The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3

by Jason K. Lewis

  Villius drew his horse to a sliding halt. “Sir,” he said, holding firmly to the reins.

  “Proctor Villius.” Martius nodded approvingly. He was almost certain that Villius had finally left behind the events in the house of Jhan Guttel, and it relieved him greatly to think that he had the proctor’s complete loyalty and support once more. “Report.”

  “Sir, we reached Sissia at noon. Father Kultis sends his regards.” Villius flashed a rare smile. “Sir, the Fourteenth garrison the city. The south does not lie undefended.”

  Not undefended, but woefully undermanned. “Three thousand men to protect the whole precinct?” Martius shook his head. “Just enough to hold Sissia for a while.” Water droplets sprayed to the ground. It beggared belief that the Emperor could be so stupid. Stupid or mislead. “An army, if large enough,” and the Wicklander army was big enough, even battered and reduced, “could invest the city and move on. Neutralise them and be free to attack the Empire. Is there anything else, Proctor?”

  Villius paused. “Sir, Father Kultis welcomes us but asks that we make camp outside the city.”

  “What?” Kultis was a good soldier, a reliable and honest man. Martius had served with him during the hill campaigns, when they were both legion fathers, after old Father Huwius of the Twelfth had died in Martius’s arms, drowning in his own blood – a hill-man arrow lodged in his throat. “What possible reason could he have? I am the senior officer in the army! Has he lost his mind?” His tone echoed petulantly in his ears. Military protocol dictated that Father Kultis accept his commands; common discipline demanded it.

  Villius dropped his eyes. Rain dripped from his helmet brim. “Sir, Father Kultis apologises, but he says that he has his orders from the Emperor himself.”

  “From the Emperor himself?” Martius raised an eyebrow. He fought to hold back his rising temper. It is not the boy you should be angry with, he reminded himself.

  “From the Emperor’s newly appointed minister for war, sir.”

  The title meant nothing to Martius. There was no minister for war. “So who is this ‘minister for war’? What makes him think he can give orders to the Primus General?” Why is it that the majority of our forces have been moved north when the threat is clearly south?

  “It is the praetorus, sir, Kourtes.”

  Martius clenched his fists hard, the tough leather of the reins biting into his palms through his riding gloves. “Well, Villius…” Martius’s mind raced. The image of Kourtes’s face as he watched the decimation of the Twelfth flashed through his mind. The man is a snake. Kourtes had no military experience either. “It seems we will have to march on Sissia and remind Father Kultis that he is a legionary and will obey the highest ranking officer in his presence –”

  “But that’s it sir,” Villius said plaintively, “Praetorus Kourtes is in Sissia.”

  The trip to Sissia took longer than expected; a swollen river had broken its banks and washed away the only bridge for ten miles in either direction. The Phoenix had to negotiate an arduous and extensive detour because of it.

  Martius – impatient to deal with the recalcitrant Maran Kultis – made the decision to ride ahead with a small contingent of cavalry.

  It was not long before he stood at the doors of the city hall in Sissia. The hall was a grand building, built from fresh hewn granite almost a century ago to commemorate the coronation of the current emperor’s great grandfather. The rock was so hard it had barely weathered at all, looking to all as if it had been freshly quarried.

  Due to its immense size, the city hall building now doubled as one of many makeshift barracks in the city – all commandeered by Maran Kultis, father of the Fourteenth legion.

  Villius shifted constantly from foot to foot beside Martius, distracting him from his thoughts.

  Martius reasoned he might as well utilise the time to instruct the young officer. “What are your feelings on the garrisoning of the city, Villius?” He owed the man much. One day you will make an excellent legion father. Villius might even make general – he certainly had the correct pedigree to be accepted.

  Villius ceased all movement. His eyes searched from side to side for some time, perhaps fearing a test. “I do not know, sir. I believe it was necessary when we thought the Wicklanders might breech Sothlind… But I must admit I would not choose it as a bastion to defend.”

  Martius snorted. “You have it right, Villius. This city is virtually indefensible. We are in the lowlands; the river Sander embraces us lightly on the east side, that is true, but what other defences are there?”

