Empire Under Siege (6 page)

Conlan’s mind drifted.
The noble dead… just a ritualised way to justify loss.
Dylon had been noble, in his own way. And in the end, he had paid the ultimate sacrifice for that nobility, as had Jon Gyren and all the rest. But was it worth it? Was the world so much better with the barbarian threat neutralised?

“You alright?” Jonas fixed him with
that
look.

“Fine, fine, just daydreaming.” It was so difficult to concentrate of late; nothing seemed real anymore, nothing important.

“You know you’ve been doing that a lot recently,” said Jonas. “I reckon that knock to your head did something to you. Been getting any more headaches?”

Conlan shook his head. “No, but I’m still not sleeping well.”

“It’ll get better. You’ve seen it before. Gods, Conlan, you know we all get the jitters sometimes. Shit, I mean, we lost so many brothers. But we have to go on, boss. The only other way is madness.”

“I know.” Conlan didn’t like appearing weak in front of his men, even Jonas. “Concussion can take a long time to heal. That bastard hit me hard.” Conlan wasn’t convinced he had concussion, though. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel physical. It felt like a door in his mind had opened. And the new world through the door was not at all comforting.

Jonas cleared his throat. “You know I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“What?”

“On the battlefield, when the horn blew.”

Conlan sighed. “What about it?”

“What were you going to do? Y’know. I thought you’d frozen. I thought you’d lost it.” Jonas faltered, clearing his throat again. “What the hell happened, Conlan?”

“I had a moment… A moment when I thought Yovas had made a mistake.”
 

“And?” Jonas raised his brows.

Conlan had hoped Jonas wouldn’t remember, so much had happened on the battlefield.
Just one tiny hesitation
. Or was it a moment of clarity? Conlan knew that something had changed in him in that moment. What would Jonas think if he told the truth? Best not to find out. “I wanted to wait to confirm the order. Things get confused in a battle – one mistake and it all goes wrong.”

Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “You mean things didn’t go wrong?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think so. So you wouldn’t have disobeyed? For a moment I thought you’d… run.”

Conlan pursed his lips. “You know I wouldn’t run, Jonas.”

“I know, I know.” Jonas shrugged. “Just wondered.”

“I wouldn’t have run, Jonas, I wouldn’t have broken. It was just hesitation. I had just taken a blow to the head.” Conlan wondered how Jonas would react if he knew the truth, that he would have tried to take command of the legion. In the end there had been no need, because Yovas had not retreated. Conlan knew that if it had come to it, he would have mutinied on the field to prevent a retreat. The blow to his head had opened a door and when that door opened, years of legionary conditioning had broken.

Jonas nodded, seemingly satisfied. “I know, boss, I know.”

A great cheer went up nearby as Lucus stumbled on his way back to the bar. He smiled sheepishly over his shoulder as he continued on his way, raising an arm in a drunken wave.

Conlan exchanged a look with Jonas. “Lucus,” he said, relieved for the excuse to break the tension. “You know there’s no one quite like him.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jonas agreed. “Special. Never ceases to amaze me that he doesn’t stab himself with his own sword. He’s pretty bloody clumsy – when he’s not on the battlefield!”

“I know,” said Conlan. “He saved my life, though. Pretty handy fighter.”

Jonas snorted quietly. “Proper hero, that one. He goes to Yovas and tells him what’s going on, triggers the old man’s charge, but not before Yovas orders him to the Fifth to tell Father Keint what’s going on.”

“Good thing he did. If Keint hadn’t started forming a new front with the Fifth behind us, the battle might have been lost.”
 

“Lucky Keint’s such a hard-nosed bastard,” Jonas said. “You know he pre-empted the orders General Martius sent through. Abandoned us, the Twelfth, and the Second. If he hadn’t done that, there wouldn’t have been anyone for Martius and his makeshift cavalry brigade to save.”

“Father Keint’s a hard taskmaster, Jonas, but he’s a damned good leader. He knew he was leaving us to the fates but he also knew that’s what was needed. Yovas would have understood that. Keint is as much of a hero as Yovas was. You know Keint gave Lucus a commendation for outstanding bravery in the field?”

“And Lucus might not be alive now if you hadn’t sent him off to raise the warning, boss,” Jonas replied. “I reckon he feels bad that he missed the action though.”

