Jason Lewis: Phoenix Rising

But the Emperor did not look back, his tiny strides carrying him quickly from the chamber.

The hole was not pleasant. It wasn’t dirty. It didn’t smell. Light percolated down from the small window high above in the stone ceiling. Conlan thought it a very civilised hell.

The Martian reforms of the military — named after the man who introduced them — had resulted in the removal of the majority of capital punishments in the armed forces. The legions had still required a form of discipline though, to deal with those in need of it, without damaging them physically. They were, after all, precious commodities.

Where once it had taken six months to train a legionnaire, it now took three years. Every man was expected to study the new science of ballistics, along with carpentry, metalwork, leatherwork, fortification theory, formation theory and psychology to name but a few, the idea being that in the field, if the need arose, any man could step up and lead. The army, post reform, was rightly hailed as the most sophisticated and feared in the world.

I should feel lucky , Conlan brooded, that they consider me too costly to replace. Too precious to damage permanently. Everyone knew the stories of the hangings and floggings that were rampant in the legions that men like Turbis and Martius had inherited.

It was said that many of the soldiers in the old days — all citizens of the Empire — had baulked at wearing heavy armour and carrying extensive field kits; the result had been an army that was hopelessly prepared for attack or defence. The sand wars and the later rising of the hill tribes had demonstrated very effectively that the legions were no longer up to the task of defending the Empire. Some generals had taken to training and kitting out their own legions at this time. The result could so easily — if history were to be believed — have been civil war and chaos. However, one of them, by lucky chance, was Antius Turbis, who led his men to defeat the desert tribes and later rose to be the preeminent power in the Empire. After the Emperor, of course.

The lesson had been learned: the legions reorganised and the army completely restructured, thanks to Felix Martius. Under Martius, there would be no more hanging, no more flogging; men would be treated with respect and they would treat others in kind. No appalling physical punishments for the men in the new regime.

This was how the Hole had been conceived. A psychological punishment that caused no physical harm. It was a bare brick room, four yards square with one small, high window and one iron bound door. A hole in the floor, beneath which — a long way down — water ran, serving as the latrine. There was no bed or seat, just a hard-packed dirt floor, whilst food and water was pushed through a small port at the bottom of the door twice a day. Half ration, of course; it was a punishment, after all… and short-term hunger would do no permanent harm.

The trick of the Hole lay in sensory deprivation. No sound reached the prisoner, no stimulus; nothing was left in the cell that would keep the mind occupied. The food plate and water cup were secured to chains and withdrawn within minutes, forcing eating and drinking to become a frantic exercise.

The first day dragged; the second spanned a lifetime; the third seemed aeons. On the fourth, Conlan almost lost himself to the abyss…

He knew he had been without stimulus for ten days now because, with nothing else to occupy him, he had focused on this one task. Ten long days remembered that merged into one but separated into what seemed like individual lifetimes. He had a lot of time to think; time to brood over recent events.

Conlan had been indoctrinated in the legion to believe the legend of Felix Martius — the great war cat, people called him, in reference to his house. The great cat that changed it all. The great beast that ordered the Twelfth legion decimated and erased from existence.

“No!” Conlan had shouted with all the strength of his horror as he stood on the balcony overlooking Empire Square.

Martius had turned to look at him with murderous intent in his eyes; his answer to the challenge a nonchalant flick of the wrist, barely pausing whilst Villius, acting on this barely perceptible order, his eyes red rimmed — perhaps also mourning the Twelfth — had stepped in front of Conlan.

“You must be silent,” Villius had whispered, putting his hands on Conlan’s shoulders. It was a move that would have ended in disaster if General Turbis had not appeared at his side, eyes wide and intense.

“That’s enough, boy,” Turbis had said, his voice curiously gentle. “You are a legionary. Be strong. Stay silent.” The last words were delivered through lips drawn tight. Beads of sweat clung to the old general’s ruddy face.

Conlan had found himself nodding slowly as shock set in. He knew then that he had crossed a line. The malaise that had been afflicting him since the battle at Sothlind had finally led to a directly insubordinate and destructive action. This was the new legionary army, yes, but tolerance did not stretch to insurrection.

And so Conlan had stood, dumb and impassive, Villius holding his right arm, Turbis his left, and watched fifty-one men die in agony.

The priests of the dark god had seemed to take an age to make their slow procession from the temple. As they approached, the gathered crowd appeared to draw back as if in fear of their power. The power of the priests of the Sender. Representatives of the one god that all men would eventually meet. The god who chose to send the immortal soul to live with the gods in eternal summer or scream with the damned in the demon pits of the underworld. There had been fifty priests in all, and they had approached in two morbid columns. Conlan had marvelled at their number. They rarely appeared in public and were rumoured to be a small sect, but clearly this was not the case.

Martius had stood, his hands fixed to the balustrade, his attention fixed on the procession for the most part, his eyes flitting occasionally to the Twelfth, his expression unreadable.

You cold-hearted bastard, Conlan had thought. To show no emotion at this monstrous act. Are we not supposed to be the civilised? Are you not the man who saved the Empire? The great cat, they called him, fierce but fair, they said. How little they knew.

The priests had formed in front of the Twelfth. They flowed like wraiths into the ranks, until they stood, evenly spaced, between the rows of men.

Conlan had known what was coming and the knowledge made it all the more difficult to bear. He could only guess — as he stared down at them from the balcony — at the terror the men of the Twelfth must be experiencing.

But none of the doomed legion had tried to move or run — although some appeared to be straining at their bonds — and none made a sound. Most stood stock still, as if at attention on the parade ground, maybe imagining a better reality, or perhaps locking themselves away from what was to come.

The priests were silent as death throughout. Then, as a bell tolled in the temple they had issued from, they had begun their grisly task. The dark god would decide who should be taken. The decision was made by poison.

Conlan knew from his time in the academy — where military history was a key component of officer training — that each priest would carry many vials. The dark elixir, they called it; and rumour was that it played some part in the initiation of the priests themselves. On this occasion, it had another purpose.

With practised moves, as if they performed the ritual every day of their lives, the priests opened vials and offered them to one legionary at a time. To begin with, the soldiers complied with little fuss, some shook their heads, but then as if under some kind of trance, swallowed the draught the priest held to their lips. They would have known, or hoped as Conlan did, that only one in ten of the vials contained poison.