Conlan sat alone in his command tent, his desk cluttered with papers and reports. He found his eyes straining to focus in the light of the candles that were dotted around, each cast dancing shadows that only served to mesmerise and distract. He rose and stretched his arms high in the air, almost touching the blue-stained canvas above, then walked to the brazier in the centre of the tent to warm his hands. It had been a long day.
After encountering the legions moving north, General Martius had quickened the pace. They had covered twenty miles today, not a huge distance in legionary terms – a forced march could easily cover thirty – but the soldiers found themselves hampered by bottlenecks on the road. One small bridge, crossing a river that marked the western boundary of the vast Felix estate – the ancestral home of Martius’s family – had caused a long delay as the engineers judged it in need of reinforcement prior to crossing. Conlan wondered at the appropriateness of the army repairing private property – the bridge appeared sound to him – but Martius had been insistent once the issue was broached, ordering the engineers to retrofit the bridge for rapid destruction, as if he still feared attack. Either that, Conlan speculated, or he wants to make his personal fiefdom more easily defensible.
Conlan stretched once more, this time reaching low to let his hands touch the patterned woollen rug at his feet, newly embroidered with a yellow phoenix rising angrily from coarsely woven orange flames. Having spent years in the basic canvas of the rank and file soldier, a carpeted tent was luxury beyond imagination. Earlier he had hosted his cohort commanders, detailing orders and listening to updates. The Phoenix seemed sound.
Jonas had stayed behind after the others were dismissed, seating himself on the cot bed, nonchalant and relaxed as ever.
“Can’t get over how the other half live, boss,” Jonas said, hands idly brushing the soft cotton sheets. “You must feel like a pig in shit.”
Conlan had given up on trying to enforce any kind of distance from his friend, the effort was too great and Jonas seemed to have a cutting riposte to all his attempts. Besides, he thought, this is Martius’s new army. Are we not supposed to be first among equals? “At least you still address me properly in front of the men,” he said with a smile.
“Of course, Father Conlan… Although to be honest I’m not sure how you can be my father, us being the same age and all.”
They had chatted for an hour, discussing the march ahead and the past, remembering old days. The men, no doubt capitalising on his growing reputation as one of the saviours of Sothlind, had apparently promoted Lucus, who Conlan had not spoken to for weeks, to branch leader.
They each indulged in a goblet of wine, not strictly against the regulations, Conlan had assured himself, as the legion was not in enemy territory. Jonas left the command tent with a gentle wave of his hand and a disrespectful wink. Conlan had felt more relaxed for the company, and, perhaps, the wine.
Now, Conlan continued his gentle stretching exercises. He found his days, mostly spent on horseback, and his evenings, mostly sat at a desk, had started to tighten the muscles of his back. Must join the men in exercises when we reach the villa, he chided himself. Don’t want to be the next Turbis – great in size as well as reputation. In truth he was only just regaining full fitness after his time in the Hole. Martius’s punishment, designed to be psychological, took a surprising physical toll.
A gentle cough sounded from beyond the tent door. “Father Conlan,” said General Martius. “May I enter?”
Conlan’s heart skipped a beat. His half-finished goblet still stood on his desk, Jonas had casually dumped the other on the floor by the brazier before he departed. Moving swiftly, he kicked the offending article under the bed, it skittered across the floor, spraying small droplets of Connorian red across the rug. It clattered against one of the bed legs before settling just out of sight, an occasional low gleam the only evidence of its continued existence.
“Come in, General.” Conlan tried to keep his voice light, casual; but he stood to attention nonetheless.
Martius entered and gently closed the flap behind him. He was not tall – of average stature really – but somehow he managed to occupy more space than most, as if the mass of his presence forced nature to focus all attention towards him. He glanced around the room, no doubt, Conlan worried, cataloguing and judging the minutiae.
“You do not need to stand to attention for me, Conlan.” Martius’s voice was gentle, friendly, almost. “You are a legion father now. Unlike me, you were voted into your position.” Generals were put forward for election by convocation of legion fathers, but only the Emperor could confirm them in their role.
Conlan persuaded his body to relax, but his mind could not. “Sorry, sir… force of habit.”
“You do not need to call me sir in private, Conlan. In time I would hope that we can become friends.” Eyes fixed on Conlan’s desk, Martius raised an eyebrow at the bottle and goblet. “Why not? We are on my lands now, Conlan. I have not been home for far too long. Would you share your wine with me? It would help to keep the chill off.” He moved to the desk, lifted the bottle and took a small sniff. “Ah, Connorian red; my favourite.”
“Of course, General Martius.” He quickly retrieved another goblet from his travelling chest and poured for them both.
Martius sat on the desk chair and beckoned Conlan to join him.
Conlan pulled his travelling chest close and deposited himself on its lid. Memories of school days flooded his mind. He had the overwhelming feeling he was about to receive a lesson. He failed in an attempt to appear comfortable, his legs crossed at an awkward angle before him.
“Fine wine this,” said Martius with a sigh. “I’m guessing it was a gift from good General Turbis?”
