Jonas puffed air through his cheeks, his exasperation clear. “Yes, you’re right, boss. But think about it again: I’ll grant you a bear on its own. But a bear, a bull and a hawk all in one place? And a red hawk at that?”
Conlan wished he had faith. He truly envied those that believed the actions they took in life would shape their fate in the afterlife. He could not remember when he had decided that there were no gods, which lead to the inevitable terrifying conclusion that there was no afterlife. As a child, his mother had always ensured that they attended proper services, the proper worship given to the right god at the right time. The celebration of All Gods’ Eve, he recalled, had been a time of great happiness in the household with his father often given special leave to return from barracks to his family. When his father lay dying of consumption, his mother had taken him to pray daily to Syke, the twin faced goddess of healing and death. Then, as the illness progressed, the fever and night sweats accompanied by blood-thickened sputum, they had turned even to Lord Terran himself, begging for succour and relief.
Relief had come only in death for Conlan’s father. One morning Conlan had been woken by his mother’s pitiful wails. His father had looked peaceful in the end, relieved to be free of all worldly pain; and the image of his face in that moment was forever engraved on his son’s psyche.
It was not the death that first shook Conlan’s faith, nor the manner of it – many died from consumption, it was a fact of life. It was the circumstance, the cruelty of the timing. His father had lived for one year after his retirement from military service. One year in which he should have looked for the small farmstead that he had dreamed of buying with his pension. One year in which he had promised himself and his family that he would deliver them the dream of escaping life in the city. Instead, he had fallen ill almost immediately on his return. Conlan knew his father must have suspected he had developed the wasting disease. When the coughing started, he must have been certain. Conlan later learnt that his father had forbidden his mother from spending the pension on vain efforts to find a cure. She had done it anyway, hiring a steady stream of priests and charlatans who claimed they could cure the disease. Usually provided they were paid, of course.
“There are no gods,” Conlan snapped. “They don’t exist and they never did.”
Jonas fixed him with an uncharacteristically compassionate gaze. “I know that’s how you feel, but I think different, you know that, and so do most other people in the world. We can’t all be wrong y’know.”
Conlan was abashed, guilty for trying to force his negative thoughts on his friend, for not respecting his faith. “Look. I just mean that they can’t be the gods; forget that I don’t believe in any of it. Just use your brain: if they were the gods, if that man...” Conlan heaved a sigh. “Do I need to remind you he is in the house at this moment? If that man is Lord Terran, surely he would have been able to defeat the whole horde on his own? He wouldn’t have needed help from anyone and he certainly wouldn’t have ended up face down in the mud at the end of the battle.”
Jonas produced a thin-lipped smile. “Boss, I’m just trying to open your eyes here. Like I said, just the bear is odd, but three of them together?”
Jonas had explained his theory to Conlan once before. The bear was the Lord Terran; the bull was Toruss, god of war; and the hawk was Syke, she of two aspects – goddess of healing and red god of death.
“Yes,” Conlan conceded, “I know your theory. But it’s only you Sacreuns that associate the gods with animal totems.”
“True, but that’s just because we’ve gone back to the earliest scriptures. We haven’t allowed our faith to be diluted with everything that came after, or be twisted and changed like the others have. Besides, all denominations worship Lord Terran as the great bear, it’s not just us.”
Conlan knew that he would not win the argument. Jonas’s faith was not blind, but it was pure to the point of innocence. “But –”
Abruptly, a young legionary flung open the tent flap.
“Sorry to disturb you, sirs,” said the man, barely out of his teens by the look of him. “But the general would like to see you. Father Conlan, he has ordered that we prepare the legion. We are to march immediately to his estate in the south.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Martius
THE SUN WAS JUST beginning to heat the morning dew, producing a fine haze that rose up from the grass to greet the dawn. There had been a red sky last evening as the legion set up camp. Martius had known many red skies at night. He was not looking forward to the heat of the day that they inevitably preceded.
