‘Damn,’ grumbled Bellacon with feeling, hissing as he twisted.
‘Bad?’ enquired Titus.
‘Terrible. You got the Khan, sir.’
The soldier started to laugh, but then had to stop as the pain contorted him with a hiss.
Titus chuckled. ‘If it’s any consolation, Prefect Volentius took my glorious moment and wiped shit all over it.’
‘Is that why he’s lying on the floor rubbing his head and with an expression like he’s been sucking a cat’s arse, sir?’ grinned Cantex.
‘It certainly is.’
Two more prefects appeared through the throng which now seemed to consist almost entirely of imperial soldiers, both officers dismounting and handing their reins to soldiers as they crossed to the commander.
‘The army is in full retreat, sir. We’ve got units harrying them but they’ve got orders to go only as far as the river. Can’t afford to let them lose all cohesion, and without the Khan to bind them, it seems likely they will splinter and disband again anyway.’
Titus nodded as he staggered across to the command tent with the wounded Bellacon leaning on him. ‘Agreed. Well done, lads. The Khan is unconscious. Have him bound tight and delivered to the emperor with a very heavy escort as soon as the streets are cleared. I’ll be along shortly after for a debrief, once everything’s under control here.’
The prefect he was addressing bowed his head. ‘Yes, commander.’
‘And take note of these three men’s names. Bellacon, Convocus and Cantex. All three are from one of the First Army’s cavalry units, but they’re wasted in skirmishing duty. Have them all promoted to fill whatever junior officer ranks are available once the fight’s over.’
As the prefect nodded his understanding, and Titus turned to help Bellacon to an upturned seat that one of the soldiers was setting straight, the three men were blinking at him, their faces plastered with astonishment as well as mud and blood. Titus smiled.
‘Soldiers who look to their own men’s wellbeing and find the time to try and save lives at the expense of their own glory are natural leaders and officers in the making. Well done, the three of you. I shall be watching you closely, expecting big things.’
And as he strode across to the tent’s porch canopy, beneath which half a dozen soldiers were binding the wrists and ankles of the unconscious Khan, Titus was aware of the gaze of that witch on him, her expression inscrutable and yet oddly comforting.
The imperial audience chamber at Velutio, nine years later
The emperor Quintillian frowned and gestured to his empress. ‘Are you sure you want to sit through this in your condition?’
Jala shifted her swollen, pregnant belly with difficulty. ‘Husband, however dull politics can get, it cannot possibly be boring enough to make me want to stand and carry this around the palace any more than I have to.’
Quintillian grinned and scanned the imperial council, a collection of eight senior senators promoted to such a position of supposed influence not so much through talent as through wealth and noble lineage. Beyond them, the council’s chief clerk was busy scratching notes on his tablet.
‘What’s next?’
‘Plaintiffs from the north, Majesty,’ the clerk said, tapping his tablet with his stylus.
‘Ah, the lords who arrived yesterday. Have them shown in.’
As the clerk scurried out to call the next piece of business to order, Quintillian glanced once more with a contented smile at his wife, then tried to run over what he knew of these lords. Ten years had passed since the dreadful events that had almost brought the empire to its knees. The city of Velutio had simply picked itself up amid the rubble and gone on with the business of life as the world was rebuilt around it. The ramifications across the wider territories were more profound.
Where previously the empire’s borders had been expanded by the inclusion of barbarian kings and chiefs who had been considered to be imperial lords, allowing them to form their own limitanei – border units of barbarians paid to defend against other barbarians – the rebellion of Lord Aldegund had proved this to be an unwise policy.
Quintillian had subsequently adopted something of a ‘carrot and stick’ approach in its place. The northern lords had been given their carrot – greater political position within the governing of the empire including a place in the senate and the ability to directly affect the making of the land’s laws. But the stick was also applied to their military capabilities. The warriors of their tribes were no longer formed into local forces, but were now removed from their lands along with their wives and children, trained as imperial auxiliaries and posted elsewhere in the empire.
Thus while those northern lords’ warriors might find themselves occupying a border fort in the southern deserts or one of the new string of defences along the boundary of the horse clan lands, the northern provinces were well defended, but by units drawn from elsewhere in the empire, removing both temptation and the ability to effectively raise a military revolt.
The system seemed to be working. The military was stronger than ever, and the value of that dangling carrot had drawn in more and more northern lords, so that territory in that region had expanded all the way to the cold northern coast in the succeeding decade.
Of course, with the expansion of the lands had come different challenges. A new sea to patrol meant either a new navy or dividing existing forces, the latter having been the chosen path given the cost of raising ships and sailors and the need to preserve funds in the aftermath of such a destructive war. And the increase in senators had changed Velutio’s political life forever, as well as creating an atmosphere of disgruntlement among the old traditional senators.
Still, all seemed to be progressing well, and these new peripheral lords had proved to be far more reasonable and pliable than other northern natives.
The doors opened and the deputation flowed into the hall.