Conlan nodded and took a sip. “He has been very kind to me. Gave me a case, said I would need it.” Turbis was a character, that much was certain; that and he was not the man his legend suggested, or at least he was not that man any more.
Martius smiled. “You probably will. I remember when I first made father of the Twelfth.” He swirled the wine in his goblet for a long moment. “They were good days, but it was hard.” He motioned to the papers on the desk. “They do not tell you about the paperwork. Better to be a cohort commander, I thought, a good balance between deskwork and real soldiering. But then you did not get a gentle introduction through the ranks, did you?”
Conlan shrugged, felt a small frown crease his brow. “It has been a tricky adjustment, sir.” Tricky would be an understatement. He wanted to say. I don’t think I’m ready.
Martius raised an eyebrow.
Did I do something wrong? Conlan searched his mind for the error. “I mean, General Martius.”
“That will suffice, although just plain Martius would do, it is my given name, after all.” Martius swept his arms wide to encompass the tent. “Position has its privileges, does it not? You are the youngest to make father in living history. I was a little older but I had been cohort commander for a year when old Father Huwius caught his arrow. It was difficult for me. Very difficult. How are you finding it, really?”
To admit weakness went against Conlan’s instincts but something in Martius’s manner – and perhaps the wine in his blood – relaxed him. “It, it’s a struggle to be honest. I’m a soldier, not an administrator.”
Martius laughed lightly. “I dare say that is an understatement. You do well to admit when you have problems. It is foolish not to. I would hope that you will learn that you can be honest with me. A good leader, Conlan…” Martius’s eyes became searching. “In my opinion, a good leader should know their own weaknesses and not be afraid to admit to them.” He peered into his goblet for a long moment as if it held the answer to the greatest of mysteries. “We all make mistakes, Conlan. I made one myself quite recently, I am ashamed to admit.”
Conlan shifted himself awkwardly on the wooden chest. His feet were already tingling as his blood flow constricted. “But surely it’s dangerous to show weakness? How can the men
respect a weak leader?”
“Do not confuse leadership with command. You command with the authority that has been given to you by the Phoenix.” Martius gestured with his goblet at the fiery bird adorning the ornate rug. “You must command and you must do it with authority. However, to truly lead you must have the respect of the men, and the best way to do that is to show them that you are one of them, that you understand their needs. If you are sympathetic when needed you will gain respect, and more importantly, loyalty. If your men are loyal your life will be much simpler, believe me.”
“So I should let them know I’m weak, that I feel overwhelmed?”
Martius shook his head. “No, there is a balance; and it is difficult to strike. You must be confident and consistent. I am just saying that if you are honest with them over some things, then they will find it easier to relate to you, easier to sympathise with your position. If they are able to put themselves in your shoes they will empathise with your difficulties and will often take action to relieve your burden.”
“But… ” Conlan frowned. “You act as if you know the answers all the time, people follow you because you’re confident. You don’t make mistakes.”
Martius pointed to the phoenix adorning the carpet. “I make mistakes, Conlan. I have made more than I can count over the years. I have been lucky. I rise like a phoenix from the ashes of every debacle I fall into.” He sighed and took a long draught of wine. “There have been a couple quite recently.”
“But I’ve seen you in battle,” Conlan protested. “The other day, when we thought the enemy was upon us, you looked like you were happy – like you didn’t have a care in the world.”
Martius chortled, suddenly appearing younger by years. “Do you know what Turbis says about me?”
Conlan shrugged.
“He says I could fall face down in a pile of shit and come up smelling of roses! I look confident because when battle is near I need to command, and the men need to see that I know what I am doing. When you command you are exercising your authority. There can be no outward hesitation on the battlefield.” He raised a hand, tapping his forefinger against the side of his head. “That all happens in here. It happens fast, but believe me, it does happen.” His expression grew more serious. “The man who does not hesitate does not consider the options. If he does not consider the options then he may miss something. There is danger in that. Arrogance breeds mistakes.”
Conlan could not stop himself from shaking his head in denial. “I’m sorry, but you appear very... confident when there’s danger. How do you do that?”
“Years of practice. Listen, I am not saying that I am not overtly, and if you were Turbis, you would say overly, confident.” Martius raised his hands high as if in subjection to the gods. “You should have seen me when I was young! I thought I knew everything about everything and I had the arrogance or self-delusion to carry many of my ideas through.” He lowered his arms and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you want to know what I have learned over the years?”
Conlan hesitated, not sure if the whole session was some form of test. It all seemed like a test with Martius. “Yes… I suppose… I think…”
“I learned that the more you know, the longer that you live, the more you realise how little you know and how little time there is left to fill in the blanks.”
In the long silence that followed, Conlan could only nod. I would follow this man to the dark god's domain and back right now; there is truth in his words.
Martius appeared lost in thought for a long moment. His obsidian eyes, reflecting the candlelight, gleamed like hot coals.
They both sipped wine in what Conlan suspected was a comfortable silence for the older man, but one that dragged interminably for him. His mother had always told him that insecure people could not abide long periods of silence. ‘Only speak when you have something to say,’ she had chided him on the day he left for the academy.