Battle dress does not lend itself to comfort at the best of times, he reflected, as his horse plodded steadily at the front of the snaking column. In the heat, armour could quickly become unbearable. It was not himself that he worried for, or even the legion; all had been trained to endure far worse. Any legion could easily tolerate forced marches of thirty miles a day or more for short periods. It was the servants and other members of the household, those who would not normally join a marching legion that might not withstand the pressure.
Martius gazed down the column and checked on Ursus, Accipiter and Elissa – not for the first time. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of his children, almost grown to full adulthood. Elissa had insisted on riding, not satisfied to sit in the carriage with Doctore Nessius, who tended her mother with his assistants.
It had been weeks and Ellasand remained unconscious, Martius, as ever, fought back despair at the thought of her. Doctore Nessius had served the Felix family for over forty years and Martius knew none better. The old medic said that he had seen people regain consciousness after similar lengths of time, and Martius clung to his words, allowing them to override all logic. Ellasand would survive, he was certain. He had to be certain.
His boys had recounted the tale on the evening of the attack. Ursus, pale from blood loss, pushing through the pain as Doctore Nessius stitched the wound in his arm. Accipiter, normally the brasher of the two, shaking visibly as shock set in, eyes full of sympathy for his brother, and fear for his mother, in equal measure. The tale they told was confused at first, jumbled by stress and grief, but eventually Martius managed to distil the truth, with some help from Elissa, who wandered between the prone form of her mother – lying deathly pale on the bed – and her younger brothers. Elissa’s eyes were tired, but attentive nonetheless to any need, filling in the gaps and embellishing her brothers' explanation.
When the first attacker appeared in the doorway, Elissa had screamed; it was her that Martius heard. Ellasand had moved forwards, pushing the boys behind her, calling for Elissa at the same time, and then asking the man what he wanted. The assassin had moved straight for Elissa without saying a word, taking hold of her before the others could react, making way for more assassins to enter and quickly force a gap between them. Ellasand had not waited on the outcome, but charged the first man and wrestled with him, receiving a blow that knocked her staggering back to the bed. The twins had reacted in unison, simultaneously holding the attackers at bay to protect their fallen mother whilst trying desperately to find a way to reach Elissa.
The boys had admitted it was not until the fight was over that they realised their mother was unconscious. To their minds, it had been mere seconds between the first assassin appearing and Wulf, Optuss and finally Martius himself coming to their rescue. Wulf fought bravely, the boys had recounted, although they could only recall a confused jumble of images. The impact he made when he entered the room; their confusion over seeing a stranger coming to their aid. Optuss, however, had left a lasting impression on them. Optuss had appeared behind their attackers and stopped, pausing for what must have seemed an age before, apparently without sound or expression, he calmly dispatched both men. One with a cut through the back of the neck that almost beheaded him and the other with the return swing as he glanced around, a clean swipe to the neck, straight under the chin. Both men were dead in a second, and Optuss – his objective seemingly achi
eved – returned to his previous state, eyes unfocused, sword hanging limply at his side just as Martius had found him.
Martius had no idea why Optuss saved his sons, but he was grateful to the strange, empty man. Somehow Martius was certain that Optuss would not have saved Wulf, who would have died but for his own timely arrival and intervention.
Martius had sat for hours in the days that followed, watching Optuss, trying to make a connection with his consciousness, but if there was a change in the man, he could not see it. Optuss obeyed basic instructions, mostly from Metrotis but also, occasionally, from others. The only demonstration of free will he had made was in saving Ursus and Accipiter. Optuss remained an enigma that scratched around inside Martius’s head most days, an irritating puzzle that had to be solved. What was he? What was his purpose? On more than one occasion, Martius had meditated on the possibility that the man was simply acting. Alternatively, perhaps he was suffering from some sickness of the mind like those that afflicted many in the Empire, sicknesses that were often misinterpreted as demonic possession or evil witchcraft by an overzealous and superstitious population.
