by Vox Day
Trebonius and Arcadius were discussing whether it would be best to spend two or three days in Solacte, but Marcus paid them no mind. He was wondering how the men with women and children could let their dependents know where the legion would be when he himself didn’t know.
The situation was ridiculous. It was absurd! How could he hope to make the right decisions, how could he even avoid the potentially disastrous ones, in the complete absence of information? He had written to both his father and Lady Shadowsong twice, and once to his uncle, sending the letters by hired rider both times they’d passed through a town large enough to maintain communications with the imperial city. But of course, any letters they had written him in return were hundreds of leagues behind him now, in Gallidronum.
As he rode through imaginary gates onto what would soon be the Via Principalis and into the marked outlines of the legion’s fortress for the night, he was saluted by dozens of centurions, optios, decurions, and common soldiers.
It gave him no pleasure. Instead it made him realize, for the first time since he’d sworn the legionary’s oath, that he probably should have taken vows instead.
The next day’s march was equally long and perhaps even a little bit more miserable, as a clear winter sky caused the temperature to fall, and a faint dusting of snow fell throughout the morning. But the centurions reported no deserters, and the mood throughout the legion appeared to have improved considerably upon hearing that they would have at least two days’ rest outside Solacte prior to the last push onto Montmila, the large fort in northern Vallyrium where he intended them to spend the remainder of the winter. The castra at Solacte was permanent, had higher stone walls than the one they’d left in Gallidronum, and, thanks to the thermal springs in the area, even featured its own baths.
He halted the march in the late afternoon again, but the ditches had barely been dug and the palisade was just rising when Trebonius drew his attention to a small body of their own horse riding toward them.
“Quintus Placidius Ulpius, Tribune,” the knight saluted and identified himself after being permitted to address him, Trebonius, and Caius Proculus. “First Cavalry, Eighth Squadron. I bear grave news, sir. Larinum is in revolt against Amorr, as are Caelignus and Trivicum.”
“Dammit, Ulpius,” Proculus swore. “That can’t be right!”
“Vallyrium too?” Marcus asked.
“Don’t know, sir. The gates of Solacte are closed to us. The Solactae were already in arms when we arrived, and they were waiting for us. Between thirty and forty of them ambushed the tribune. My squadron and I were some distance behind, as we were separated when one of the horses startled and threw its rider, so they didn’t see us. Lucius Dardanus didn’t fight back. He ordered his men to stand down as soon as he saw they were surrounded by archers.”
“What did the Solactae do to the men? Are they still alive?”
“They were unharmed the last I saw. Captured. The Solactae disarmed them and put their horses on leads but didn’t bind their hands. We followed them to within sight of the walls, but I didn’t dare ride any closer. They’re still in the city.”
“How did you learn about the revolt and the other allies?” Trebonius asked.
“There are a number of farms and villages outside the walls. I thought you might like to know why the Solactae were so unaccountably hostile, so we captured a villager and interrogated him. It’s mostly local rumors, so I don’t know how reliable they are, but Larinum is definitely in arms. It seems a group of nobles in Falera is calling itself a Senate and has put out a call to raise three legions.”
“What did you do with this villager?” Marcus asked.
“I released him. I thought he’d speak more truthfully if I promised we wouldn’t harm him.”
Proculus sighed theatrically, prompting a scornful glare from Trebonius.
Marcus shook his head at his senior centurion.
“No, he did well to spare the man, Proculus.” Marcus nodded at Ulpius. “They have to know we’re in the vicinity. This is too far off the beaten track for a squadron of legionary horse to be wandering about alone. Dardanus will have warned them we’re right behind him anyway. Ulpius, well done. I commend your initiative and your mercy. Go and see to your horse. Proculus, will you find Cassabus and ask him to join us? I think we will be in need of his particular expertise for the morrow.”
“You’re going to take the city?” the centurion and the tribune exclaimed at the same time.
“In a manner of speaking.” Marcus grinned at them. “You really need to read more Sextus Gaerus, Trebonius. It’s not necessary to take a city so long as you convince those inside its walls that you can take it quickly if you want. If Dardanus and Gavrus had the good sense to tell their men to keep their mouths shut about our leaving the artillery back in Gallidronum, we won’t have to waste another day here.”
In the morning, a bleary-eyed Praefect Cassabus presented himself to Marcus at the daily pre-march convocation of the senior centurions and held up both hands.
“We’ve managed to build ten machines. Only one is operational, and I wouldn’t count on it remaining that way for long. But they look convincing. Unless they can get a ballistarius within twenty paces to take a look at them, they’ll put the fear of God into anyone inside those walls.”
“Well done, Praefect. You and your men can sleep in the wagons on the march. Julianus, I want you to take ten squadrons from the First Cavalry and scare up as many cattle as you can find. Round up some dogs too. They’ll make the driving that much easier. Bring them to the castra. According to the map it’s west of the city, on the river.”
“Do you want sheep as well?”
“Sure, but only enough to feed us while we stay in the castra. Say, five days’ worth, in case this doesn’t work and we have to storm the walls. Sheep are too slow, and I intend to set a good pace when we head south for Amorr. The men will be unhappy we’re not stopping longer here, but at least we’ll be on the roads from this point on.”
