by Vox Day
“They said you was a quick-witted puppy, Valerian.” Buteo rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know about that, but you ain’t as stupid as I thought, getting yourself caught so easy. I see you understand the situation. The question is, do you have the sense to take the only deal you’re going to get?”
“My life, a little gold, and the chance for my men to die in battle fighting whom, goblins? Orcs? Or the other Valerian legions? With all due respect, I must decline your generous offer. If it profiteth not a man to gain the whole world at the cost of his soul, I can’t see that a single legion is worth the price.”
The Cynothi’s eyes narrowed.
But Buteo only laughed. It was a harsh, triumphant sound, and the man wasn’t feigning his amusement either. He was genuinely amused.
“You don’t know a damn thing, Valerian. You’re still a cleric, not a soldier. The men don’t give a damn about their own souls, much less yourn. I’ll have your head within the week, and it’ll be your men who will give it to me. They didn’t kiss the eagle this spring thinking they’d face a bloody Amorran legion and an army that whipped the consul of the legions. They thought they’d be slaughtering farm boys and raping their way through a provincial city or two. I’ll give them the same offer I gave you: Surrender or die. And if you stand in the way of their surrender, why, I’ll just have to remind them that all they have to do is get you out of the way.”
“I fear you sell the men short,” Marcus said bravely, but he was thinking absolutely nothing of the kind. He had no doubt whatsoever that the centurions who had seen one legionary commander dead and burned wouldn’t hesitate to kill a second one themselves, not if their lives hung in the balance. They probably wouldn’t even see it as surrender per se, more of a change in command, and arguably, a sensible one. The youngest of Buteo’s four tribunes had at least a decade on him, and any one of them would have more experience and a stronger claim on commanding a legion as well. “Perhaps you will find that the men of Legio XVII are more loyal and honorable than your own, Secundus Falconius.”
“More likely I’ll find your head lying on the ground after they throw it over the walls.” Buteo made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You’re a brave little boy, Valerian, I’ll give you that. I’ll be disappointed if I hear you died crying and begging and pissing yourself. Now, go back to your men and try to explain to them that you’re expecting them to fight an army three times their number and ten times their experience.”
“Yours is a tender heart, Falconian. Never fear: I shall endeavor to face my fate in such a manner as to spare you any distress. Legate, tribunes, Your Majesty.”
Marcus was careful to show a fearless face to Buteo and the others as he turned around smartly, walked toward his horse, whose reins were being held by his draconius, and mounted it as casually as if he was on his family’s estates. He neither looked back nor so much as glanced at any of the legionaries through whose lines he was riding as he returned to the castrum.
A single thought weighed heavily upon his mind as he rode half a horse’s length in front of the subdued companion. How did Secundus Falconius, or the man who appeared to be pulling his strings, Severus Patronus, merit such deference and obedience from a half-barbarian rebel like the king of the Cynothii?
“How did it go?” Trebonius asked him as he helped Marcus shed his heavy leather-and-steel armor. “Does he intend to besiege us?”
“Buteo appears to be about as imaginative as my father once told me Marcus Saturnius was.” He held up a hand to forestall what appeared to be an immediate protest from his friend, who had greatly admired Saturnius. “Corvus meant it as a compliment. He thought that the best tacticians saw the battlefield more clearly because they lacked imagination.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”
“Anyhow, if that’s the case, I fear Buteo must be tactical genius. He obviously expected me to surrender. I believe his intention is to publicly demand our surrender tomorrow, in a manner that all the men can hear. When I refuse, he’ll call for them to mutiny, kill me and any officers who support me, and then accept him as stragister militum and one of his tribunes as legatus. It’s a perfectly reasonable approach. It won’t cost him a single man, and he can always try storming the walls if the men don’t prove amenable.”
Trebonius frowned at Marcus’s relaxed tone. “That doesn’t bother you at all? It’s not like you to be this fatalistic, Marcus. I don’t know if you’re going to be able to keep the men in line. Half the centurions have told me their men started grumbling as soon as the Severans showed up with the Cynothii in tow. I have to tell you, Marcus, they may turn on you, Valerius or no. They’re willing to follow you to a point, but I don’t think that extends to taking on another Amorran legion. Especially not one that outnumbers us so badly.”
