Empire Under Siege (7 page)

Martius smiled indulgently. “I am glad to be of service, my general.”

“Ah, gods, man.” Turbis brandished his stump again. “You are the only real general here. You saved the bloody Empire, you did.”

“Not the first…”

“And you won’t be the last.” Turbis paused to swig more wine flamboyantly. “But for the moment there’s only the two of us can claim to have done it.” He eyed Martius conspiratorially over his goblet. “At the moment, you are the most powerful man in the Empire. How does it feel?”

Martius straightened on his stool. It was dangerous to talk of power in the capital, but Turbis seemed blissfully unaware of the ears around him. “Perhaps I could try a glass of the wine? What is it you are drinking?” he asked with a noncommittal shrug.

Turbis peered deep into his goblet and gave it a desultory sniff. “It’s a Connorian red, one of my own. From the estate up north. Damned fine stuff. The vintners tell me there’s good schisty soil and it’s on a west-facing slope or some such nonsense.” He gestured with his stump to a nearby slave. “Wine for the general here, there’s a good girl.” Turbis watched the slim olive-skinned young woman - scratching his stump absentmindedly on his cheek - as she fetched a goblet and wine carafe. “You must forgive me, Martius. I quite forgot my manners.”

Martius accepted the goblet, holding it out whilst the wine was poured. “Not at all, Turbis.” He caught the slave girl’s eye and she dropped her gaze, deftly moving to her original position, still clutching the jug in hand as she adopted the slave’s traditionally blank mien, carefully staring into the middle distance. Martius had the strangest feeling that he knew her face, then realised with a start that she bore a striking resemblance to Turbis’s long-dead wife, Symia. Pushing the thought from his mind, Martius sniffed the wine - it had subtle overtones of blackberry and oak - then took a small sip. “This is a fine wine indeed.” Looking at the slave girl again, he wondered why Turbis would choose to surround himself with reminders of his loss; the man seemed hell bent on torturing himself. “My compliments to your vintners.”

Turbis raised his goblet, taking a large gulp. “Not bad, eh?” He raised the goblet and the slave girl filled it without raising her eyes. “Think I might retire up there. It really is beautiful and the weather is so much warmer.”

“It would be good for you, could help speed your recovery.”

“I do not doubt it, son,” Turbis sighed, glancing briefly in the slave girl’s direction. “I do not doubt it.” He put his goblet down, rubbing his bandaged stump with his good hand. “Damned thing itches like buggery.”

“Leave it alone or it will never heal.”

“Of course, of course.” Turbis sank back down into his pillows with a sigh. “So are you going to tell me how your, ah… plans are getting on then? I’m damned curious, truth be told.”

Martius took a quick sip of wine, savouring the delicious flavour. “I did come here for a private word, old friend, if that is alright?”

Turbis’s eyes were drooping markedly now; he bore a puzzled expression until, finally, his face brightened in realisation. “Everybody out!” he roared. “And remind Unclus I will be dining at seven on the terrace.”

The retinue departed silently. Martius waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Turbis, we cannot risk speaking in the open.” His tone was earnest. “You know there are ears everywhere.”

Turbis waved his hand dismissively, “What, them? They’re all loyal.”

“Nevertheless…” Martius fought to control his rising impatience. “… we should minimise any risk. You know as well as I do there is a target on my back now. I have enemies.”

“Ah, nonsense. Who would dare?”

“There are many. The reforms I have brought in over the last twenty years have not been supported by all. The nobles think I will bring the Empire down. You know that.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard. You want a republic, or you would make yourself Emperor; you want to make a deal with the high king of the Farisians so he can rule the Empire! Everyone knows it’s utter nonsense, eh?” Turbis drained his goblet in one drought, then appearing to realise that no one remained to fill it, tossed it petulantly into the cushions. “Had enough anyhow!” He brushed absently at the crimson stain on his tunic. “No one takes it seriously, man. Just gossip. Besides, you’re a bloody nobleman.”

The Emperor might not feel the same way,
Martius thought. “I came here to discuss matters of importance with you.” His voice was clipped, harsher than intended. “You are the only one I trust.”

Turbis’s eyes reddened, his face flushing. “Sorry lad, sorry. You know I’m here for you.” He shook his head. “It’s the damned wine; fogs the brain. How’s your plan going?”