  Villius shrugged. “I do not know, sir.”

  “None, Villius.” Martius shook his head at the stupidity of it. The city was a trap. “If Sissia is attacked in force from the south or west it will last two weeks at most… even with a legion to defend it.” His chaffed thighs burned from the long ride, doing nothing to lighten his mood. “This city is no Xandsa, that much is certain.”

  Villius shrugged. “Xandsa is probably the most defensible city in the Empire, sir.” He replied. “I have never been there myself but I hear it’s a sight to behold.”

  “That is an understatement. It is a thing of beauty, Villius, a thing of beauty.” Being forced to wait outside in the rain like a common soldier grated on Martius’s nerves. They are making you wait to anger you. Do not submit to emotion, it is weakness. But Martius had spent years having his every whim catered to, and a part of him railed against the delay, wanted to kick the door down and get his way.

  They waited then in silence. Villius resumed his subtle jig from foot to foot.

  After another minute, Martius’s patience snapped. But just as he reached for the handle, the door slowly creaked open.

  An ancient, petrified-looking slave stood inside holding the door handle. The poor man was not to blame for making them wait, he might have been whipped or worse for disobedience, and he seemed to fear exactly that.

  The old slave blinked through the rain. “You may enter now, General. The praetorus will see you in the main hall.” He bowed and swept an arm towards the interior. “If you would care to follow me?”

  “Lead on.” Martius took a deep breath and followed the man into the interior gloom. To his shame, his impatience was further stoked by the slave’s painfully slow gait.

  The sound of Martius’s booted footsteps, mingled with Villius’s behind him, beat a staccato rhythm that echoed through the entrance hall.

  After a shuffling age, the slave reached a door that stood ajar. “This way, sirs.” He stood at the door and beckoned them in before him. “This way.”

  Martius let his hand drift to rest on his sword hilt. Glancing at Villius, he saw the young proctor follow suit.

  Something did not feel right; some subtle nuance was out of kilter. It was nothing he could perceive, but Martius knew from bitter experience that his instincts were rarely wrong.

  An oppressive gloom filled the room ahead. Martius entered quickly and slipped left, keeping his back to the wall. His instincts had not betrayed him. At least a dozen legionaries in full battle kit stood to attention around the perimeter. In the centre of the room, Maran Kultis – grizzled veteran father of the Fourteenth – stood by an ornate table. Beside Kultis stood a man dressed in a general’s parade armour that Martius did not recognise at first.

  Kultis stood to attention and raised a closed fist to his chest in salute. “General Martius, well met sir. I trust you’re well?” Kultis’s eyes slid towards his companion. He seemed uncharacteristically nervous. “I think you know our, ah, our Minister for war, Praetorus Kourtes.”

  Kourtes smirked, looking even more self-satisfied than usual. “General Martius, good! You are here. We have much to discuss.” He glanced around the room as if noticing the legionaries for the first time. “I understand you have brought the Phoenix Third south with you?”

  Martius ignored the Praetorus. He would not give the fool the satisfaction of an answer. He turned his attention instead to the legion father. “Fa
ther Kultis, how is it that you remain in this city? In Osslind precinct, when the whole of Selesia lies undefended? Why have you not marched south to defend our people from the remnants of the horde?”

  Father Kultis flinched as if struck. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Father Kultis is following my orders, General.” Kourtes interrupted. “The Emperor has sent me to ensure the defence of the realm from the pitiful remnants of that ragtag horde we defeated, whilst he concentrates on more important issues.”

  Martius gripped the pommel of his sword, knuckles whitening. We defeated? He recalled ordering Kourtes from the field when the battle had barely begun. Again, he ignored the pompous aristocrat. “I ask you once more, Father Kultis, as the senior military officer in this precinct, why haven’t you moved your legion south to protect the precinct of Selesia?”

  Kultis licked his lips. His eyes hovered on Kourtes for a moment. Finally, he sighed. “Martius,” he shrugged lightly, face reddening, “you know I can’t disobey orders from a superior. Praetorus Kourtes bears papers from the Emperor himself–”

  “I have been granted authority,” Kourtes whined, “by Emperor Ravenas himself, to command the armies as I see fit. General Martius, I have papers here that bear his signature and seal.” Kourtes’s hand trembled as he pointed to a series of ornately ribboned documents on the table.

