Empire Under Siege

by Jason K. Lewis

  Conlan exchanged a look with Jonas. “Lucus,” he said, relieved for the excuse to break the tension. “You know there’s no one quite like him.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jonas agreed. “Special. Never ceases to amaze me that he doesn’t stab himself with his own sword. He’s pretty bloody clumsy – when he’s not on the battlefield!”

  “I know,” said Conlan. “He saved my life, though. Pretty handy fighter.”

  Jonas snorted quietly. “Proper hero, that one. He goes to Yovas and tells him what’s going on, triggers the old man’s charge, but not before Yovas orders him to the Fifth to tell Father Keint what’s going on.”

  “Good thing he did. If Keint hadn’t started forming a new front with the Fifth behind us, the battle might have been lost.”

  “Lucky Keint’s such a hard-nosed bastard,” Jonas said. “You know he pre-empted the orders General Martius sent through. Abandoned us, the Twelfth, and the Second. If he hadn’t done that, there wouldn’t have been anyone for Martius and his makeshift cavalry brigade to save.”

  “Father Keint’s a hard taskmaster, Jonas, but he’s a damned good leader. He knew he was leaving us to the fates but he also knew that’s what was needed. Yovas would have understood that. Keint is as much of a hero as Yovas was. You know Keint gave Lucus a commendation for outstanding bravery in the field?”

  “And Lucus might not be alive now if you hadn’t sent him off to raise the warning, boss,” Jonas replied. “I reckon he feels bad that he missed the action though.”

  “He did enough; fought like a demon with Keint and the Fifth, apparently. Let him milk his fame a while. He probably saved us.”

  Jonas leaned forward, fixing Conlan with sapphire eyes. “You know that’s not true, Conlan. What about the… others?” he said, voice pitched low.

  Conlan tensed. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about them, brother, General Martius made us swear.”

  “I know, but Conlan,” Jonas looked around uneasily, “how many of us were there?”

  “Eighty-seven survived, including us.”

  “Eighty-seven men, Conlan. Do you think no one will talk?”

  “We’re legion, Jonas.” said Conlan. “Honour, service, humility. Remember?”

  “I know the motto, boss. But not everyone’s a true believer; it’s only a matter of time, I reckon. We don’t even know who Martius has told, and men from other legions are talking of strange lights in the sky. There are rumours everywhere already.”

  “Alright,” Conlan raised a hand in defeat, “what the hell happened then? I know what I think I saw.” He paused, clenching and unclenching his fists. Maybe it’s better to talk. Maybe it will help. “I saw, they were…”

  “Perfect?”

  “Something like that, yes. Nobody moves like that, Jonas. It’s not possible.”

  Jonas nodded, eyes flashing. “There’s something else. You weren’t as close as I was, boss. They had no fear, nothing.”

  “You look like you have no fear, Jonas. Gods’ sake, you are implacable in battle, but that’s not how you really feel, is it?

  Jonas chuckled. “No, I’m pretty much shitting myself like every other bastard!”

  “Exactly.” A lot can be misinterpreted. We all look at life through our own personal lens. There’s no way to know what someone else is really thinking, how they truly feel.

  “No, this was different,” Jonas retorted. “They weren’t afraid of anything. I saw it with my own eyes. The big one looked like he was enjoying himself. He was smiling the whole time. I think it was him that we heard laughing before we saw them.”

  “What, you mean like Dylon used to? He always laughed in the face of death; he was famous for it.”

  “I know. He was hard as nails. May the dark god send him.” Jonas lifted his tankard in salute and took a deep draught of ale.

  “May the dark god send him,” Conlan completed the ritual.

  “But this was different, Con. The knights we saw at Sothlind, they were different.”

  Talk of Dylon threatened to push Conlan back into his fugue. Dylon should be here tonight, he thought, taking the piss out of everyone. King of banter, Dylon had always managed to turn everything into a competition – who could drink the most, who could eat the most, who could fart the loudest.

  “So… who do you think they were, Jonas?”

  Jonas produced a tight lipped smile. “Isn’t it obvious, boss? The bear, the bull, the hawk.”

