Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

The Emperor might not feel the same way, Martius thought. “I came here to discuss matters of importance with you.” His voice was clipped, harsher than intended. “You are the only one I trust.”

Turbis’s eyes reddened, his face flushing. “Sorry lad, sorry. You know I’m here for you.” He shook his head. “It’s the damned wine; fogs the brain. How’s your plan going?”

“I think I have convinced the Emperor and the Senate that they shouldn’t kill all the captives,” Martius chewed his lip. “They are to be sold in the slave markets instead.”

“Good, good. Bondage is better than death, surely? You will save many lives.”

“Yes, but many will die in the mines, the quarries…” Martius did not want death for the savages captured at Sothlind. What honour was there in killing defeated men?

“And many more will live, man. You cannot save them all. Do you think they would have shown us mercy if they’d won, eh?”

Martius ran a finger slowly round the top of his goblet. “You know, when they invaded Selesia, they didn’t cause as much damage as we thought. The walled cities were passed by, left unmolested if they paid a ransom — in food.”

“But they destroyed the Twenty-first Legion outside of Veirian, didn’t they? They are barbarians. It’s all well and good you preaching all men are equal in the Empire, but barbarians?” Turbis looked wistfully at his empty goblet and shook his head. “You didn’t show them much pity at Sothlind, did you? ‘Kill the bastards’ I heard you say it, man.”

“That was different. They were armed, they could defend themselves. Did you get a good look at them?”

Turbis waved his bandaged arm. “I would bloody well think so. Yes!”

“You know what I mean. The only reason they got as far as they did was because there were well over half a million of them. The scouts have reported that most who remain are women and children. They were poor, hungry and disorganised. They are not soldiers.”

“You are growing soft, man. They killed thousands of our people, they deserve to be punished. Look at what happened to the Third and the Twelfth, not to mention the other legions. We were damned lucky to win.”

Martius pursed his lips. “We were lucky to win, yes. But if we continue to rule by fear, we are doomed. Our dead cannot be replaced but if we exact a terrible revenge, no one wins, don’t you see? The Third and the Twelfth will be rebuilt.”

“Not the Twelfth,” Turbis whispered.

“What?”

“The Twelfth will be disbanded.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Martius frowned. “I should know — I do command the army.”

“And the Emperor will command you to disband the Twelfth. They broke; he feels they are a disgrace.”

“How do you know this?” Martius leaned forward, searching his friend for any sign of malice or deceit.

“Kourtes talked of it this morning at the temple. Apparently the Senate have voted on it too. All agree.” Turbis dropped his gaze, seemingly looking at his stump as it rested in his lap.

Martius felt his blood pounding in his ears, hammering out in protest. “They broke, but I lead them. I should take responsibility and I should decide if punishment is warranted.”

“You saved the day, though, and yourself in the process,” said Turbis. “You are immune, for now… The Twelfth are not so lucky.” Turbis’s eyes grew wide, a rivulet of sweat ran from his hairline down to his chin. “Gods dammit! I need more wine. Why should I have to tell you?”

Martius tensed. “Tell me what?”

Turbis wiped the sweat from his glistening forehead. “There’s something else.”

“I know there’s something else, Turbis; for pity’s sake, what is it?”

Turbis looked up, his eyes red. Martius thought he saw tears mingling with the sweat, but he couldn’t be sure. “Decimation.”

Conlan’s head ached, A dull reminder of the injury he had received at the battle of Sothlind. He had learnt to live with it in the weeks that followed. Alcohol couldn’t erase it; drinking just compounded the discomfort. This morning he had woken feeling grey and tired, his mouth a dry and barren place, the night before a distant memory. Conlan had learnt over the years that caution was the watchword when drinking with fellow soldiers. They were heavy drinkers at the best of times, but since the battle of Sothlind the remnants of the Third legion had entered into a frenzy of overindulgence. It was as if the very act of survival had reinforced each individual legionary’s sense of mortality, and now they fell upon life with a passion that only existed for those who had come close to losing it.

“You know this really is an honour, boss,” said Jonas, perky as ever despite drinking enough the night before to enfeeble and ox.

“Yes,” Conlan replied, his voice sounding dull to his own ears. “I feel very special.”

Jonas clapped him on the back. “No need to be sarcastic, right?” He gestured ahead to where Proctor Villius led the way through the bustling street. “Not every day that you get to buy some new clothes, is it? Such a noble escort as well.”

Conlan chuckled, his head throbbing again as he did. Up ahead, Danus Villius strode through the crowd with solemn grace, as if every step was planned and deliberate. “Is it me or does he walk a bit like General Martius?” Conlan sidestepped a burly man who bore a cask over his shoulder.

Jonas smiled, “Walks, talks… shits for all I know. Reckon he’s got a serious case of Martius worship.”

“Can’t argue with that.” I would have been the same not that long ago , Conlan thought.

“Cabbages!” a stallholder shouted in Conlan’s ear as he walked by. “Fresh picked cabbages!”

It was market day and all down the street people were setting up stalls and bustling around in preparation for a hard day hawking their produce.

“You ever think about applying to do a stint as a proctor?” Jonas asked. “Reckon it’d be pretty interesting to see how command works.”

Conlan shook his head. “Why would I want to do that? You still have to do front line duty even after you’ve spent three years pandering to the needs of some general or legion father. Can’t see the advantage, unless you’re desperate to lead; but even then you have to win the vote, and you know what the boys are like with the posh lads.”

“You reckon he’s one of them, do you?”

Conlan studied Villius. The man was impeccably turned out, his uniform spotless. His blue cloak shimmered in the morning light, probably woven with silk and cotton rather than the wool of the common soldier. “I reckon his parents are probably connected. Up and comers, maybe; either that or minor nobility. Must be pretty influential to land the job. Most men would kill to be proctor to the primus general.”

“Yeah. Either that or he’s good at his job.” Jonas reached out and grabbed an apple from a stall as they passed, casually spinning it up into the air and catching it.

“Hey, you! What d’ya think you’re doing?” the stallholder, a short, stocky woman with florid cheeks and thinning black hair, shouted after him.

Jonas spun around to face her. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge a veteran a bit of breakfast, madam?” He flashed a dazzling smile.

The stallholder held out a hand, the other resting on an ample hip. “Not if ya pay for it,” she said, giving Jonas a scathing look.

Jonas laughed and reached into his purse. “How could I resist when you ask so nicely?” He withdrew a tiny copper coin and casually tossed it toward the stallholder, who caught it with surprising grace.

“Ah,” the woman waved a hand dismissively, “be off with ya, scoundrel!” A small smile lit her face.