  Martius fought to hold back his ire. “You are no soldier, man!” he barely managed to hold back a shout. You are a jumped up fool. “What makes you think you can command soldiers in this army? You have never even enlisted. You do not qualify.” He felt perspiration begin to flow down his back. You are angry. You must calm yourself. His soaked clothing and heavy leather and bronze campaign armour suddenly felt hot and heavy.

  Kourtes sniffed imperiously. “I believe I will make an excellent leader, General. I can tell you now, if I had been in command at Sothlind we would not have lost a legion and we would not have had the awful debacle of the decimation.”

  Villius stepped forward. He raised a hand as if to speak, but with a look at Martius, he seemed to think better of it and remained silent.

  He has seen you in the grip of anger before. He must sense it. Did Villius fear what he would do? Had his confidence in his general truly been dented so much?

  Anger. It was an emotion Martius was rarely beholden to, but it infused him now. It could affect his judgement on the rare occasion he lost control, and it had become one of the few things he feared. Emotion clouds judgement. As a rising roar threatened to overcome his mind, Martius concentrated all his efforts on breathing, slow and steady. His anger urged him to strike out, to abandon humanity and dominate the fatuous fool before him. Finally, he managed to utter one word through gritted teeth. “Debacle?”

  Kourtes sniffed again and tossed his head back. “It was a debacle General, of that there is no doubt. Those men did not need to die in public. Why, I was telling good Father Kultis just last night, in my mind the whole thing could have been handled far more professionally. We almost had a riot, General. A riot in the capital! I don’t believe that we have had one of those in a lifetime.”

  The sound of Martius’s heart was loud in his ears. He forced himself to breathe. Anger clouds judgement. He could not allow himself to be dominated by emotion. Not again. An image of Ellasand flashed through his mind. She is alive and well. Remembering lent him strength. He would not allow his judgement to be clouded again. He would not allow a repeat of the events in the house of Jhan Guttel. Be calm. Be prepared. But be calm.

  No one could argue that the decimation had not been an appalling act. Martius still cursed himself for allowing it to happen, and the Emperor for his callow and cruel judgement. Their blood was on his hands though, of that he had no doubt. He had placed the Twelfth legion to guard the right at Sothlind, he had chosen to put them in the toughest fight of the battleground. But they were the glorious Twelfth. They were his legion. Not the same men, for the most part, but he had trusted in them to have the same fighting spirit, the same prowess that saw the Twelfth, years earlier, come through the war with the hill tribes wreathed in glory. Now the Twelfth were no more, a distant memory subsumed into and living on only in the Phoenix Third.

  “Praetorus Kourtes.” Martius was relieved that his voice was calm and steady. “I do not wish to argue with you or to cause disquiet in the army.” He took a deep breath and forced the tension from his limbs. Calm. Calm and controlled. Remember who you are. “You must know that I cannot obey the commands of anyone but the Emperor as long as I hold my position. Do you have any document from the Emperor that grants you superiority to myself? If so I would like to see it.”

  Kourtes smiled, his eyes narrowed. “As minister for war I have command of all armies in the south.” He reached to the table and held up a parchment. Ornate imperial calligraphy decorated its surface. “The order is here for all to see. I can assure you everything is in order. Father Kultis here will vouch for my veracity.”

  Kultis frowned. He took a small step towards Martius. “Well I wouldn’t go–”

  “It is fine, Kultis,” Martius took the parchment from Kourtes’s outstretched hand and examined it for a moment; it bore the Emperor’s seal below his sprawling and unmistakeable signature. “Kourtes,” Martius looked deep into the eyes of his antagonist, “as I understand this order, you have command of all forces posted to the precincts of Osslind and Selesia.”

  Kourtes sneered. “That is correct, General. As you can see I am confirmed as your commanding officer. You will release the Third to my command.” He paused, pulling himself to his full height. “You will act as my second-in-command in the south as befits a man of your experience. You see, I am not an arrogant man. I value your experience, certainly.