Marcus laughed. “I’m not at all concerned about the men turning on me. Julianus tells me Aulan and his horse is nowhere near here. he may be halfway to Amorr already. Buteo has no horse, and he hasn’t shown any sign of investing us. See how he’s got his men building their own castrum already? He doesn’t expect me to wait around to be murdered—he expects me to take the knights and ride clear of here tonight. He’s even leaving the Porta Decumana free to make it easier for me.”
“Is that what we’re going to do?” Trebonius looked as if he couldn’t decide if fleeing with the horse was a wise decision or a cowardly and dishonorable one.
“Only if we have no other choice. But we have to try to find a way to keep the legion out of Buteo’s hands. If there is some sort of civil war brewing, just running away and handing the men over to House Severus would be worse than losing half of them in battle and giving Fulgetra a bloody nose in the process.”
“But I just told you, the men aren’t going to fight for you against Fulgetra!” Trebonius’s voice rose a little in protest. “You can make all the speeches you like, Marcus, but it’s not an option!”
“I know.” Marcus grinned. “Have you ever heard of the Siege of Iron Mountain?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t?”
“Well, you haven’t heard the half of the actual siege. And the half you’ve heard is mostly tall tales invented years later by Sir Alwys d’Escard, a troubador-knight who wasn’t ever near the place.”
“What does a seven-year siege have to do with anything? We can’t realistically expect to hold off the Severans for even seven days! The dwarves at Iron Mountain didn’t have a choice: They were fighting for their lives, and they couldn’t expect any mercy from the Troll King. Buteo is going to give the men an easy way out, and they’d have to be mad not to take it!”
“Not if we give them an easier way out.” Marcus smiled again and pointed toward the south, to the fields beyond the Porta Decumana. “How far out do you think their lines are going to extend on that side when Buteo decides to begin circumvallating us?”
“Two acti, perhaps. Just out of spear range, but close enough for archers.”
“I agree. Now, do you recall how I told you that on the embassy to the elf king, my uncle bought me a dwarven slave?”
“Yes, I remember. Laudus or something like that?”
“Lodi, yes. Well, he was at Iron Mountain. And believe it or not, he was one of the dwarves who killed the Troll King.”
“I thought the elven prince killed him,” Trebonius protested. “When the elven cavalry broke through the orcs and charged the royal bodyguard.”
Marcus shook his head. “I told you, everything you know about it is wrong. The elves never fought at Iron Mountain. They showed up, took one look at the size of the Troll King’s army, and rode back to the Three Kingdoms. That’s why the dwarves, at least the Iron Mountain ones, despise them now.”
“Really? That’s astonishing! So the elves ran away? I’d never heard that!”
“It’s not very romantic. And d’Escard was, above all, a romantic. But here is the significant part: Lodi was part of a team that tunneled out from the mountain and set up a sort o
f giant scorpio in the troll army’s boneyard. That’s how they killed the king—they put a giant bolt right through his chest. And that’s what broke the siege.”
Trebonius looked dubious. “I don’t think much of that as a plan, Marcus. Maybe killing the Troll king was enough to break apart his army, but Fulgetra isn’t going to fall apart just because we kill Secundus Falconius. And I doubt it’s his honeyed tongue that convinced the Cynothii to serve as his allies.”
“We’re not going to kill Buteo, you idiot,” Marcus punched his second-in-command’s shoulder. “What we’re going to do is dig our way out of here and steal a march on him! Tomorrow night, we’ll march out underground. All we need is a solid head start. If we leave around midnight, that should give us until sunrise at the very least. Once we have a lead on them, our horse will be able to harass them and slow them down enough so they won’t be able to catch us.”
