Jason Lewis: Phoenix Rising

“Well,” said Martius. “Are you going to say anything?”

“Legion father?” Conlan croaked, his throat resisting reality as much as his mind.

Martius’s smile broadened and he raised an eyebrow. “You were voted in by the men three days ago. It was a landslide victory.”

“How?” Conlan replied. The words slowly sank in. Voted in? He had not long been centre branch leader, never mind his promotion to cohort commander, a post that he had undertaken, for the most part, in the Hole.

Turbis snorted loudly. “It’s a vote boy, eh?” He reached over and patted Conlan’s shoulder.

Conlan had expected, at the very least, to be dishonourably discharged, to face the prospect of seeking civilian work, or worse, joining a mercenary band in some far flung state, the Farisian Empire, perhaps. But this? Surely it was a joke. He did not know what to think of Felix Martius. He wondered if the general was truly an honourable man, or if this was just an elaborate game, such as he had heard the nobility were wont to play with the lower classes.

Martius reached forward, picked up the jug from the middle of the table and topped up everyone’s drinks in silence. The sound of the liquid echoed like laughter in Conlan’s ears. The gods were fickle, he had heard. If so, they must be laughing at his fate.

He nodded his thanks and took a sip of the pomegranate juice. After the campaign rations and water he had consumed for the last ten days, it tasted like nectar. His stomach grumbled loudly, an insistent reminder that he had not eaten for many hours.

Martius smiled at him, face open and unguarded for the first time. “Darcus, lads.” He gestured to the three servants who still stood in the vegetable patch. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to get us some food? I believe our guest must be famished.”

Darcus, a huge gangly man with a badly mangled nose and crooked teeth looked questioningly at his master. “Sir?” he replied, voice deep and sonorous.

“It’s alright, Darcus. We are in no danger.” Martius gestured again with his hand. The big man nodded and led the others in the direction of the largest chimney in the house, which looked to Conlan, to be attached to the kitchen.

“So I am to be the father of the Third, then?” Conlan said, absently watching the servants’ backs as they departed. He thought it strange that had not seen any slaves in the house.

“You are.” Martius nodded. “The Phoenix Third is yours. The remaining nine hundred have been joined by the remnant of the disbanded Twelfth. Your legion is just under half strength, but the men are strong and we are already filling the ranks with new recruits.” He paused, looking into the middle distance over Conlan’s head. “The boys from the Twelfth really swung it for you, I think. Rumour has it they all voted for you… Your outburst may have gotten you into trouble, but it also bought you many friends. That and the fact you were the only cohort commander in the Third they knew anything of.” Martius fixed Conlan with a stare. “You will look after those boys, Father Conlan, the Twelfth have a long and illustrious history and I will not see it completely destroyed. There is a reason I had them protect the right flank at Sothlind. They are fine soldiers. Treat them well and they will follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

Conlan nodded. His outburst should have cost him his career, and possibly his life, but instead it had bought him a legion of his own. A pang of guilt tugged at him for distrusting the primus general. There was true compassion in Martius’s voice as he spoke of the Twelfth. Conlan could only guess at the depth of his loss.

“I will do my best to honour their loyalty, sir.”

“Good. Make sure you do,” Martius replied. “I like you, Conlan, but you need to know that you cannot be so blatant in challenging authority. Your outburst left me no choice but to punish you. You do not know how lucky you are to be alive. If the Emperor had been present… You will find that I value constructive criticism in those I command, but you must not challenge me in public. I am always happy to be questioned privately. Do you think you can work with this arrangement?”

Conlan flushed. He had doubted — no hated — a man who clearly did not deserve it. “I understand, General. It will not happen again. I am yours to command.”

The three servants returned, laden with bread, cold meat, cheese and fruit.

“Good,” said Felix Martius. “We have much to discuss, I have a special task for you. Villius will fill you in on the details while we eat.”

“Do we have wine, Martius?” Turbis asked. “All this juice is unsettling my stomach.”

After two days, it still had not sunk in. Legion father. The ultimate accolade for any rank and file legionary; and now it was his. The Third Legion, his beloved Third, dropped into his lap like a child’s gift on Empire Day, with General Martius playing the part of indulgent father.

Conlan still could not reconcile himself with the thought of being one of the most senior frontline officers in the Empire. Legion fathers were undoubtedly those most respected by the rank and file; in many respects, the whole legionary system revolved around loyalty to them above all else but the Empire itself.

“You are certainly quiet.” Martius’s voice was soft. “I will give you that.”

Conlan turned towards the general, not knowing whether to idolise or hate the man beside him. “I am sorry, sir.” He took a deep breath. The air in Veteran’s Park was the clearest in the city, benefiting from a steady, reliable, breeze that blew up the Harlax River which bisected Adarna. To the east lay the bustling hub of the city proper; to the west, on the other side of the river lay the richer suburbs that had sprung up as the city grew. “I am still in shock, I think.” Two days ago, I was in the Hole. Two days ago, I hated you for what I thought you had done. The decimation had been on the orders of the despotic Emperor, Mucinas Ravenas, but he still, to some small degree, begrudged Martius his forgiveness, and wondered if the general could have done more to stop the horror of the decimation.

Martius laid a hand on Conlan’s shoulder; his grip was firm and friendly. “I know. It is quite understandable. You have gone through much in the last few weeks.” He swept a hand to encompass the whole area. “The Empire has been through much over the last few weeks. It is not surprising that you are… a little worse for wear.” He released his grip and patted Conlan gently on the back. “For my part, I am sorry for what you have had to endure.”

Conlan thought back to his time in the Hole. Perhaps the worst torture he could have imagined: no pain inflicted but an overwhelming absence of sensory input — that had been the hardest thing — whilst he had tried to keep himself occupied, he doubted that his mind would have survived prolonged exposure to the Hole. No one was strong enough for their mind to survive for long. It struck him that in trying to avoid the barbaric capital punishments of the past, Martius might actually have developed a far more sinister penance.

Keen to change the subject, Conlan made an effort to take in his surroundings. Veteran’s Park was the largest public area in the city. It occupied a large swathe of land within the loop of the river that had served in ancient times to protect the city from attack. “I always wondered, how is it that a park was built within the loop of the river? Isn’t that a waste of land? I mean, couldn’t they have built houses of something here?”

Martius’s obsidian eyes bored into him for a moment, as if assessing the state of his soul, carefully measuring how to respond. Eventually, Martius seemed to shrug lightly. “The park has existed since the time of Xandar. Most scholars agree that he dedicated it to his veterans, those who accompanied him on the march from what we now call Xandaria. It was his way of recognising the dedication and commitment of his troops, I think.”