt sick to look upon his old comrade.
‘First, where is my son?’ asked Gaius.
‘Corvinus refused the Senate’s order to stand down and thought to kill me instead. As you can see, even in your son’s last act of treason he was a failure,’ said Fulvio, clutching a bloody wound on his face.
Gaius felt his fury rise. His heart beat loudly in his ears and the grip on his sword tightened. He tried to rein in his anger by slowing his breathing – but oh, how he craved just to tear apart that smug aristocrat. But Gaius knew he would be cut down in a second by the first volley of gunfire.
‘Zeno, where is he?’ he asked, his words weighted with the severity of a barely controlled rage. The aged consul could not meet his gaze but instead glanced over at the flames where Corvinus’ tent once stood.
‘Brother,’ said Zeno slowly. ‘If the friendship we shared together as partners meant anything to you, then I ask you go quietly and await trial before the Senate.’
Gaius stood still for a moment as his mind processed everything. All eyes were watching him, awaiting his reaction. He looked around at the hesitant faces of those he once commanded who now took aim at him. He thought he knew these men. He had fought and bled with them, but it obviously had not been enough – even for men of Ultor who so prized their sense of brotherly honour. Gaius turned to look at the men standing beside him, Castus and those loyal legionaries. He nodded to them, meeting the gaze of each and every man in turn. He smiled with pride. They were the true men of Ultor.
‘What is your answer?!’ shouted Fulvio with impatience.
Gaius sighed as he looked down at the sword in his hand and felt its heavy weight. He wanted to drop it; to throw it to the cold ground for all the pain it represen
ted. He wished he could cast it away with the grim knowledge that dawned on him, as a man with nothing left in the world. Yet strangely, this was also the very reason his grip on the blade tightened.
His only son was dead, along with the dreams Gaius had for him. Their name was ended – with nothing left but the black taint of a traitor in the Chronicles – and right in front of him stood the man responsible. The bastard was even smiling. Gaius knew that if the Almighty Taranis held anything in regard, it was honour. The gods had known his noble intentions for Arcem and honour demanded vengeance for the Valerii. Suddenly the gladius felt true in his grip and Gaius prayed he would only live long enough to enact justice. He looked up at Fulvio and felt his heart race with hate.
Justice never came.
What happened instead took both Consuls Valerius and Zeno by surprise. Without orders, the front line of the First Cohort suddenly opened fire on their former general, sparking a chain reaction throughout the surrounding ranks. No one saw the person responsible for firing the first shot. Later accounts of the day would claim that one of Valerius’ traitors had pulled the trigger first. Yet another version of that moment – a hushed rumour among some of the survivors – whispered it had actually been Kaeso himself, under the tribune’s signal. History would never know the truth, but all accounts would agree upon how the standoff ended that day.
The first shot ricocheted off Gaius Valerius’ breastplate, knocking him back a step. Two more shots struck him a second later. One was deflected off his pauldron but the other carved through the general’s thigh plate. Grunting with pain, Gaius fell hard under the weight of his armour and crashed to the ground. Those few legionaries around him equipped with firearms brought them up as the initial shock of the barrage vanished from their thoughts.
The return fire from the loyalists was sporadic and weak compared to the merciless onslaught that faced them. The First Cohort and those of the Ironclad rained death upon their numbers and when their guns were spent, they charged in with swords drawn for the final kill.
***
Prefect Castus watched in dismay as the front ranks of his line fell in a bloody heap before the enemy fire. He ducked low, instinctively reaching for his pistol. Ahead of him, General Valerius was downed, clutching a wound on his thigh. Castus knew he could not reach the general and it tore at him to see his friend so. Deep down, he had expected things to end this way, but it still pained him to see his friend fall in front of his eyes. The hiss of bullets whizzing by his ears brought Castus back to the battle at hand and to thoughts of his own survival. Like his life-long comrade, Castus knew he was surely doomed. The realisation did not trouble him as much as he would have anticipated. He felt oddly resigned to accept his fate. Before becoming Camp Prefect, Castus had killed many men and seen their inglorious ends, so he supposed dying for friendship was a worthy enough way to go. For a man of Ultor it made more sense than most other things in life.
Castus stood up to face his end and levelled his sights at the figure of Fulvio, deep in the ranks of the enemy. Woe the day when turncoats such as that rich bastard are considered heroes, Castus thought.
The pistol kicked loudly in his grip as he fired at the tribune. It was a first rate shot by any standard, one of which Castus would have been proud – had he lived long enough through the storm of bullets that came his way to see it hit. It struck straight at Fulvio’s heart, cracking the Tarquin lion crest emblazoned in gold on his breastplate, but tragically it failed to penetrate any deeper.
***
‘Sentius!’ shouted Gaius Valerius from where he lay in the icy slush of the roadway, helplessly watching his friend die before him. All around the fallen general, men were being cut down as the enemy advanced through the gun-smoke to finish them all with blades.
Rough hands grabbed at Gaius and pulled him to his knees. He clenched his teeth as the upright position tore at his wound. Dragging him down the laneway, they brought him through the lines to where Fulvio and Zeno had stood. As they did so, a great cry began to ripple through from ranks of the Seventh Legion. Through the panic, Gaius could see the figure of their general. Consul Zeno lay on the ground bleeding, his armour pierced by a stray shot from sometime during the exchange. Shouts went down the lines for field surgeons to be brought up as the men of the Ironclad crowded in, forming a defensive circle around their fallen general, wary of further threats – but there were none. The street was cleared of any remaining Valerii loyalists, save for the corpses.