  Martius raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “Tell me please, Minister for War. How many men do you have available to defend Osslind and Selesia?”

  “Why, I have the Fourteenth here under good Father Kultis and two thousand auxiliary horse from the Xandarian free states. There are also the town and city militias that I have ordered to be mustered.” Kourtes looked Martius up and down. “We now have the Third as well. I believe they are commanded by that common soldier you promoted, what is his name again?”

  “His name is Father Conlan. He was voted in by the men, I did not promote him.” Martius handed the parchment back. “You are correct, you do seem to have command of the forces posted here. I presume the Xandarian horse are in the city also?” The cavalry would have come in useful at Sothlind. The Wicklanders had no horse. It was a major and exploitable weakness.

  Kourtes sniffed. “I have stationed them in the south, in Selesia. They are tracking the horde in case it moves north again. You will learn I am a capable commander, General.”

  “Indeed,” Martius replied. The man truly was a fool, blinded by his own sense of superiority. There is a lesson to be learned here. “I will be marching south with the Phoenix Third after we have been re-provisioned. I would suggest you join me.”

  Kourtes’s head bobbed back. His eyes widened. “March south? What, what do you mean?”

  “I have brought the Phoenix Third south on manoeuvres – standard practice with any newly formed, or in this case reformed, legion.” Martius allowed himself a smile. It felt good to be in control again. “The Third were not posted to the south. Thus, they remain mine to command. We will be continuing our practice drills in Selesia.”

  He turned to address Kultis, praying the man would see sense. Maran Kultis had always been a stalwart imperialist soldier. “You have until midday tomorrow to make your mind up, old friend. It is not mutiny to follow me; it is the only way to keep the Empire safe.” Martius favoured Praetorus Kourtes with one last look, just to ensure the man knew he was beaten. Then he turned on his heel and marched from the room.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Conlan

  CONLAN’S EYELIDS BEGAN TO droop as the heat of the fire warmed him. The rain had ceased just after the column le
ft Sissia, but after half a day in the saddle he could still feel his woollen under-tunic sticking to his skin. Martius had given the legion a morning of rest, well deserved in Conlan’s mind, following the long and sodden march south.

  The general had made no effort to hide his disgust as he took to his horse that afternoon. Conlan knew that Martius had hoped the Fourteenth would march south with them to protect Selesia. They had discussed the issue over dinner in the general’s tent the night before.

  “Father Kultis will come,” Martius had said emphatically. “I know the man, he is nigh on as experienced as I am, for Terran’s sake.”

  In the end, they had waited well past the allotted deadline of noon, but the Fourteenth had remained steadfastly in their barracks, no doubt under orders to do so.

  Conlan had not met Praetorus Kourtes, but from Martius’s description, he sounded like everything that was wrong with both the Empire and the nobility. Surely Kourtes was ignorant arrogance personified, a man born into wealth and status; as if a mere accident of birth enabled someone to lead men, as if the ability of a man’s distant ancestors made him superior in some way. To Conlan it was all nonsense, but the rest of the world carried on regardless, kowtowing to men who, in a truly meritocratic society, would have little or no worth.

  Why must the sly and self-interested always win positions of power? Why do the wise and righteous so often lose out in the face of the wily foxes that fill the ranks of the nobility? It was difficult for Conlan to comprehend how the populace was misled so easily.

  Were you the same before Sothlind? he asked himself. Were you a blind follower?

  The world would be better off without the nobility; they squandered privilege and power as they indolently consumed the bounty of the Empire, produced by the hard labour of the people below them.

  Then there was Martius, the great enigma that he was. Somehow he had beaten the disability of his noble birth and emerged as a man with no airs or graces, no assumption that he was superior to those he commanded just because he was born into power. Martius did not need to enter legionary service; he could have satisfied himself with a life in politics, run for the Senate like so many of his peers that now filled the ranks of the Praetorii. Instead, Martius had enrolled as a common soldier and worked his way up through the ranks just as anyone else, potentially, should have been able to. A part of Conlan questioned whether the general would have gained his command positions so readily if he had not been a member of the ruling elite. But he did not question Martius’s leadership ability, or his ferocious drive.