Trebonius frowned and looked up at the sky. “That’s either mad or brilliant, Marcus. Quite possibly both. It sounds like something out of Frontinus!” He punched his palm with his fist. “I think it will work! All right, I’m with you, but you’re going to have to convince the centurions. And if they think it’s too risky or if they won’t go along with it, I think we should take the cavalry out the Porta Decumana before Buteo starts digging his ditch and slams the door shut on us.”
“We can dig faster than he can, Trebonius. My father was right: It’s all in the geometry.” Marcus hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “All right, that’s not exactly what he meant, but it’s true nevertheless. The straight line we need is shorter than the circle they require. And we’ll start tonight, whereas they wouldn’t start digging their ditch until tomorrow at the very soonest. What’s more, you’re going to delay them even longer.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Tomorrow morning, you’ll ride out to him and tell him that you and the senior centurions have arrested me and want to discuss the terms of surrender. Buteo will be so certain of taking the castrum that he won’t bother with starting his circumvallation right away. Why should he? He knows he has us trapped, so he can afford to be patient.”
“Yes, I suppose if I were him I wouldn’t set the men digging right away, either, not if I was hoping to avoid a battle,” Trebonius said. “I agree, we can probably get out underground. The earth isn’t rocky hereabouts. But he’s still got twelve hundred Cynothii horse that could catch up to us and slow us down until Buteo catches up.”
Marcus winked at him. “I have an idea about that, as well.”
“More geometry?”
Marcus shook his head and waved Trebonius out of the command tent. “No, more Frontinus. Tell the primi ordines I’ll want to see them here at the fourth hour. I want you and Julianus too. And bring a pair of messengers. I’ve got to write some letters now.”
Trebonius saluted and slipped out through the tent flaps.
Marcus sighed and flexed his hands. He could almost imagine them aching from the letter-writing already. There were men to be convinced, there was tonnes of earth to be moved, and there were enemies to be bamboozled and escaped. But first, and foremost, he had to get word of his suspicions to his father and uncle in Amorr.
And, he thought grimly, if he couldn’t accomplish all of those things, this might be his last opportunity to say farewell to Sextus, Marcipor, his mother, and a certain royal elfess in Elebrion.
AULAN
To A. Severus Patronus, Senator, Prius Consul, and Princeps Senatus
at Amorr (Novembris)
I regret to inform you, my dear father, that your confidence in S. Falconius appears to have been misplaced. Not only did Buteo fail to bring Legio XVII to heel, he somehow managed to lose them entirely despite the demise of the legatus, M. Saturnius. I cannot attest to precisely what happened, as I was not an eyewitness to his actions, my knights and I having been separated from the main body of the legion by one of his earlier brainstorms, which story I related to you in my previous letter. But I shall endeavor to provide you with an accurate picture of what happened according to my subsequent conversations with Buteo and the other tribunes.
Fulgetra arrived at the castra stativa near Gallidromum on the afternoon of the Nones, accompanied by King Taksoni and the Cynothii infantry. The tribune who happens to be the son of S. Valerius Corvus, one M. Valerius Clericus, rode out to meet him under a flag of truce. Buteo demanded the Valerian surrender the legion to him, but he met with some defiance. The next morning, Buteo sent a herald to the Porta Praetoria and demanded the surrender of the legion by the senior centurions, presuming they would either kill the Valerian or send him out with their cavalry prior to submitting. You will understand that Buteo had no reliable means of preventing the cavalry’s escape, if you recall that neither I nor my cavalry were in the vicinity.
No answer was forthcoming until the evening, nor did the Valerian horse issue forth from the gates, until another tribune, one G. Trebonius, rode forth under a second flag of truce and indicated that he was now the legionary commander, that Valerius Clericus had been taken into custody, and that therefore he wished to negotiate the terms of the surrender. Buteo was much pleased by the prospect of obtaining the legionary cavalry as well as the infantry without loss, and so he freely granted the tribune’s request to open the gates of the castra at noon the following day. At no point did he order the men to begin circumvellating the castra or otherwise prepare to besiege it. I suspect it was his intention to storm the walls if negotiations failed. This failure to invest the fortress may have been understandable, but it was negligent nonetheless.