Only the ranks of Kaeso’s First Cohort remained nearby as they advanced over the carnage to carry the fight against the last few remaining pockets of resistance further across the camp.
Gaius wanted to shout, to curse his betrayers before all the gods; veterans who had fought so long under his command and yet had utterly ruined him, but he remained silent. There was no point anymore. He would not plead for his life or try argue his reasons before such men. He was as good as dead and welcomed that fact with stoic calm.
***
Tribune Fulvio pushed his way through the ring of Ironclad guards towards the wounded Zeno and stood beside the consul. The man was deathly pale and his face twitched intermittently. One of his legionnaires had already stripped off the consul’s breastplate and held two hands against the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding. Looking on at the futility of the field surgeons, Fulvio knew the aged consul would not survive.
‘Consul,’ said Fulvio kneeling down, trying his best to sound poignant. ‘It grieves me to say this but-’
The arrival of two soldiers from the First Cohort stopped the tribune in his tracks as they dragged forward the groaning figure of Gaius Valerius. There were jeers and hateful stares from all the men of the Seventh Legion as they watched the traitor general land before them.
Lying with eyes shut against the pain, there was no way Consul Zeno could have seen the arrival of his once co-consul. Yet in his delirium he managed to whisper an order to those close enough to hear.
‘Do not kill him... can recall Hannibal... await trial,’ murmured Zeno between his ragged breaths.
Ignoring the man’s words, Tribune Fulvio turned his attention to the wounded consul and thought to try again.
‘Consul,’ he said, looking down. ‘It grieves me to say this, but you are badly hurt, sir, I fear you cannot continue the fight. Two enemy legions are still at large and Arcem has already lost a consul this day to sedition. We cannot afford to lose you too. Chaos will ensue... civil war even.’
‘What are you saying, Tribune?’ demanded a nearby soldier of the Seventh Legion. Fulvio turned to face the bold legionary who dared question him. The man’s armour marked him out as their First Centurion. Eliphas – that was his name, Fulvio remembered.
‘Your general lies on death’s door, there is no time,’ snapped Fulvio. ‘Consul, my name and actions here today prove my loyalty to the Republic. As the next ranking legion official in the field and as a senior senator of Arcem I ask you grant me emergency powers to see us through this danger. I request the authority of dictator.’
Everyone was taken aback and all eyes looked to Fulvio. Beside him, Eliphas the Ironclad First Centurion stood open-mouthed, shocked by Fulvio’s candour. Singular power over the Republic was not a thing to be handed out lightly. No one in over two decades had been permitted such a thing and the scars of Julius Terra’s bloody tyranny were still fresh in the minds of many.
Instantly, Consul Zeno opened his eyes and stared at the tribune. Nothing was said for a long moment and Fulvio felt as if his very soul was being searched beneath that iron gaze. Too weak to speak, the wounded consul finally gave a frail nod before falling into unconsciousness.
Watching their general’s condition deteriorate, the legion surgeons placed him onto a makeshift stretcher. With delicate care, the ranks of the surrounding Ironclad lifted Zeno up and carried him away.
Fulvio watched as the honour guard left for the main gate where the senior legion physicians would be waiting and tried not to
grin at his sudden stroke of fortune. Only a few Ironclad remained behind – Eliphas among them. The First Centurion was gazing straight at him, but Fulvio dismissed the man’s stare and turned to where Gaius Valerius knelt in the mud. Time to finish things, he thought.
‘Shall I have the surgeons treat the traitor?’ asked Eliphas as he saw the direction of Fulvio’s attention. ‘It would be a shame for him to bleed out before he can face the justice of the Senate.’
‘I am the Senate now,’ whispered Fulvio as he took a step towards the traitor general and drew his pistol.
‘But sir, the consul ordered-’
‘I have been granted the powers of dictator to defend the Republic, as such I speak with the voice of the Senate,’ said Fulvio loudly to those few watching on. In the distance, the sounds of battle had finally begun to die down with the last of the camp resistance. ‘This traitor before me is guilty of fomenting a tyranny and responsible for the civil war we face. He is to blame for the deaths of more than a thousand of your brothers in the Seventh Legion and many hundreds in the Fourth this morning. Today he tried to kill a consul and overthrow all we hold sacred. As such, I say this man is too treacherous to keep alive and I condemn him to death.’
A final shot rang out across the grey winter morning. Lowering the smoking barrel of his gilded pistol, Fulvio looked down and smiled at the crumpled body of what was Consul Gaius Valerius, The Corvus.
***
The Seventh Legion stood in perfect formation in the fields before the village of Lapsus Magna and Fulvio could not help but admire their perseverance. The march south had been hard on them and many had not made it. Less than four thousand men formed their ranks and fatigue was clear on each and every face. Maybe their name is well deserved after all, thought Fulvio, gripping the reins of his horse. He came to a stop before Eliphas, their First Centurion. The man looked up and met him with a cold gaze. Definitely well deserved, decided Fulvio.
The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1) Page 25
