by Vox Day
Volusenus leaned over and whispered to him. “Have you seen Fortex?”
“No, I lost track of him once we hit their infantry. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“I think so. I saw him after the battle. Did he really kill the goblin commander?”
“Yes. It was the commander of the cavalry on their left, though, not the warleader.”
“Oh. Still…did you see it?”
“Yes, I was at the front with the draconarius. I saw the whole thing. You would not have believed—”
A trumpeter sounded a triple blast on his horn, and all the men throughout the assembled legion, Marcus included, fell instantly quiet.
Marcus Saturnius stepped forward and put his hands on his hips, nodding as his eyes swept over the thousands of troops.
“I hope you bastards don’t think you’re going to hear any praise from me for spanking a few greenskins and sending them running. That wasn’t a battle today. I don’t know if it was even worth calling an exercise!”
The legion roared its approval. Scattered shouts of “Saturnius” could be heard interspersed with the general laughter.
“I’ve seen Titus Falconius work the first century of the second cohort harder in sword drill than they got worked today. And I noticed the left flank saw even less action than Publius Licinius gets in a whorehouse! I’m going to have to consider replacing the horses of the First Cavalry with some sturdy wooden stools. Their precious soft arses would be more comfortable—and the damned stools would eat less hay.”
The legate’s barbs weren’t actually amusing, Marcus thought, and yet Saturnius barely had to open his mouth before he had legionaries laughing harder than a crowd watching clowns at the theatre. The jokes at the expense of the cavalry wings went down particularly well, but the knights bore it with noble aplomb. Saturnius proceeded to methodically pour false contempt on every group of soldiers in the legion, from the artillery to the surgeons. He poked fun at one century after another, and the men not only endured the mocking criticism he directed at them, they seemed to swell with pride when their unit was singled out, even in this fashion.
Ever since he’d joined the legion, Marcus had wondered about his father’s high regard for this vulgar little man, but now he began to see that the legate was a charismatic genius. Saturnius played the mass of soldiers as expertly as a skilled musician handling his instrument. He disguised his flattery of them under a veneer of denigration, and he praised them by belittling their deeds. And, Marcus suddenly realized, by demonstrating his contempt for their victory over a foe that had badly outnumbered them, he was instilling in the men a powerful belief in their own superiority.
The little legate was, Marcus began to realize, an exceedingly dangerous man. Saturnius was a seducer—not of women but of soldiers.
There was movement behind him, and he saw two centurions carrying his father’s high-backed chair, placing it on the dais behind Saturnius as the legate stalked back and forth across the stage.
Marcus began to realize that there was an additional purpose to Saturnius’s taunting. Thanks to his relentless chaffing, the men were stirred out of what could have easily become a post-battle depression born of exhaustion and repressed fear. Several chants of “Imperator, Saturnius, Imperator” began, but each time, Saturnius waved them off as if they were nothing but a petty irritation. It was masterfully done, and not even the most perennially paranoid Senator could have found anything objectionable or ambitious in the legate’s behavior.
And then, with the legion all but eating out of the palm of his hand, Saturnius smoothly effaced himself in favor of Corvus, who was already seated upon his favorite chair. Saturnius went and stood behind the stragister militum’s right shoulder, while Honoratus, the primus pilus, stepped forward to stand at his left.
Unlike Saturnius, his father didn’t attempt to encourage the men or win them over. He didn’t need to. They chanted “Corvus, Corvus” until he raised a hand, and they fell obediently silent.
“Men of the Legion, the People and Senate will soon hear of your victory. Your valor and your discipline has defeated the combined might of the Chalonu, the Vakhuyu, and their allies. Tonight, we shall celebrate their defeat at your hands.”
The legionaries cheered lustily.
“Your legate, Marcus Saturnius, has ordered a double-issue of the wine ration to be released to you and your centurions will oversee the distribution.”
Another cheer.
“Tomorrow, I intend that you shall recuperate from your labors today while messengers ride out to the chiefs of the Insobru, the Vakhuyu, and the Chalonu, demanding their submission to the People and Senate of Amorr.”