“I think I have convinced the Emperor and the Senate that they shouldn’t kill all the captives,” Martius chewed his lip. “They are to be sold in the slave markets instead.”

“Good, good. Bondage is better than death, surely? You will save many lives.”

“Yes, but many will die in the mines, the quarries…” Martius did not want death for the savages captured at Sothlind. What honour was there in killing defeated men?

“And many more will live, man. You cannot save them all. Do you think they would have shown us mercy if they’d won, eh?”

Martius ran a finger slowly round the top of his goblet. “You know, when they invaded Selesia, they didn’t cause as much damage as we thought. The walled cities were passed by, left unmolested if they paid a ransom – in food.”
 

“But they destroyed the Twenty-first Legion outside of Veirian, didn’t they? They are barbarians. It’s all well and good you preaching all men are equal in the Empire, but barbarians?” Turbis looked wistfully at his empty goblet and shook his head. “You didn’t show them much pity at Sothlind, did you? ‘Kill the bastards’ I heard you say it, man.”

“That was different. They were armed, they could defend themselves. Did you get a good look at them?”

Turbis waved his bandaged arm. “I would bloody well think so. Yes!”

“You know what I mean. The only reason they got as far as they did was because there were well over half a million of them. The scouts have reported that most who remain are women and children. They were poor, hungry and disorganised. They are not soldiers.”

“You are growing soft, man. They killed thousands of our people, they deserve to be punished. Look at what happened to the Third and the Twelfth, not to mention the other legions. We were damned lucky to win.”

Martius pursed his lips. “We were lucky to win, yes. But if we continue to rule by fear, we are doomed. Our dead cannot be replaced but if we exact a terrible revenge, no one wins, don’t you see? The Third and the Twelfth will be rebuilt.”

“Not the Twelfth,” Turbis whispered.

“What?”

“The Twelfth will be disbanded.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Martius frowned. “I should know – I do command the army.”

“And the Emperor will command you to disband the Twelfth. They broke; he feels they are a disgrace.”

“How do you know this?” Martius leaned forward, searching his friend for any sign of malice or deceit.
 

“Kourtes talked of it this morning at the temple. Apparently the Senate have voted on it too. All agree.” Turbis dropped his gaze, seemingly looking at his stump as it rested in his lap.

Martius felt his blood pounding in his ears, hammering out in protest. “They broke, but I lead them. I should take responsibility and I should decide if punishment is warranted.”

“You saved the day, though, and yourself in the process,” said Turbis. “You are immune, for now… The Twelfth are not so lucky.” Turbis’s eyes grew wide, a rivulet of sweat ran from his hairline down to his chin. “Gods dammit! I need more wine. Why should I have to tell you?”

Martius tensed. “Tell me what?”

Turbis wiped the sweat from his glistening forehead. “There’s something else.”

“I know there’s something else, Turbis; for pity’s sake, what is it?”

Turbis looked up, his eyes red. Martius thought he saw tears mingling with the sweat, but he couldn’t be sure. “Decimation.”

CONLAN’S HEAD ACHED, A dull reminder of the injury he had received at the battle of Sothlind. He had learnt to live with it in the weeks that followed. Alcohol couldn’t erase it; drinking just compounded the discomfort. This morning he had woken feeling grey and tired, his mouth a dry and barren place, the night before a distant memory. Conlan had learnt over the years that caution was the watchword when drinking with fellow soldiers. They were heavy drinkers at the best of times, but since the battle of Sothlind the remnants of the Third legion had entered into a frenzy of overindulgence. It was as if the very act of survival had reinforced each individual legionary’s sense of mortality, and now they fell upon life with a passion that only existed for those who had come close to losing it.

“You know this really is an honour, boss,” said Jonas, perky as ever despite drinking enough the night before to enfeeble and ox.

“Yes,” Conlan replied, his voice sounding dull to his own ears. “I feel very special.”

Jonas clapped him on the back. “No need to be sarcastic, right?” He gestured ahead to where Proctor Villius led the way through the bustling street. “Not every day that you get to buy some new clothes, is it? Such a noble escort as well.”

