Jason Lewis: Phoenix Rising

The heavy oak doors slammed shut. They muffled the sounds of the massed citizens in Empire Square but they could not mask the shame that burned in Martius’s heart.

He walked, shoulders back, head held high, as befitted the primus general, but inside he squirmed at the thought of what he had just witnessed and the terrible consequences it might have for the future of the Empire.

The Twelfth legion was no more, and the blame rested with him alone.

You should have stopped it. You could have stopped it . His subconscious railed against him. It was not true though. He could never have stopped it, and a small part of him at least knew the truth of it — that path was too dangerous.

Revolution .

Why not? There were many in the Empire that would support him. There were many who would positively encourage it. But it was not the Felix way. His house had ever been loyal to the Emperor; his soul knew no other option.

The soul had won in the end, or perhaps he believed his own teachings too much.

To be a good leader, one must know when to follow .

They were his own words, drilled into every candidate at the academy. The legions were a great power in the Empire, but their function was to serve.

The alternative was a military coup and dictatorship, and every particle of Martius’s being denied that path.

The massed death of the Twelfth legion — their appalling decimation — would mar the history of the Empire for eternity. Nevertheless, it would also send a message to the army. Emperor Mucinas Ravenas was their master; and when they disappointed their master, they would pay a heavy price.

“This is not how it should be.” He said the words aloud, yet he had not intended to. They felt right though, as they spilled from his mouth. They felt like release. “It should not have happened.”

“There’s nothing you could have done about it, lad,” Turbis said quietly, forgetting as he often did, perhaps, that Martius was a grown man.

Martius looked at his old mentor. Never reply in anger , he reminded himself. Turbis, in his own way, was surely trying to help. “It doesn’t make it any easier.” He clenched his jaw shut to ensure he did not say something he might regret.

“I know that, Martius, I know that.” Turbis laid the stump of his arm on Martius’s shoulder. The tip of the hook hovered dangerously close to his eye. “This is not the place to discuss it, eh?” Turbis whispered so that only Martius could hear.

Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, like legions marching to a dull and hollow beat.

He slowed his pace. There was plenty of time to reach the council chamber. The Emperor could wait. Besides, Turbis was right. It would not do to be overheard.

They gradually fell behind the group ahead, the so-called great and good of the Empire, who had just stood and watched as the men who had defended them from annihilation were put to death.

Eventually, when he was certain that they would not be overheard, Martius vented his anger. “They didn’t need to die, damn it!” He waved his arm towards the retreating backs of the officers and politicians ahead. “I said it in the council chamber this morning and I’ll say it again.”

“No you won’t. You can’t.” Turbis stared at him, eyes gleaming with anger or regret. “It is done. I’ve heard you say it yourself a thousand times. What’s the analogy you use? Something to do with ‘catch the king’, can’t bloody remember — ”

Martius shook his head. “You have to play the long game.” You have to wait until your opponent overextends himself before you can catch his king. Before you can win the game.

He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the cool, perfumed air of the palace corridor. Turbis was right; it would not do to test the patience of the Emperor any further. This morning he had come close to the line and it had been clear in the eyes of Mucinas Ravenas — bright as they were with malice and glee — that this challenge to the Emperor’s authority would not be quickly forgotten.

“Anyway, doesn’t matter.” Turbis waved his hook dismissively. “Never liked the bloody game anyway. The point is you need to be careful, eh?” He put his good hand on Martius’s shoulder and brought him to a stop, fixing him with eyes that had, despite the ravages of gluttony and the gods knew what else that his body had endured, never lost their strength, their iron core. “Eh?” He shook Martius’s shoulder gently.

Turbis still had some muscle left beneath the layers of fat, that much was clear from the strength of his grip.

“Don’t worry, old man.” Martius smiled to take the sting out of his words. “I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Make sure you don’t, Martius. Think about Ella and the children… Make sure you don’t.” Turbis grunted and released his grip. “Now, let’s see what the little Emperor has to say for himself, eh?”

“You may enter.” The skinny young servant sniffed disdainfully as he ushered them into the council chamber, apparently careless of the fact he spoke to two of the most powerful men in the Empire.

Martius fumed. Another imperial lackey . His stomach ached with the sickening certainty of his own responsibility in it all. A small part of him counselled logic, urging him to place the blame where it truly lay — with the Emperor — but the image of his legionary brothers lying lifeless on the stones of Empire Square forbade any denial.

The expression on Praetorus Kourtes’s face as he had watched the sickening spectacle painted a picture of the Empire for Martius, and it was a ruinous image that he could not erase. Kourtes had appeared to enjoy the blatant horror of the decimation, and Martius wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk from the nobleman’s face.

There were many men now who considered themselves untouchable as part of the Emperor’s increasingly fetid inner circle.

The old Emperor — father to the current sovereign — had always encouraged challenge around him, ruling the Empire as the first amongst equals, adhering to the traditions laid down centuries ago by the great Xandar himself… At least that was how it had felt to Martius all those years ago.

He wondered if Turbis — silent now, perhaps lost in his own thoughts — would share the same recollection. Turbis, after all, had been the old Emperor’s favourite at court. Back then, Turbis had been vibrant and energetic, always willing to trade jokes with others, quick to anger but also to forgive. The court had seemed like a bastion of enlightenment shining in the vast dark of the world, as the old emperor and his subjects worked to improve the lot of the citizen and the slave alike, and re-order the Empire after generations of excess and neglect.

Martius himself had thrived in the tolerant and progressive atmosphere that pervaded the court at the time, and his meteoric rise really began there. First, as proctor to Turbis, Martius had been educated in life at court and imperial politics.

Then five years later, he had returned from a rotation in the Legions that saw him rise to become the youngest Legion father in recorded history. In addition, having just published his treatise on increasing the efficiency of the army, Martius was hailed on his return by the old emperor as a force for progress, and his changes were adopted wholeheartedly across the army.