“He did enough; fought like a demon with Keint and the Fifth, apparently. Let him milk his fame a while. He probably saved us.”

Jonas leaned forward, fixing Conlan with sapphire eyes. “You know that’s not true, Conlan. What about the… others?” he said, voice pitched low.

Conlan tensed. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about them, brother, General Martius made us swear.”

“I know, but Conlan,” Jonas looked around uneasily, “how many of us were there?”

“Eighty-seven survived, including us.”

“Eighty-seven men, Conlan. Do you think no one will talk?”

“We’re legion, Jonas.” said Conlan. “Honour, service, humility. Remember?”

“I know the motto, boss. But not everyone’s a true believer; it’s only a matter of time, I reckon. We don’t even know who Martius has told, and men from other legions are talking of strange lights in the sky. There are rumours everywhere already.”

“Alright,” Conlan raised a hand in defeat, “what the hell happened then? I know what I think I saw.” He paused, clenching and unclenching his fists.
Maybe it’s better to talk. Maybe it will help.
“I saw, they were…”

“Perfect?”
 

“Something like that, yes. Nobody moves like that, Jonas. It’s not possible.”

Jonas nodded, eyes flashing. “There’s something else. You weren’t as close as I was, boss. They had no fear, nothing.”

“You look like you have no fear, Jonas. Gods’ sake, you are implacable in battle, but that’s not how you really feel, is it?

Jonas chuckled. “No, I’m pretty much shitting myself like every other bastard!”

“Exactly.”
A lot can be misinterpreted. We all look at life through our own personal lens. There’s no way to know what someone else is really thinking, how they truly feel.

“No, this was different,” Jonas retorted. “They weren’t afraid of anything. I saw it with my own eyes. The big one looked like he was enjoying himself. He was smiling the whole time. I think it was him that we heard laughing before we saw them.”

“What, you mean like Dylon used to? He always laughed in the face of death; he was famous for it.”
 

“I know. He was hard as nails. May the dark god send him.” Jonas lifted his tankard in salute and took a deep draught of ale.

“May the dark god send him,” Conlan completed the ritual.

“But this was different, Con. The knights we saw at Sothlind, they were different.”

Talk of Dylon threatened to push Conlan back into his fugue.
Dylon should be here tonight,
he thought,
taking the piss out of everyone.
King of banter, Dylon had always managed to turn everything into a competition – who could drink the most, who could eat the most, who could fart the loudest.

“So… who do you think they were, Jonas?”

Jonas produced a tight lipped smile. “Isn’t it obvious, boss? The bear, the bull, the hawk.”

“Hawk?” Conlan echoed.

“The woman, Con. You saw her breastplate, her hair. The red hawk…”

THE SUN SHONE IN Martius’s eyes, a reflected rainbow haze rising from the pool at the centre of the vast courtyard. He had not visited Turbis as often as he should have, and he was surprised to see how much had changed. In the past, Turbis had always relished a soldier’s simplicity, despite the vast fortune he had accrued over the years. Now, though, it seemed to Martius that Turbis’s villa was the epitome of ostentation.
 

Martius’s footsteps echoed off polished rose marble slabs, and he marvelled at the statuary that now surrounded the once plain swimming pool. The beauty of the carving, he found, was impossible to deny, but the garish painting of the marble detracted from the overall aesthetic, the true artistry of the sculptor buried beneath layers of paint. The pool was ringed by statues of past emperors, stone arms raised in salute, and generals on horseback, one seemingly reviewing the landscape, another at attention, helmet under arm. Heroes all. In pride of place, Turbis had a new addition: Standing on a plinth in the centre of the pool was a larger than life statue of Turbis himself. Not the Turbis of today, but the man that Martius remembered from his youth – stern, lean and grim. The sculpture of the saviour of the Empire sat astride a rearing battle mount, looking like a god, sword drawn and pointing skyward, cloak flowing in the wind. Martius was quite disturbed to see that the whole edifice appeared to be sculpted in gold. He had little doubt that it was solid, or at the least hollow cast. Turbis could afford it; he was, after all, one of the richest men in the Empire.

Approaching the pavilion at the Southern end of the pool Martius saw slaves, assistants, fan bearers and a lone minstrel had all gathered for their master’s pleasure. Turbis sat atop a throne of cushions, sweet meats and candied fruits within reach on the right. A scribe, conspicuously plain amongst the opulence, in a woollen tunic and leather sandals, to his right, clutching a stack of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other.
 