Conlan chuckled, his head throbbing again as he did. Up ahead, Danus Villius strode through the crowd with solemn grace, as if every step was planned and deliberate. “Is it me or does he walk a bit like General Martius?” Conlan sidestepped a burly man who bore a cask over his shoulder.

Jonas smiled, “Walks, talks… shits for all I know. Reckon he’s got a serious case of Martius worship.”

“Can’t argue with that.”
I would have been the same not that long ago
, Conlan thought.

“Cabbages!” a stallholder shouted in Conlan’s ear as he walked by. “Fresh picked cabbages!”

It was market day and all down the street people were setting up stalls and bustling around in preparation for a hard day hawking their produce.

“You ever think about applying to do a stint as a proctor?” Jonas asked. “Reckon it’d be pretty interesting to see how command works.”

Conlan shook his head. “Why would I want to do that? You still have to do front line duty even after you’ve spent three years pandering to the needs of some general or legion father. Can’t see the advantage, unless you’re desperate to lead; but even then you have to win the vote, and you know what the boys are like with the posh lads.”

“You reckon he’s one of them, do you?”

Conlan studied Villius. The man was impeccably turned out, his uniform spotless. His blue cloak shimmered in the morning light, probably woven with silk and cotton rather than the wool of the common soldier. “I reckon his parents are probably connected. Up and comers, maybe; either that or minor nobility. Must be pretty influential to land the job. Most men would kill to be proctor to the primus general.”

“Yeah. Either that or he’s good at his job.” Jonas reached out and grabbed an apple from a stall as they passed, casually spinning it up into the air and catching it.

“Hey, you! What d’ya think you’re doing?” the stallholder, a short, stocky woman with florid cheeks and thinning black hair, shouted after him.

Jonas spun around to face her. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge a veteran a bit of breakfast, madam?” He flashed a dazzling smile.

The stallholder held out a hand, the other resting on an ample hip. “Not if ya pay for it,” she said, giving Jonas a scathing look.

Jonas laughed and reached into his purse. “How could I resist when you ask so nicely?” He withdrew a tiny copper coin and casually tossed it toward the stallholder, who caught it with surprising grace.

“Ah,” the woman waved a hand dismissively, “be off with ya, scoundrel!” A small smile lit her face.
 

At the end of the street, they turned left. Leaving behind the bustling market street, they began a gradual climb.

“Where do you think he’s taking us?” said Conlan. He had expected them to head straight for the legionary armourers’ works, but they were heading in the opposite direction.

“Reckon we’re going to Bezel square.” Jonas took a huge bite from his apple. “Looks like you’re going to get something pretty special.”

“Bezel square?” Conlan had walked through it once, he was sure, but it was in a part of Adarna that he did not know well. “The one with the big fountain?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Dolphins and a mermaid. There’s a couple of posh armourers at one end.”

Conlan shivered. He had always mocked the officers who wore elaborate, often intricately worked and inlaid armour. General Martius, he remembered, had worn simple and practical armour at Sothlind, and Conlan admired him for it.

“What do you think to a pair of prancing ponies?” Jonas clapped Conlan on the shoulder. “Or perhaps you could have a gorgon’s head on your breastplate?”

“That’s enough now,” Conlan growled, wondering how he would ever live it down in the legion house.

As they marched up the inclined street, it began to get busier. Proctor Villius, as if realising for the first time that he was accompanied, slowed his pace and dropped back to join Conlan and Jonas.

“Have you ever seen active duty, Proctor?” Jonas asked in a matter of fact tone.

“Jonas.” Conlan flashed a disapproving look. Villius himself might not be a senior officer, but a man with the rank of proctor spoke with the delegated authority of the general he served. He may not be worthy of respect as a soldier, but his position was sacrosanct - many men had risen to greatness having been sponsored into such positions.

Villius gave no indication of offence, his eyes peering into the middle distance. “I was two years in the Twenty-second. Posted to the Farisian border,” he said, voice so soft it was barely audible.

Jonas frowned in disappointment and Conlan could not help but smile at his friend’s discomfort. Expecting to be able to poke fun at the young proctor, Jonas had instead revealed that the man was a veteran. The borderlands with Farisia were renowned as a difficult posting, with the sandmen a constant threat as they raided the more prosperous and productive lands of the Adarnan Empire.