The men cheered again. They didn’t care in the least about what the goblin chiefs did or did not do, but they understood very well the gift their General was giving them. Tonight, everyone who was not on sentry duty was free to drink himself senseless without fear of having to march out the next morning.
Marcus groaned, and he could hear the other tribunes doing the same. Without a female army of camp followers nearby to distract the men, there would be an ungodly number of fights tonight. He, the other tribunes, the centurions, and the decurions were in for a difficult and possibly sleepless night. He did not relish the thought of having to break up fights between men who had stood bravely in arms together this very morning.
The officers were still quietly grumbling amongst themselves when Corvus called two centurions and several legionnaries to the platform to honor them before the legion for the courage they had displayed during the battle. Marcus paid little attention, except to cheer at the appropriate moments. He wondered if Fortex would be honored for his bravery or punished for his recklessness. Probably both, if he knew his father. He wasn’t sure which his father treasured more, courage or discipline, and God knew his cousin had as much of the former as he lacked the latter.
But surely the rout of the enemy’s left wing would count in Fortex’s favor! The legion’s center hadn’t been in any danger of collapsing under the goblin pressure, but the cavalry charge against the goblin infantry’s left flank had broken it much sooner than it would have otherwise and without a doubt saved more than a few lives among the stalwart cohorts stationed in the middle.
The legion cheered for each man singled out for praise, but they were particularly pleased when Gnaeus Sextius Baiulus was presented with a vitis and raised to the rank of centurion.
Baiulus, a short, balding man who looked to be nearing his thirties, shook the vine staff warningly at his former fellows, and the platform trembled with the men’s good-natured jeering it provoked.
Marcus was disappointed to see the Baleran slingers who had driven off the archers from the Second Cavalry were not honored, but three ballistarii were presented with medals marked with the image of St. Michael, the patron saint of those who warred against magic. Marcus guessed it was their onager that had killed the goblin’s shaman or at least forced it from the battlefield.
Then the proud smile faded from Corvus’s gaunt and bearded face. He glanced at Saturnius, who nodded at the tribune laticlavius.
Crescentius turned to his right, toward something Marcus could not see from where he stood, and shouted. “Bring the prisoner forward!”
Marcus gasped as two big centurions, one of whom was Proculus, marched forward—escorting Fortex. They pulled him forward, his hands bound behind his back. Gaius Valerius didn’t look the least bit afraid. He looked outraged. For a moment, Marcus even feared that his cousin might spit in his father’s face.
The entire legion was shocked into silence. A moment later, the murmurs and whispers began. It was as if a giant swarm of bees had risen from the ground.
“Gaius Valerius Fortex, Tribune of the Legion,” Corvus declared loudly enough to be heard over the uneasy rustling of the soldiers, “I charge you with breaking ranks and with disobeying a direct order from the senior legionary officer to stand your ground.”
There was a second shocked paus
e, a little shorter this time, and then the chatter among the troops not only increased but took on an angry tone.
Fortex opened his mouth to interrupt, but Corvus held up a hand.
“After conferring with the legate of the legion and several of the senior decurions, I have decided that you had sufficient reason to set aside your initial orders. Events on the battlefield change rapidly, and orders that make sense before battle is joined may, at times, become less than relevant once the enemy is engaged. The Senate and People expect a tribune to exercise his own judgment in these matters on the basis of his training and experience. In this case, your judgment was correct. It was your decisive action that permitted the Second Knights to break the enemy cavalry and come to the assistance of our center. Therefore, I have determined that the charges of breaking ranks and disobedience will be withdrawn.”
Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. A few sporadic and tentative cheers rose from the assembly. He found himself standing a bit taller at the praise given to his unit, and he noticed a half-smile flash across his cousin’s face. It rapidly disappeared, as Gaius Valerius assumed the stoic, but confident attitude of one expecting to be praised, which was perhaps why he was unable to hide his reaction to Corvus’s next words.