  “Hawk?” Conlan echoed.

  “The woman, Con. You saw her breastplate, her hair. The red hawk…”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Martius

  THE SUN SHONE IN Martius’s eyes, a reflected rainbow haze rising from the pool at the centre of the vast courtyard. He had not visited Turbis as often as he should have, and he was surprised to see how much had changed. In the past, Turbis had always relished a soldier’s simplicity, despite the vast fortune he had accrued over the years. Now, though, it seemed to Martius that Turbis’s villa was the epitome of ostentation.

  Martius’s footsteps echoed off polished rose marble slabs, and he marvelled at the statuary that now surrounded the once plain swimming pool. The beauty of the carving, he found, was impossible to deny, but the garish painting of the marble detracted from the overall aesthetic, the true artistry of the sculptor buried beneath layers of paint. The pool was ringed by statues of past emperors, stone arms raised in salute, and generals on horseback, one seemingly reviewing the landscape, another at attention, helmet under arm. Heroes all. In pride of place, Turbis had a new addition: Standing on a plinth in the centre of the pool was a larger than life statue of Turbis himself. Not the Turbis of today, but the man that Martius remembered from his youth – stern, lean and grim. The sculpture of the saviour of the Empire sat astride a rearing battle mount, looking like a god, sword drawn and pointing skyward, cloak flowing in the wind. Martius was quite disturbed to see that the whole edifice appeared to be sculpted in gold. He had little doubt that it was solid, or at the least hollow cast. Turbis could afford it; he was, after all, one of the richest men in the Empire.

  Approaching the pavilion at the Southern end of the pool Martius saw slaves, assistants, fan bearers and a lone minstrel had all gathered for their master’s pleasure. Turbis sat atop a throne of cushions, sweet meats and candied fruits within reach on the right. A scribe, conspicuously plain amongst the opulence, in a woollen tunic and leather sandals, to his right, clutching a stack of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.

  Turbis was clearly deep in thought, eyes glazed and distant, his voice sonorous but low as he recited to all. “... But that was not the issue, you see. We had no hope of keeping them alive and so on the seventh day I ordered the horses slaughtered.” His words were accompanied by the timid scratch of quill on parchment. “They would provide good meat for the men. But with the horses gone, there was no dung to cook the meat, so I had the men slice it thin and dry it in the sun in the manner of the sandmen themselves…”

  Martius paused, head cocked, not wanting to disturb the legend. The ghost of Turbis of old still lives in you, old man, he thought. But you are stuck in your past. He cleared his throat a little louder than intended, but it had the required effect.

  Turbis’s head snapped around, his eyes squinting up in irritation. But his face brightened when recognition dawned. “Ah, Martius. I had not expected you till later.” Eyes twinkling, he reached for a jewel-encrusted goblet and took a noisy sip. “Come, sit. I was just dictating the next chapter of my memoirs. Perhaps you would like to listen for a while?”

  Martius grinned broadly, suspecting his friend was more than a little merry. As he entered the open face of the pavilion, a servant moved an ornate cushioned stool directly before Turbis.

  “So I am to learn at the feet of the master again,” Martius said, sitting obediently, remembering his many years in Turbis’s service. “You know I am an avid reader of your work Antius Turbis,” he said respectfully. “But I worry tha
t I would disturb your thinking… interfere with your flow.”

  Turbis took another sip from his goblet, this time allowing the contents to dribble down the stem onto his cloth of gold tunic. “Quite right, my boy, quite right.” He waved his left arm dismissively, revealing a bandaged stump where his hand should have been. The young scribe quickly stood in response, bowed once and scampered away. “Make sure you get that written up by tomorrow, lad!” Turbis called after him. Pausing, Turbis eyed the space where his hand should have been as if surprised he could not find it, then leaned forward awkwardly, proffering the stump to Martius, “What do you think? Properly armless now? A completely armless General, eh?” He slumped back into the mountainous heap of cushions, a flash of revulsion crossing his face.

