Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

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!”

Martius smiled indulgently. “I am glad to be of service, my general.”

“Ah, gods, man.” Turbis brandished his stump again. “You are the only real general here. You saved the bloody Empire, you did.”

“Not the first…”

“And you won’t be the last.” Turbis paused to swig more wine flamboyantly. “But for the moment there’s only the two of us can claim to have done it.” He eyed Martius conspiratorially over his goblet. “At the moment, you are the most powerful man in the Empire. How does it feel?”

Martius straightened on his stool. It was dangerous to talk of power in the capital, but Turbis seemed blissfully unaware of the ears around him. “Perhaps I could try a glass of the wine? What is it you are drinking?” he asked with a noncommittal shrug.

Turbis peered deep into his goblet and gave it a desultory sniff. “It’s a Connorian red, one of my own. From the estate up north. Damned fine stuff. The vintners tell me there’s good schisty soil and it’s on a west-facing slope or some such nonsense.” He gestured with his stump to a nearby slave. “Wine for the general here, there’s a good girl.” Turbis watched the slim olive-skinned young woman — scratching his stump absentmindedly on his cheek — as she fetched a goblet and wine carafe. “You must forgive me, Martius. I quite forgot my manners.”

Martius accepted the goblet, holding it out whilst the wine was poured. “Not at all, Turbis.” He caught the slave girl’s eye and she dropped her gaze, deftly moving to her original position, still clutching the jug in hand as she adopted the slave’s traditionally blank mien, carefully staring into the middle distance. Martius had the strangest feeling that he knew her face, then realised with a start that she bore a striking resemblance to Turbis’s long-dead wife, Symia. Pushing the thought from his mind, Martius sniffed the wine — it had subtle overtones of blackberry and oak — then took a small sip. “This is a fine wine indeed.” Looking at the slave girl again, he wondered why Turbis would choose to surround himself with reminders of his loss; the man seemed hell bent on torturing himself. “My compliments to your vintners.”

Turbis raised his goblet, taking a large gulp. “Not bad, eh?” He raised the goblet and the slave girl filled it without raising her eyes. “Think I might retire up there. It really is beautiful and the weather is so much warmer.”

“It would be good for you, could help speed your recovery.”

“I do not doubt it, son,” Turbis sighed, glancing briefly in the slave girl’s direction. “I do not doubt it.” He put his goblet down, rubbing his bandaged stump with his good hand. “Damned thing itches like buggery.”

“Leave it alone or it will never heal.”

“Of course, of course.” Turbis sank back down into his pillows with a sigh. “So are you going to tell me how your, ah… plans are getting on then? I’m damned curious, truth be told.”

Martius took a quick sip of wine, savouring the delicious flavour. “I did come here for a private word, old friend, if that is alright?”

Turbis’s eyes were drooping markedly now; he bore a puzzled expression until, finally, his face brightened in realisation. “Everybody out!” he roared. “And remind Unclus I will be dining at seven on the terrace.”

The retinue departed silently. Martius waited until he was sure they were out of earshot. “Turbis, we cannot risk speaking in the open.” His tone was earnest. “You know there are ears everywhere.”

Turbis waved his hand dismissively, “What, them? They’re all loyal.”

“Nevertheless…” Martius fought to control his rising impatience. “… we should minimise any risk. You know as well as I do there is a target on my back now. I have enemies.”

“Ah, nonsense. Who would dare?”

“There are many. The reforms I have brought in over the last twenty years have not been supported by all. The nobles think I will bring the Empire down. You know that.”

“Yes, yes, I know, I’ve heard. You want a republic, or you would make yourself Emperor; you want to make a deal with the high king of the Farisians so he can rule the Empire! Everyone knows it’s utter nonsense, eh?” Turbis drained his goblet in one drought, then appearing to realise that no one remained to fill it, tossed it petulantly into the cushions. “Had enough anyhow!” He brushed absently at the crimson stain on his tunic. “No one takes it seriously, man. Just gossip. Besides, you’re a bloody nobleman.”