As night fell, the troops inside the castra were heard to be engaged in some degree of license, as it appeared the customary legionary discipline had been relaxed. A number of large bonfires were noted, and a small body of horse was observed to depart from the Porta Decumana after dark. No attempt was made to stop them, it being presumed that this group consisted of the Valerian tribune and whatever officers were reluctant to serve under Secundus Falconius. No further activity was detected, and the customary guards were observed in their positions on the walls throughout the night. However, just before first light, a large body of horse, estimated at some 15 squadrons, attacked our auxiliary camp. The assault was focused on their horses. More than two hundred horse were slain or injured so severely they had to be put down, while another seven hundred had their tethers severed and were driven off.
As you can probably imagine, this caused an amount of confusion. I believe Buteo was initially under the impression that a second legion had arrived in relief of Legio XVII, presumably one of the two Valerian legions thought to be wintering in Gorignia under the command of T. Didius. The legion immediately fell to arms and marched out of camp to go to the assistance of the Cynothii.
Therefore it was well after mid-day when two of the tribunes, accompanied by a century from the first cohort, finally went to the Porta Praetoria to demand the surrender. They found the gates still closed. A pair of guards eventually appeared in response to their demands for entry, but when the gates were opened, it was discovered that the castra had been entirely abandoned and the guards were actually ten Cynothii hostages who had been taken during the same battle that resulted in my separation from the legion.
About which, more anon.
The more important discovery was a large tunnel that had been constructed to run under the walls of the castra, a tunnel which proceeded some two stadia to the south. It was wide enough for four men, tall enough for a horse being led, and its exit was on the far side of a hill that could not have been seen by anyone in a position to watch the castra itself, particularly at night. The false guards said the infantry had departed first, followed by the cavalry, about the same time that the first body of horse had ridden out of the gate. Buteo estimated therefore that Legio XVII had the advantage of at least one day’s march. And, considering that his auxiliaries were in some disarray and my own whereabouts were unknown, he declined to pursue. In my opinion, this was probabl
y the correct decision, but it in no way excuses his previous errors in judgment.
I myself witnessed Legio XVII marching along the Via Axicia, which is what inspired me to ride to Gallidromum in search of Buteo. From their course, I conclude that the Valerian tribune does not intend to march toward Amorr or to winter his troops in Vallyrium, but rather join with T. Didius and his two legions in Gorignia. That being said, you must assume that he will have written to his father, and that Valerius Magnus will not hesitate to make use of the news that the very Cynothii who defeated Caudinus are now serving House Severus as auxiliaries. I do not know how this affects your plans, dear father, but enough blood has been shed that I do not believe denial is an option. Even so, I trust you will find some way to turn this setback to your advantage, as you have done so many times in the past.
As S. Falconius has no need of my services at present, I shall ride directly to Amorr in the morning. I shall bring two squadrons with me. If you are not already in the city, I expect you will arrive there soon. Greet Mother and my sisters for me, and tell them I am well.
A. Severus Aulan
tribunus militum, Legio III Fulgetra
CORVUS
The face of the tall elf loomed over Corvus. The elongated alien eyes held him transfixed in place. He tried to move, but he was held fast by invisible bands of iron. Frantic, he struggled against them, desperately trying to reach the gladius he knew was at his side, but he could not free his arms. The spell, if indeed a spell it was, was stronger than a man’s grasp.
“The gods are coming!” the elf said in a voice like thunder. “They are coming, they are coming!”
Closer, closer came the face to his own. He could smell its fetid breath, the rotten scent of carrion emanating from its broken, jagged teeth. The elven features began to ripple and blur. The skin began to rip and tear like a bloodless mask as if the beast were a snake shedding its skin from the head. Was it a kobold or a demon? He couldn’t tell. Fear exploded within him, and the force of the terror somehow freed his arm. He cried out to Saint Michael as he drew his sword and thrust it toward the yawning jaws that were lunging for his throat.