  Martius laughed politely whilst the servants and slaves exchanged furtive glances, making a mental note to speak to Unclus, the master of the house. He wondered if his friend’s condition was worsening. “It’s just another hard-earned war wound; a badge of honour, if you will.” The words sounded hollow even to himself. “You know, you really should not have tried to take the whole damned army on single handed.”

  Turbis ceased all movement for a moment then began to chuckle. “Single handed, Single handed. How wonderful!” He shook his head and took another gulp of wine. “That’s one for the memoirs, Felix. Oh yes, one for the memoirs.”

  Martius raised an eyebrow. He could not remember the old general ever using his first name. Although he knew Turbis was not an aristocrat himself, he had always adhered to the old ways, where first names were used only to identify individuals in the same family. But then he could not remember seeing Turbis in this fragile a mood before. Martius cursed himself for letting the old man join him for the battle. He held no official rank, after all, but somehow it seemed right to have the man who saved the Empire with him again as a trusted advisor.

  “Forgive me,” Martius said, raising a hand, palm outward. “Forgive me. It was an unintended jest and a bad one at that.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” Turbis’s eyes shone with forgotten light. “However, I fear that was the last battle of Turbis the Great!” He looked again at his stump. “I sometimes get the damnedest feeling it’s still there. Even tried to scratch my head the other day…”

  “I’ve heard men tell similar tales.” Martius hadn’t seen the loss of the hand himself, but by all accounts Turbis had been foolishly brave in the battle, allowing himself, in his eagerness, to get separated from the rest of the men. His horse taken out from under him, he had fought on foot till aid arrived. If nothing else, his legend had been rekindled at Sothlind valley. “I once knew a trooper that lost his manhood, sliced clean off if you can believe that. He swore blind he still got a hard on every morning.”

  Turbis, roared with laughter, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. “Ah, he did better than me then! Can’t remember the last time the little man arose!” With that, perhaps feeling he had revealed too much, Turbis seemed to calm somewhat and make an effort to recover his dignity. “You always made me laugh, lad. Even when you were a snot-nosed youngster!”

  Martius smiled indulgently. “I am glad to be of service, my general.”

  “Ah, gods, man.” Turbis brandished his stump again. “You are the only real general here. You saved the bloody Empire, you did.”

  “Not the first…”

  “And you won’t be the last.” Turbis paused to swig more wine flamboyantly. “But for the moment there’s only the two of us can claim to have done it.” He eyed Martius conspiratorially over his goblet. “At the moment, you are the most powerful man in the Empire. How does it feel?”

  Martius straightened on his stool. It was dangerous to talk of power in the capital, but Turbis seemed blissfully unaware of the ears around him. “Perhaps I could try a glass of the wine? What is it you are drinking?” he asked with a noncommittal shrug.

  Turbis peered deep into his goblet and gave it a desultory sniff. “It’s a Connorian red, one of my own. From the estate up north. Damned fine stuff. The vintners tell me there’s good schisty soil and it’s on a west-facing slope or some such nonsense.” He gestured with his stump to a nearby slave. “Wine for the general here, there’s a good girl.” Turbis watched the slim olive-skinned young woman - scratching his stump absentmindedly on his cheek - as she fetched a goblet and wine carafe. “You must forgive me, Martius. I quite forgot my manners.”

  Martius accepted the goblet, holding it out whilst the wine was poured. “Not at all, Turbis.” He caught the slave girl’s eye and she dropped her gaze, deftly moving to her original position, still clutching the jug in hand as she adopted the slave’s traditionally blank mien, carefully staring into the middle distance. Martius had the strangest feeling that he knew her face, then realised with a start that she bore a striking resemblance to Turbis’s long-dead wife, Symia. Pushing the thought from his mind, Martius sniffed the wine - it had subtle overtones of blackberry and oak - then took a small sip. “This is a fine wine indeed.” Looking at the slave girl again, he wondered why Turbis would choose to surround himself with reminders of his loss; the man seemed hell bent on torturing himself. “My compliments to your vintners.”

  Turbis raised his goblet, taking a large gulp. “Not bad, eh?” He raised the goblet and the slave girl filled it without raising her eyes. “Think I might retire up there. It really is beautiful and the weather is so much warmer.”