“Be nice not to have to dig any more ditches or log trees for the rest of the way,” Cassabus commented, yawning.
“Go get some sleep, Cassabus,” Marcus ordered. “Everyone else, let’s get moving. I want to be in Montmila within six days.”
As the senior officers departed, Trebonius approached him with a smile on his face. “I didn’t notice you telling Appius Julianus to pay for any of the cattle he scares up, Clericus. Or the dogs, for that matter. But why are you still concerned with resupplying if we’re marching straight for Vallyrium? We’ve got more than enough for two weeks on hand.”
“They chose war, did they not? We are but the humble tools of Senatorial retribution. If all it costs them is a few head of cattle, they’ll be fortunate.” Then Marcus sighed. “As for the supplies, Trebonius, we may be marching for Montmila, but who is to say we will be able to reach it if the Larinii are raising an army?”
They reached the outskirts of Solacte just before noon. Marcus considered the possibility of going straight to the castra and confronting the city authorities in the morning, but the capture of Dardanus, Gavrus, and the ten knights of his squadron all but forced his hand. He might not be able to take the city today, but, thanks to the ingenuity and hard work of Cassabus and the ballistarii, he was confident he could convince them to return his men and give them what they required. He didn’t dare leave them behind for ransom later—rebels weren’t known for respecting the traditional rules of war.
After sending two of the First Cavalry’s five remaining squadrons to check on the state of the castra, he ordered Cassabus to be awakened and set to work.
The city cathedral rang two bells before the ten giant onagers were assembled, and Marcus imagined the third bell was approaching by the time they were moved into position in between the nine cohorts standing in their ranks facing the city gates some four hundred paces away.
There was frantic activity visible on the city walls, and he imagined there was probably a considerable amount of
consternation among the Solactean leadership. He rather hoped they had chosen a king or elected a few consuls rather than a full city council, as it was always easier to deal with one or two men than a dozen.
“Is everything ready?” he asked Cassabus. The tall optio looked less than entirely refreshed after his morning nap in the supply wagons, but he nodded. “Very well, let us knock on the door, then.”
Cassabus raised his hand and waited for an answering gesture from the crew of the oversized onager positioned directly before the gates. The praefect dropped his hand, and a moment later, there was a loud thumping sound, the big wooden machine bucked violently, and a large rock that had taken four men to load it in the onager’s sling sailed through the air and smashed silently against the left gate, followed a moment later by a loud crack.
“That should get their attention, sir,” the optio commented with satisfaction.
“Well done, Cassabus. Have them reload it just in case they’ve got any archers with twitchy fingers. Trebonius, you have the legion. Proculus, Commius, if you would join me.”
“Sir,” the four men barked in rough chorus.
They rode out slowly, with Commius serving as his draconarius and bearing the twin banners of Legio XVII and House Valerius. All three of them were wearing their helms and armor, more for effect than out of any expectation it would save them from arrows loosed by the archers they could see behind the merlons on the battlements above them. None of them appeared to have their bows nocked, which provided some relief. They halted fifty paces from the walls; close enough to see the large gouge Cassabus’s doorknocking had torn out of the gate.
“I am Valerius Clericus, the commanding officer of Legio XVII,” he called to the battlements. “In the name of the Senate and People of Amorr, I demand the return of the tribune Lucius Dardanus, the decurion Quintus Gavrus, and the ten knights who accompanied them!”
There was much stirring among the men on the walls and more than a little abuse was hurled at him, but no violence was offered.
Finally, a white head appeared in the gatehouse on the right side.
“I am called Opiter Florus Siculo. What do you want, Tribune?”
“Do you speak for the city?”
“I am the senator-in-chief, yes.” His voice was on the querulous side, which made Marcus suspect he could be bullied. “How is it that you speak for the legion? You don’t look old enough to shave, boy.”
Or perhaps not. Marcus curbed his irritation provoked by the man’s dismissive words and forced himself to remain calm. “There is no need to parley. I require the return of my men, their horses, and an amount of supplies. We intend you no harm. We are merely passing through. I intend to stay three days in the castra to the west, after which date we will move on.”
“Throwing rocks at our gates is damned poor manners, boy.”
“I merely wanted to ensure I had your attention, sir. And may I remind you that kidnapping a squadron of my horse is hardly the height of etiquette.
“Yes, well, we don’t take kindly to Amorrans trespassing on our lands no more. So here is our proposal to you: Take your legion and go to Hell—or Amorr, whatever you prefer. And you can take your onagers and stick them up your arse!”
Marcus blinked, at a loss for words. He never seriously imagined the Solactae would turn him down. Quibble about the supplies, certainly, and he might have even been persuaded to pay for the supplies that he was taking, the wine, the flour, the salt, and so forth, but it made no sense to respond with such insolence to a man with siege engines and six thousand swords at his command. Was the man serious?
“Forgive me, Floris Siculo, but am I hearing you correctly? You do realize that I have ten onagers with which to knock down your walls and an entire legion to sack your city if need be, do you not?”