The four lords who had come from their cold northern territories with their entourages and their favoured courtiers were easy to pick out, each one dressed in the most expensive silks bought in bazaars from traders all the way from the Jin Empire. Some of those tunics alone cost more than a full suit of armour. And the jewelled shoes, the coronets, the linen cloaks with their gold edging, the jewelled sword belts and all the glittering finery they wore could not hide their northern origins, especially since they were still unwilling to relinquish the torcs around their necks or the warrior’s arm-rings on their biceps. Each one wore more adornment and regalia than any senator of the imperial council. It was a symptom of being new nobility that a man seemed to need to show off his rank as much as possible.
In addition to the nobles and their people, all unarmed in the imperial presence as was required by law, three high-ranking military officers played escort, each with their senior men and one with his ever-present witch woman. Three northern generals – Volentius, Crito and Quietus.
‘Greetings, my lords,’ the emperor addressed the three men dripping in jewels and gold. ‘Welcome to Velutio. If I am not mistaken this is your first visit to the capital since your investiture as imperial lords some years past. I have made arrangements for a feast this evening and for my chamberlain to accompany you and show you around the palace and the city should you require it. But before we are able to make you welcome, let us get the bothersome business of state out of the way…’
Inanities. He had no desire to socialise with these men, but people who felt such need to wear their rank so openly, clearly put much stock in court life and propriety. Making them feel welcome might ease whatever strain had brought them a thousand miles just to see him. He noted one of the northern courtiers translating for the lords as they nodded.
‘Majesty,’ said one of the officers – General Crito, a sour old fart who had never quite managed to suppress the taint that came with being of part-barbarian blood himself. ‘Majesty, these lords, whose command of the imperial tongue is still in its infancy, have come to court to seek the support of the co
uncil and the emperor in their ongoing struggle with pirates.’
Pirates? That was new.
‘The shores of their lands,’ Crito went on, ‘which constitute now the northern boundary of the empire itself, are prey to the increasing threat of pirates crossing the waters from the island of Alba.’
Quintillian closed his eyes and turned slightly so that his expression of irritation was harder to see.
‘Go on,’ he prompted, though within he already felt he knew what was happening. Back in the early days of his brother’s reign, some twenty years ago now, there had been a grand push to conquer the island of Alba, a great, reeking swampy place across the northern sea. It had been little more than a disaster.
The general responsible for the campaign had never quite recovered his reputation, though his lineage and wealth had guaranteed him an easy court life. That man – Anicius Rufus – one of the senators of the council, currently sat three seats to the left of Jala. But the generals who had escorted the lords south were, unsurprisingly, three of the officers who had taken part in that doomed campaign. It was hard to imagine that they had come here merely to support the lords. More likely the lords were their excuse. General Volentius in particular made a habit every few years of advocating a return to Alba.
And now here he was with two of his companions from that doomed expedition two decades ago and four northern lords, complaining of Alban pirates.
Quintillian sighed.
‘Let me guess. I am being lobbied to take military action against the pirates of Alba.’
There was a brief consultation while the northern lords discussed matters in their own dialect and with the officers, and then, a consensus having apparently been reached, General Crito continued.
‘Pirate activity has increased to such an extent, Majesty, that whole towns are burned and looted.’
‘Presumably not in that order.’
Crito tried not to look put out at the sarcastic interruption. He failed.
‘Majesty, imperial subjects are being taken back to Alba as slaves. Two of the northern provinces are unable to deliver the appropriate taxes this quarter due to the sheer scale of wealth plundered from their lands. They seek aid in protecting themselves, and it has long been the imperial way to defend our interests by direct military intervention.’
‘Spoken like a general,’ the emperor noted sourly. ‘The three of you, Crito, Volentius and Quietus, are senior officers in charge of that region. Can you not deal with these issues with your own resources? You are given the same financial and military support as any other border region.’
‘With respect, Majesty, the southern border has been quiet for ten years, as has the east. To the south are our allies and to the east the horse clans who now know better than to even approach the border. But the north is a constant storm of troubles, with warring lands across the narrow seas. We have done what we can to support these lords, but without direct government intervention, we have reached the limit of our influence and power.’
‘If I might offer an opinion?’ put in Anicius Rufus with a raised hand.
‘Go on, Senator.’
‘For a relatively modest increase in taxes we could raise a new fleet specifically to control that sea. Perhaps we can also allocate military engineers to construct new defences and watchtowers on the coast?’
The emperor tapped his lip. It was an attractive idea, but even he could see the problems with it.
‘I think not, Rufus. Sadly, between the costs of raising a whole navy and of a grand construction plan, the price makes such a proposition unfeasible. We are still, even after ten years, in the process of rebuilding the capital, and that cost is immense already. Plus, the northern coast is a long stretch. Even with the best fleet and defensive system, we would be lucky to locate and stop pirates before they had raided our lands. Sadly, I think this is not the answer.’
‘A diplomatic solution?’ mused another senator.