  “It would be good for you, could help speed your recovery.”

  “I do not doubt it, son,” Turbis sighed, glancing briefly in the slave girl’s direction. “I do not doubt it.” He put his goblet down, rubbing his bandaged stump with his good hand. “Damned thing itches like buggery.”

  “Leave it alone or it will never heal.”

  “Of course, of course.” Turbis sank back down into his pillows with a sigh. “So are you going to tell me how your, ah… plans are getting on then? I’m damned curious, truth be told.”

  Martius took a quick sip of wine, savouring the delicious flavour. “I did come here for a private word, old friend, if that is alright?”

  Turbis’s eyes were drooping markedly now; he bore a puzzled expression until, finally, his face brightened in realisation. “Everybody out!” he roared. “And remind Unclus I will be dining at seven on the terrace.”

  The retinue departed silently. Martius waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Turbis, we cannot risk speaking in the open.” His tone was earnest. “You know there are ears everywhere.”

  Turbis waved his hand dismissively, “What, them? They’re all loyal.”

  “Nevertheless…” Martius fought to control his rising impatience. “… we should minimise any risk. You know as well as I do there is a target on my back now. I have enemies.”

  “Ah, nonsense. Who would dare?”

  “There are many. The reforms I have brought in over the last twenty years have not been supported by all. The nobles think I will bring the Empire down. You know that.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard. You want a republic, or you would make yourself Emperor; you want to make a deal with the high king of the Farisians so he can rule the Empire! Everyone knows it’s utter nonsense, eh?” Turbis drained his goblet in one drought, then appearing to realise that no one remained to fill it, tossed it petulantly into the cushions. “Had enough anyhow!” He brushed absently at the crimson stain on his tunic. “No one takes it seriously, man. Just gossip. Besides, you’re a bloody nobleman.”

  The Emperor might not feel the same way, Martius thought. “I came here to discuss matters of importance with you.” His voice was clipped, harsher than intended. “You are the only one I trust.”

  Turbis’s eyes reddened, his face flushing. “Sorry lad, sorry. You know I’m here for you.” He shook his head. “It’s the damned wine; fogs the brain. How’s your plan going?”

  “I think I have convinced the Emperor and the Senate that they shouldn’t kill all the captives,” Martius chewed his lip.
“They are to be sold in the slave markets instead.”

  “Good, good. Bondage is better than death, surely? You will save many lives.”

  “Yes, but many will die in the mines, the quarries…” Martius did not want death for the savages captured at Sothlind. What honour was there in killing defeated men?

  “And many more will live, man. You cannot save them all. Do you think they would have shown us mercy if they’d won, eh?”

  Martius ran a finger slowly round the top of his goblet. “You know, when they invaded Selesia, they didn’t cause as much damage as we thought. The walled cities were passed by, left unmolested if they paid a ransom – in food.”

  “But they destroyed the Twenty-first Legion outside of Veirian, didn’t they? They are barbarians. It’s all well and good you preaching all men are equal in the Empire, but barbarians?” Turbis looked wistfully at his empty goblet and shook his head. “You didn’t show them much pity at Sothlind, did you? ‘Kill the bastards’ I heard you say it, man.”

  “That was different. They were armed, they could defend themselves. Did you get a good look at them?”

  Turbis waved his bandaged arm. “I would bloody well think so. Yes!”

  “You know what I mean. The only reason they got as far as they did was because there were well over half a million of them. The scouts have reported that most who remain are women and children. They were poor, hungry and disorganised. They are not soldiers.”

  “You are growing soft, man. They killed thousands of our people, they deserve to be punished. Look at what happened to the Third and the Twelfth, not to mention the other legions. We were damned lucky to win.”

  Martius pursed his lips. “We were lucky to win, yes. But if we continue to rule by fear, we are doomed. Our dead cannot be replaced but if we exact a terrible revenge, no one wins, don’t you see? The Third and the Twelfth will be rebuilt.”

  “Not the Twelfth,” Turbis whispered.

  “What?”

  “The Twelfth will be disbanded.”