“However, the courage and effectiveness of your action does not mitigate the fact that you disobeyed a direct and personal order given to you before the battle by the senior officer of the legion when you engaged your opposite in single combat. Nor does it alter the fact that you chose to disobey that order at a time when the legion was deep inside enemy territory, in danger, and under extraordinary martial discipline.”
The entire legion groaned with dismay, and Fortex looked as if he had been stabbed in the stomach. Marcus saw the blood rush from his cousin’s face, and he could see that Fortex knew, from the firm resolution in Corvus’s eyes, that his uncle was not inclined to turn a blind eye toward his crime or to let him off easily. Marcus held his breath, seeing how his father stared directly into his cousin’s face without blinking as he pronounced his judgment.
“Gaius Valerius Fortex, you are charged with disobeying a direct and standing order from your commanding general during battle. After conferring with the legate and the primus pilus of Legio XVII, as well as the senior decurions, I have determined that you are guilty of the charge. As this offense occurred when the legion was engaged in battle and under Modus Austeris, I hereby sentence you to death by beheading.”
What? No! Marcus instinctively started forward and opened his mouth to protest, but Volusenus grabbed his arm and dug his fingers painfully into the unarmored inside of Marcus’s elbow.
“Control yourself, Valerius!” he hissed into Marcus’s ear. “You are an officer of the legion, damn you. Now bloody well act like one!”
Fortex was blinking rapidly, and he was visibly grinding his teeth as he fought to control himself.
Marcus, horrified, desperately wanted to plead with his father for Gaius’s life, but he didn’t dare so much as take a single step in his direction, not in front of the five thousand men of the legion. You can’t do this, Father, he silently screamed. You simply cannot do this! Flog him, break him if you must, even ban him from the legion, but do not kill your own brother’s son!
Corvus rose from his chair and leaned down to whisper in Fortex’s ear. Marcus was just close enough to hear what his father said over the angry murmuring of the troops below. “They say you are brave, Nephew. I pray you will die as courageously as you fought today. And may the Immaculate be your advocate before the Throne of the Almighty.”
Fortex was staring at Corvus as if in shock, as if he simply could not believe what he had heard. But the fear quickly vanished from his face, replaced by a fey and fierce pride.
Protest, Marcus thought desperately. Beg him for mercy!
Instead, his cousin merely stared into Corvus’s eyes with a fearless arrogance that was almost contemptuous. “Our House is Amorr,” he replied icily. “Tell my father I died as befits an officer of the legion.”
Corvus, unmoved, neither blinked nor looked away. “Do so, and I shall.” He backed away, placed his hands behind his waist, and nodded to the primus pilus.
The big centurion, Honoratus, stepped out from behind Corvus’s chair and approached Gaius, revealing an oversized woodcutter’s axe in his left hand. To Marcus’s and everyone else’s surprise, the first thing he did was thump his chest with his free right hand in a last salute to the condemned. The crash of two or three thousand legionnairies following his example echoed throughout the otherwise silent forum.
Marcus glanced at his father and saw a brief spasm of irritation cross his face, but Corvus made no move to intervene or remonstrate with the men. Honoratus asked for the venia carnifex, the executioner’s absolution.
“I absolve you,” Fortex replied, his voice calmer than calm. To Marcus’s disbelief, he was smiling. “Now, do me a favor, Gnaeus Junius, and tell me that monster is cursed sharp.”
“You’ll feel less than that goblin you killed today felt your blade,” Honoratus promised. “Heaven or Hell, save us a seat, Fortex.”
Honoratus glanced at his two fellow centurions, and they gently turned Fortex sideways, then held his arms so that he did not lose his balance as he kneeled before the primus pilus. Fortex held his head out parallel to the ground and stretched out his neck, presenting the centurion with a clean, pale expanse of skin at which to aim. His eyes were closed and his lips were moving silently. Was it a futile plea for mercy that would not be granted? Was he steeling himself for the inevitable? Or was he, as Marcus hoped, commending his soul to the Immaculate?