Turbis was clearly deep in thought, eyes glazed and distant, his voice sonorous but low as he recited to all. “... But that was not the issue, you see. We had no hope of keeping them alive and so on the seventh day I ordered the horses slaughtered.” His words were accompanied by the timid scratch of quill on parchment. “They would provide good meat for the men. But with the horses gone, there was no dung to cook the meat, so I had the men slice it thin and dry it in the sun in the manner of the sandmen themselves…”

Martius paused, head cocked, not wanting to disturb the legend.
The ghost of Turbis of old still lives in you, old man,
he thought.
But you are stuck in your past.
He cleared his throat a little louder than intended, but it had the required effect.

Turbis’s head snapped around, his eyes squinting up in irritation. But his face brightened when recognition dawned. “Ah, Martius. I had not expected you till later.” Eyes twinkling, he reached for a jewel-encrusted goblet and took a noisy sip. “Come, sit. I was just dictating the next chapter of my memoirs. Perhaps you would like to listen for a while?”

Martius grinned broadly, suspecting his friend was more than a little merry. As he entered the open face of the pavilion, a servant moved an ornate cushioned stool directly before Turbis.

“So I am to learn at the feet of the master again,” Martius said, sitting obediently, remembering his many years in Turbis’s service. “You know I am an avid reader of your work Antius Turbis,” he said respectfully. “But I worry that I would disturb your thinking… interfere with your flow.”

Turbis took another sip from his goblet, this time allowing the contents to dribble down the stem onto his cloth of gold tunic. “Quite right, my boy, quite right.” He waved his left arm dismissively, revealing a bandaged stump where his hand should have been. The young scribe quickly stood in response, bowed once and scampered away. “Make sure you get that written up by tomorrow, lad!” Turbis called after him. Pausing, Turbis eyed the space where his hand should have been as if surprised he could not find it, then leaned forward awkwardly, proffering the stump to Martius, “What do you think? Properly armless now? A completely armless General, eh?” He slumped back into the mountainous heap of cushions, a flash of revulsion crossing his face.

Martius laughed politely whilst the servants and slaves exchanged furtive glances, making a mental note to speak to Unclus, the master of the house. He wondered if his friend’s condition was worsening. “It’s just another hard-earned war wound; a badge of honour, if you will.” The words sounded hollow even to himself. “You know, you really should not have tried to take the whole damned army on single handed.”

Turbis ceased all movement for a moment then began to chuckle. “Single handed, Single handed. How wonderful!” He shook his head and took another gulp of wine. “That’s one for the memoirs, Felix. Oh yes, one for the memoirs.”

Martius raised an eyebrow. He could not remember the old general ever using his first name. Although he knew Turbis was not an aristocrat himself, he had always adhered to the old ways, where first names were used only to identify individuals in the same family. But then he could not remember seeing Turbis in this fragile a mood before. Martius cursed himself for letting the old man join him for the battle. He held no official rank, after all, but somehow it seemed right to have the man who saved the Empire with him again as a trusted advisor.

“Forgive me,” Martius said, raising a hand, palm outward. “Forgive me. It was an unintended jest and a bad one at that.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Turbis’s eyes shone with forgotten light. “However, I fear that was the last battle of Turbis the Great!” He looked again at his stump. “I sometimes get the damnedest feeling it’s still there. Even tried to scratch my head the other day…”

“I’ve heard men tell similar tales.” Martius hadn’t seen the loss of the hand himself, but by all accounts Turbis had been foolishly brave in the battle, allowing himself, in his eagerness, to get separated from the rest of the men. His horse taken out from under him, he had fought on foot till aid arrived. If nothing else, his legend had been rekindled at Sothlind valley. “I once knew a trooper that lost his manhood, sliced clean off if you can believe that. He swore blind he still got a hard on every morning.”

Turbis, roared with laughter, tears running down his ruddy cheeks. “Ah, he did better than me then! Can’t remember the last time the little man arose!” With that, perhaps feeling he had revealed too much, Turbis seemed to calm somewhat and make an effort to recover his dignity. “You always made me laugh, lad. Even when you were a snot-nosed youngster!”