Siculo didn’t respond himself, he didn’t need to. A chorus of jeers and obscene invitations of varying degrees of crudeness and creativity rained down upon him, inundating him with insults. Clearly, the Solactae were unimpressed with his bluff. They might not know it that only one of the ten onagers was capable of operation, but something had bolstered their confidence. Why were they so unconcerned?
“What do you think?” he asked the veteran decurion.
“They know we have to move on. They’ve had the lads for over a day now. They’ll have talked. Everybody talks sooner or later. The Solactae know we didn’t come all this way from Cynothicum in order to get bogged down in a siege here, especially if we’re begging supplies. Those walls are thick enough to stand weeks of bombardment, and they’re too high to storm easily.”
Marcus nodded and called back to the walls. “Floris Siculo, I do not wish to be unreasonable! Return my men to me now and I will return tomorrow to discuss the supply issue.”
“Reason with this, Amorran!”
A massive cheer went up as twelve pikes rose suddenly from the two nearest battlements. Upon each one was a head wearing an Amorran helm. Marcus was close enough to recognize the faces. Gavrus’s eyes were closed but Dardanus seemed to be staring at him accusatorily. Sickened, he reeled in his saddle, badly enough that Proculus reached out to steady him. His vision went black, and for a moment, he was back standing on the platform, staring in horror at the bloody, headless body of his cousin.
“God, God, God,” he whispered brokenly, despite himself staring at the lifeless faces of the men he had unknowingly sent to their deaths. “How can men do this? In what image of the devil are they made?”
“Steady on, Tribune.” The centurion’s calm tone more than his words were like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Marcus clung to it as he fought to master himself, to prevent his insides from turning themselves inside out and choke down the bitter gorge that rose and burned the back of his throat. “Steady on, General.”
The Solactae were jeering him. Behind him, the realization of what was happening was just beginning to sweep through the legion, and soon the angry shouting became an indeterminate roar.
Marcus didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to leap from his horse and clutch the insolent, elderly consul by the throat and squeeze until he turned black and his eyes popped from his head. But that was foolish.
Instead, he simply drew his sword, held it above his head, and waited until the taunts and howls from the Solactae died down as they grew curious about his reply.
“You shall have our response on the morrow,” he shouted as calmly as he could manage, then sheathed his sword, spit on the grass and turned his horse around.
Gaius Proculus and Servius Commius followed suit, and together, the three of them trotted back toward the legion in a somber silence that did nothing to disguise their mutual rage.
Behind them, twelve pairs of sightless eyes watched their retreat with the indifference of the dead.
SEVERA
Severa had not been so excited since the day she saw the gladiator wearing her token. But now she could show the world her delight, as there was no shame in taking pleasure in her handsome fiance, who cut a very fine figure indeed in the unadorned white robes worn by the candidates for the various offices being presented to the voting tribes. Sextus was easily the most handsome of the fifty or so young men who were rivals for the twenty-four tribunates available, and she felt that even if he wasn’t a Valerian endorsed by the heads of four of the most powerful Houses Martial, he would have commanded enough votes to win on the basis of his noble appearance alone.
If his speech had been nothing special, being full of the conventional platitudes and patriotic declarations, it was no worse than those of the other candidates. Indeed, the three years he had on most of them gave him an air of gravitas in comparison. There had been no jeering by the clausores or any of the common folk who sympathized with him, so it appeared her fear that Sextus might be harmed by his engagement to her, and therefore connected to her father’s perceived betrayal, was groundless. Of course, it probably helped that he’d been nominated by his uncle, the consu
l suffectus, who was now seen as the city’s great hope to quell the rising tide of rebellion outside its walls.
The tribal assembly was a massive affair, and the Forum was about three-quarters filled with the men gathered into their various tribes as well as the inevitable vendors and prostitutes looking to earn coin among the large annual gathering.
It was interesting to see the way in which the tribal divisions cut across the traditional house and class lines. With the exception of the three Houses Martial, Cassania, Falconia, and Valeria, each of which served as their own tribe, a man’s tribe didn’t necessarily align with his House or his patronage. The Sabatina tribe to which most Severans belonged was easy to spot from her vantage point on the base of a statue on the west side of the square, as they were all wearing black in mourning for her father. Their gesture of respect touched her, and she bit her lip to distract herself before she started crying.
This was a day for celebration and joy, not grief, and she remind herself of how proud her father would have been to see his future son-in-law standing astride the rostra in front of the assembled citizenry of the city, looking for all the world like a prince waiting to be publicly crowned heir to the throne.
“Do you see him?” Marcipor, her fiance’s golden-haired slave who was always underfoot, called up to her. “What is he doing?”
“Yes, yes. He’s waving to people and talking to two of the other candidates.”
“Amazing. Do you know, a week ago I’d have sworn we’d have to get him blind drunk to get him through this!”
She rolled her eyes at him and returned her attention to the platform. She didn’t trust the beautiful slave and considered him to be a bad influence on Sextus, but she tolerated him for Sextus’s sake. Though it was tempting to try convincing Sextus to get rid of the man, who was a notorious gambler and philanderer, her mother had advised her strongly against wasting her own influence on such trifling matters.