Martius glanced back again and checked on the carriages. Both swayed precariously as they negotiated large ruts in the road. The foremost carried his beloved Ellasand, along with the doctore. Martius spent his evenings with her in the gloom of the cabin, speaking to her of the old days before Elissa and the boys were born, of the journey they were taking and of politics and life in the Empire that they saw on the busy roads near the capital.
Behind Ellasand’s carriage was a larger supply transport, pulled by four military mules. This carriage had been converted into a mobile prison of sorts. Optuss travelled in this moveable cell, not chained to the wall or restrained in any way, but not free to leave, either. Only Martius’s trusted corps of housemen and his nephew Metrotis were ever allowed to visit. The wagon was a source of much gossip and discussion around the campfires of an evening. Martius knew it was never a good idea to keep things from the men – it lowered morale – but he dared not risk revealing Optuss until they were well clear of the capital.
Satisfied that his charges were safe and secure for the time being, he allowed his mind to wonder. Rolling wooded hills stood in the distance as far as the eye could see. Green and verdant fields lined either side of the road. The heart of the Empire had been occupied for so long that there was barely a spot that did not show some sign of human activity. Dry stone walls bracketed the road and spread in a lazy checkerboard across the broad landscape, stretching as far as the eye could see. Here and there, hamlets and farmsteads rose, blending into their surroundings. Some had stood for a thousand years or more, tended lovingly by successive generations.
Soon, the Phoenix legion would enter the precinct of Osslind, less heavily populated than the north and all the more beautiful for it. Osslind was home to the ancient summer villa of house Felix, the place of Martius’s birth and home to his fondest memories. The peaches would be coming into season soon, he had reminded Ellasand the night before as she lay in the carriage – her breathing slow and shallow – whispering “I will pick you the sweetest, my love,” as he stroked her hair.
A hawk circled lazily above, seeking prey, perhaps, or just enjoying the fresh morning thermals. The hawk, thought Martius. The hawk, the bull and the bear. These three had been seen on the battlefield of Sothlind; many of the soldiers said they had glimpsed others, but not clearly, swirling through the battle.
Martius roused himself from his reverie and turned in his saddle. “So you do not believe your friends’ stories, Father Conlan?”
It took Conlan a moment to reply, as if he also was lost in a world of his own. “I would say that, yes, sir,” he finally replied. “Jonas has been devout as long as I have known him. Comes from a long line of Sacreuns. I think his thoughts are blurred by his faith.”
“Yes, I see, that would make sense.” Martius said. Faith can blind the best on occasion. Or maybe blind faith is not what is needed to understand the puzzle of the hawk and of her brethren. Of Optuss.
“Bunch of fanatics, don’t you think?” Turbis, who rode on Martius’s left, interjected. He looked saddle sore and weary already, even though it was early in the day.
“You know my mother was raised in the Sacreun faith, old friend,” said Martius. He glanced sideways and smiled.
“Oh… well, must have forgotten, Martius, no insult intended. Just, they have some strange ideas, eh?” Turbis straightened in his saddle.
A polite cough sounded from behind Martius. “If I might interrupt, sirs?” said Villius
“By all means, Villius,” Martius replied, glancing over his shoulder and beckoning with his right hand. He had discovered a newfound respect for his young proctor since their night at the house of the thief, Jhan Guttel. Villius, in return, had maintained a stoical detachment, as if he hid behind the formality of rank and tradition. It served as a silent reproof to Martius, even if it was not intended to do so. I almost lost myself. You pulled me back from the edge. He would be grateful to Villius for the rest of his days. You will have your own legion to command one day, Villius. I owe you that much at least.
Villius drew his horse abreast of the others. “I hope you don’t mind me being forward, sirs, but I am Sacreun. I don’t think someone’s denomination should necessarily influence their thoughts. I don’t think there is any way that Father Conlan’s friend…” He turned to Conlan with a look of consternation on his face.