“I need to know if you are with me, Conlan.” Martius fixed him with an intense stare.
“With you?” I’m here right now...
“You know I have picked up the pace the last few days.” It was a statement more than a question.
“Yes,” Conlan replied.
“Something is deeply wrong, Conlan. I can feel it in my bones. Do you know why we passed the Sothlind garrison, three whole legions moving north?”
“They said they’d been ordered back to the capital, but no, I don’t know why.” Conlan felt a deep disquiet at the move too, it made no sense if the threat from the Wicklanders, reduced as it was, still existed.
“Neither do I, and I am supposed to be in charge of the army.” Anger seemed, for the first time in Conlan’s experience, to tinge the general’s words.
“But… that means the Emperor must have given the order himself?” Conlan mulled the words over in his mind. If Martius did not know why the legions were moving then he was no longer privy to the Emperor and central Imperial policy. “Why wouldn’t he tell you? Unless there is a reason, unless there is...” The final piece of the puzzle dropped into Conlan’s consciousness like a gravestone. “He ordered your assassination?” The words seemed to echo around the command tent. They were moving south to get away from the threat, to remove themselves from the Emperor’s grasp. But that meant...
Martius’s head dropped. “I believe it is possible he was behind the attempt.” He pitched his voice low, as if he forced the words out grudgingly. “The assassins were dressed in the garb of the Sender monks, but that particular order was banned over a century ago, even the priests of the Sender – those who destroyed my beloved Twelfth – abhor even the memory of the monks. Many of the assassins bore legion tattoos.”
“So we’re escaping?”
“We were taking sensible precautions,” Martius said with a sigh. “I garnered important information from a man in the capital, a man I misjudged; a man I have wronged.”
“What do you mean by sensible precautions?” Are we on the run? The thought struck Conlan as absurd. Are we fugitives? What man did you wrong?
“We were going to wait at my villa and assess the situation in safety. Potentially gather troops. There are many veterans farming the smallholdings of my lands. They are loyal to me and my family.”
Conlan gasped as the cold hand of reality touched his heart. “Revolution! General, I–”
Martius raised a placating hand. “No, Conlan. The game has changed. Capture the king is no longer an option, not, despite the rumours that it was ever something I seriously considered. The southern legions would have protected the Empire from the barbarian threat, and whatever else is coming, whilst we dealt with our... issues.”
“So what are you going to do now?” Conlan blinked slowly, twice. The world seemed suddenly unreal, like a dream unravelling.
“We will stop at the villa and gather what troops we can. Then we move south into Selesia. We are going back to Sothlind and beyond. The Empire lies undefended, we have no choice.” Martius’s jet black eyes fixed on Conlan, threatening to drown him with their stern conviction. “Are you with me, Conlan?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Metrotis
METROTIS WAS GLAD TO be at the villa. Nowhere else in the world made him feel so relaxed. The Felix family seat for virtually the entire history of the Empire, it was more of a city now than a villa, the original building having been expanded and altered into a vast and labyrinthine palace that encompassed almost six acres of land. The villa itself was now merely the centre point of a thriving town. It was the main port of call for the convoys and caravans which moved north along one of three main artery roads leading into the heart of the Empire, and ultimately to Adarna itself.
The whole town was built of sandstone, and it shone, ruddy and glorious, in the failing afternoon light. Already servants scurried around the hallways and courtyards of the villa, lighting lanterns and fire pits. They were on high ground, a mound of earth rising from the plain, a landmark for miles around. The budding military
strategist in Metrotis could see why his distant ancestors had chosen the spot to make their home; it dominated the plains for miles around. The hill the town sat upon, and took its name from, was, for reasons long forgotten, known as the Deakin. The Felix family villa sat on its peak like a red-gold crown.
The town of Deakin spilled down the sides of the hill all around but did not reach the plain; its stout and ancient walls stood proud over the lands below. High and safe.
As a child, Metrotis had run screaming through the streets and alleys as he played with the other children of the household. Sometimes they would dare each other to run down the steep hill of the butchers’ row that led to the temple of Lord Terran, then sneak past the worshippers and priests to touch the foot of the great sandstone bear that stood – as if waiting to ambush the unwary – just inside the main entrance, before running back out into the light, giggling with delight at their endeavour.
One time, lulled into an unwary sense of security, they were caught by great Aunt Patricius, mother of Martius and, at the time, unquestioned matriarch of house Felix. Patricius had marched all four boys into the main sept of the temple. Dismissing the priests with an imperious wave, she had forced the children to kneel before the great wheel that sat above the main altar. Lord Terran, at the top in his bear form, dominated the great circular idol that formed the centre of worship in the temple. Metrotis learnt many years later that Aunt Patricius herself had commissioned the wheel, after the style of the Sacreun faith she had been raised in.
“What is that?” Patricius had snapped, voice waspish, hand pointing at the wheel.
The boys remained silent. Grenius, the youngest by a year, sobbed quietly, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
“What is that?” Patricius repeated, venom dripping from every word.
“It, it’s the wheel,” Metrotis squeaked out in reply
The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 Page 7