Quintillian turned a furrowed brow to the man. ‘If I am not much mistaken it was you, senator Calina, who sent an embassy to the island of Alba some three years ago. Pray tell, have you heard news of them suddenly?’
The senator shrank back into his seat and into silence. No. His ambassadors and their military escort had vanished without trace three years ago, as was common knowledge.
‘No. I cannot see sending more men to vanish into the void being a feasible solution, either.’
‘War,’ grunted one of the northern lords in his thick native accent.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘War, Majesty.’
General Crito nodded. ‘The lords are all agreed and adamant that the only permanent solution to the problem posed by the islanders across the narrow sea is to invade their island and garrison it. Moreover, Majesty, I can tell you from personal experience that the isle of Alba is rich in mineral resources. It could be a positive boon to the rebuilding of the empire.’
There was a heavy silence, and Quintillian glanced across at the empress. Jala gave the slightest of nods, and he returned it. Even emperors could be outmanoeuvred occasionally. General Volentius had for twenty years been craving an excuse to return to Alba and recover a reputation he lost in the ignominious failure of that campaign – as, for that matter, had the other two generals there, Crito and Quietus.
And now, through the petitions of pliable northern lords, they had brought a reason for it to the court. Diplomacy had failed once and was unlikely to succeed. Sealing off the empire was of uncertain value and of definite high price. The only solution was war.
War.
An invasion of a land long held to be untakeable. And the failed campaign of two decades ago had not been the only attempt, either. Over the centuries half a dozen emperors had sought to make their name by attempting to add that soggy northern isle to the empire. Apart from half a century of scratching around to retain a presence in the southeast before it was withdrawn, they had all failed.
Well he would not – could not afford to – throw away a sizeable part of the imperial military on an almost certainly doomed campaign. He’d have liked to send senator Anicius Rufus back, just to get him out of court if nothing else, but the man was far too old now to be leading a military campaign.
Three men here, though, were not so old. And they were hungry too. Maybe being hungry to avenge their shredded reputations might give them the impetus to actually succeed where others had failed.
Yes. His mind whirled through the possibilities. The three former prefects who’d been involved in the previous attempt had all caused trouble in some way or other, and sending them to the periphery of the empire on what was likely a fool’s errand was appealing.
Sending good men with them was less enticing, mind. A nagging memory pointed out that the northern legions maintained by these men were partially constituted of those who had rebelled and sided with the Khan a decade ago. Some of his advisors had urged him to disband those forces entirely, but he had kept them on despite their potential troubles due to the lack of manpower after the war. If he was going to have to sacrifice an army to an invasion in which he saw no value, why not the least valued units under the least valued men?
‘Very well,’ Quintillian said, with a sigh. ‘I hereby sanction the casting of war spears. In one month we shall hold the ceremonies in the temple of the war god, and the campaign can begin.’
He noted the smug looks of the three officers with the northern deputation.
‘However,’ he said, wagging a finger, ‘this will not be a grand imperial campaign. I will not make the same mistake we made ten years ago and concentrate our entire force in one region, leaving us open to invasion and rebellion elsewhere. I will allocate just three legions, along with their associated transport, auxiliary units and cavalry.’
He pointed at the generals standing beside the eager northern lords.
‘The three of you already command a legion each within the northern army. Take those legions to Alba and solve this problem, and your
names can be added to the hallowed tablets in the temple of the war god.’
The emperor watched the various expressions cross the generals’ faces as they realised they would be taking less than a quarter of the force that had made the last attempt, but they apparently all knew from the look on Quintillian’s face that he would not be moved to reconsider the matter. The lords were gleeful and triumphant. As far as they were concerned they had achieved everything they wanted.
Only one set of eyes was not looking into the near future with either hunger or trepidation. Volentius’ pet witch was, instead, peering at the emperor in a truly insolent manner. And yet there was something about the woman that made him disinclined to berate her for it.
‘Majesty,’ General Quietus said deferentially, his brow creased, ‘who will command the army overall?’
Something about the man’s tone or expression, or both, made it clear that he felt the task should fall to him, which immediately made Quintillian disinclined to do so. But then Crito was shifty and part-barbarian himself, with blood ties to the island, and Volentius was known to more or less sleep in a wine sack. None of them felt like an appropriate choice.
Perhaps in vying with one another they would achieve the impossible? The need to win pushing each to heights of success? Yes. Like the senate of old, and not the empire of today, they could work as a team.
‘You will each command your legions and form a council of commanders, along with your best advisors. That way no one hubristic ego will direct this war. It will be guided in concert by the best minds available.’
He kept his eyes on the three men, though he was quite aware of the bitter, angry gaze of senator Anicius Rufus, whose reputation he had just impugned rather subtly. He saw Volentius turn and exchange brief quiet words with his pet witch, and the emperor’s gaze slid to that eerie figure in turn for a moment. Then the council erupted into discussion and Quintillian, tearing his gaze from that strange woman, leaned over and gestured to his empress.
Invasion (Tales of the Empire Book 5) Page 2