“Cohort Commander Jonas,” said Conlan.
“Cohort Commander Jonas. I don’t think there is any way he can be right. These armoured warriors are men, sirs, that much is clear. This Optuss…” Villius cast a nervous look towards the lumbering carriage behind. “This Optuss is a man just like us. I have watched him. He breathes; he eats; he defecates. He is just like us.”
“Just very strange?” said Martius, raising an eyebrow. Strange is something of an understatement though.
“He is very strange, sir,” Villius acknowledged. “But being very strange doesn’t make him a god.”
“Agree!” said Turbis with a snort. “Load of nonsense, the lot of it. A bear, a bull and a hawk, it’s just what they had painted on their armour is all. It’s just a coincidence.”
“I think you are probably right,” said Martius. “Nevertheless it would not be a bad idea to hear the theory in full.” The key has to be there to find, why else would they armour themselves in such a manner? “Perhaps you could fill us in on the details, Father Conlan.”
Conlan looked almost sheepish for a moment. “I don’t think I’m the best to tell, sir. As you know, I’m not religious myself. Never really believed in anything. All I know is what Jonas has told me about the scriptures.”
Martius nodded in understanding. The boy has no religion, a little odd, perhaps, but not unheard of in the modern world. It intrigued him to wonder what had happened to drive Conlan away from faith. “I understand,” he said. “In that case, may I ask Proctor Villius?” Martius turned to his young assistant. “Villius, I know that the animal totems are associated with each god in your faith?”
Villius straightened in his saddle. “Yes, sir, that’s true, but it is also true of the more… the more mainstream denominations; I believe all branches of the faith dress as animals to celebrate All Gods’ Eve?”
Martius allowed himself a teasing smile. There were bridges to build with Villius, and it felt very much like they had to be constructed over deep canyons. “Well, Villius, you certainly know your scriptures.”
Villius looked a little self-conscious, or perhaps he doubted himself. “It, it seems that Father Conlan’s friend thinks that the man we found on the battlefield is the living incarnation of the Lord Terran.” As he said the name, Villius placed his right hand over his heart and lowered his head in the manner traditional amongst the devout when they discussed the king of the gods. “That would make the other man that was seen, the man with the bull device on his armour, the god of war,
Toruss, and the hawk woman the goddess Syke, she of two faces.”
“So we had Lord Terran and his two children?” Martius knew the theory already; had agonised over it for hours. However, it never hurt to go over old ground again. You never knew when you might find something new, something previously hidden.
Villius’s eyes rolled slightly. “His first two children, sir, those he had with Afeus before she was lost outside of the world.”
“I know the story, Villius,” Martius nodded. “Lord Terran closed the world to save us all from the demons, for they had become jealous of his creation. But he did not know that his wife, the Lady Afeus, had secretly travelled to entreat with them and ask that they cease their fury.”
Villius’s eyes widened. “Sir, you know your scriptures; you are very close to the word of the books.”
Martius shrugged lightly. “As I said, my mother was brought up in the Sacreun faith.” She had read stories to him as a child every night; he recalled an image of her as she once was – stern and powerful – it filled his mind. “I would have to say that the man we have with us does not seem omniscient or all powerful.” His mother’s image evaporated, replaced by Optuss, looming over his twin sons, blood dripping from the sword held limply in his hand. “He is, or was, a very powerful man though.” Martius fought back a shiver.
“You have no idea,” said Conlan, his voice sharp and decisive. “I’ve never seen people move like they did. The man I saw at Sothlind was virtually invincible and he was fully aware of his surroundings. More so than any man I’ve ever seen. He seemed to know what was going to happen before it did.” Conlan raised his right hand to his earlobe and stroked it absently. It was a habit Martius had seen repeated many times. “I swear I saw him block a blow that he could not have seen. He had his back to the man at the time.”
“A lot of things get confused in battle, eh?” said Turbis. “Easy to get confused, my boy.”
The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 Page 5
