Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

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?”