When his lips stopped moving, Honoratus looked over at Corvus, who nodded.
Marcus forced himself to watch. The centurion raised the axe high over his head, the muscles in his corded arms bulging with the effort. Then, with deceptive speed, the thick wooden shaft described a blurred downward arc that ended in a loud thunk and a spray of crimson as the well-honed axehead buried itself deep into the wood of the platform.
A loud, collective groan erupted from the legion. Marcus bit his lip to stop the instinctive cry of horror inspired by the sight of his cousin’s head rolling off the platform, leaving a gory trail of bloody slime behind it as if it was some sort of obscene giant snail. His cousin’s headless corpse vomited forth blood like a giant armored leech with food poisoning just a few paces in front of him. Only the fact that his senses had been gradually inured to such horrors over the course of the campaign permitted him to maintain his composure.
Saturnius strode forward again to address the men, heedless of the blood splashed all about the platform.
“Fortex was a brave man. He was a bold warrior. I admired his courage.”
Only a few of the soldiers, some of whom were audibly being sick, murmured in agreement. The execution of a young and heroic officer whose actions had secured their victory today was not going over well with the legion, that much was certain. Marcus didn’t blame them. He was feeling more than a little mutinous himself.
“But we are not warriors!” Saturnius shouted without warning. “A warrior is fierce—yes, he is. A warrior is brave. But a ‘warrior’ fights alone. And he dies alone. We are not warriors! We are soldiers, men of the legion. We are disciplined. We stand together, and we die together. We follow the orders given by our officers! And that is why one Amorran soldier is worth a dozen brave ‘warriors.’ That is why one Amorran legion, this Amorran legion, defeated ten times its numbers today!”
There were a few scattered cheers, mostly from the centurions. The angry mood, if not quite gone, was moderately dissipated.
Saturnius demanded more. “Tell me, men of the legion, are you warriors, or are you soldiers?”
“Soldiers!” more than half of the legion roared back.
“I asked you a question, men of the legion: Are you warriors, or are you soldiers?”
“Soldiers!” This time, the entire legion answered him.
Mar
cus could see Saturnius had them back under his control now. He paced across the platform, and barely anyone, Marcus realized, was still much cognizant of the dead body that lay in front of the legate.
“The third time answers all, men of the legion. Are you warriors, or are you soldiers?”
“Soldiers!” The legion thundered. The impromptu chant broke out again. “Saturnius, Imperator, Saturnius Imperator!”
The legate raised his hand, and the chanting quickly subsided. “Enough of that. Well, men of the legion, since you have decided you are soldiers, after all, I hereby order you to disperse. Go now. Return to the camp. Eat. Drink. Boast of your brave deeds and the goblins you slew today. But I will remind you of this: When you drink with your brothers, do not forget the shades of your brothers-in-arms who died today.”
The legionnaries saluted and began to make their way toward the camp and their evening meals.
Marcus watched Saturnius turn to his father. Saturnius asked Corvus something, but his father shook his head and waved the legate off. Marcus wondered if he should go to Corvus too, but something inside him rebelled at the notion. Corvus might be his father, but he was also the Stragister Militum, and the legion’s youngest tribune suddenly realized he wanted nothing whatsoever to do with his senior officer at the moment.
Lucius Volusenus clapped Marcus on the back. “We’d better get something to eat before the fights begin. And I don’t know about you, but I could use a flagon of wine. I don’t suppose we get double rations too, do we?”
Marcus did his best to smile at the other officer. He appreciated how the tribune was trying to distract him. He cleared his throat. “I’d be glad to share one with you, Volusenus.”
But as he stepped down from the platform and followed the other tribune toward the camp gates and the Via Praetoria, he couldn’t help looking back at his father.
Corvus was seated on his wooden chair, staring impassively off into a distant horizon in the direction of the setting sun. Two soldiers knelt in front of him, removing the bloodstained armor from his nephew’s body.
