Jason Lewis - Empire Under Siege

The wretched men of the Twelfth, standing in the square below, had done the unthinkable: they had been beaten and broken. Even worse, unlike the glorious Twenty-first — who had died to a man fighting the barbarian horde rather than yield — these few had dared to survive. In stark contrast to the other legions, the Twelfth were not dressed in parade ground uniform, but in field kit. It was clearly the same kit they had worn at Sothlind, still coated in blood and mud and worse. The men of the Twelfth stood at attention, hands clasped behind their backs but heads bowed low, shoulders stooped, as if bearing the full weight of their shame.

Which of us would not have broken eventually when faced with such odds? Conlan thought. The whole army would have broken eventually if not for Martius’s cavalry charge, if not for the others — bear, bull and hawk . At the thought of her his heart jumped a beat, the image of her beauty briefly searing his mind.

A symphony of horns sounded, echoing across the marble and stone of the square, bringing the throng of citizens to silence. Men began to walk out onto the balcony from the rooms within, important men, men who had been invited into the Emperor’s presence, unlike Conlan and Villius who had been ushered up a back stair. Conlan saw the primus general, Felix Martius, amongst the group, standing alongside the rotund figure of the great general, Antius Turbis, who now sported a silver hook attached to a golden sheath that was bound to the stump of his left arm. Martius and Turbis were surrounded by the great and good of the Empire, some fellow soldiers, stern-looking men in outrageously ornate armour depicting scenes from legend or battles long past. There were senators and politicians too, some in traditional grey, others in ornate, brilliantly coloured robes. A few wore the latest fashion, a peacock feather wound through the hair, hanging vertically down the back.

Conlan looked on in fascination. Only Felix Martius stood apart. He wore a plain steel cuirass and greaves with leather gauntlets; no adornment save for his purple cloak of office. So you men rule the Empire, you make the decisions that influence the lives of millions . Conlan had seen these men before, but always at a distance. He was disgusted to see that many of the officers were in poor physical shape, whilst many of the senators were positively flaccid. Feeling his bile rising, Conlan forced a serene expression.

“The Emperor will be here any moment,” Villius muttered.

Conlan grasped for the pommel of his sword and found nothing but air — no weapons allowed in the presence of the Emperor.

A second fanfare sounded and the Emperor appeared on a separate, smaller balcony, set slightly higher in the palace wall, as befitted his station, and offset to the left. A huge roar erupted from the crowd to greet him. The gathered legions saluted in unison, hobnailed boots crashing onto stone, setting echoes cracking off the surrounding buildings. Pigeons took to flight all around, racing to find more peaceful roosts.

A herald stepped forward, arms raised for silence. “All hail Mucinas Ravenas! Ninety-seventh Emperor of Adarna, lord protector of the Xandarian free states, defender of the faith. Anointed of the gods, sovereign leader of all lands around the great sea!” The herald’s voice carried to the far reaches of the square.

The vast crowd remained silent, awaiting the words of an emperor who had not spoken publicly for almost five years.

Conlan had a clear view of the leader of the world from where he stood. This close, Emperor Mucinas Ravenas looked small. Shortly cropped grey hair topped a plain, impish face; the man looked the epitome of good naturedness. Mucinas Ravenas did not seem like a man who undertook strenuous activity — his skin looked sallow and soft.

Conlan found himself momentarily despising the man to whom he had been indoctrinated, as an Imperial legionary, to love and serve.

“People of Adarna,” the Emperor began, “I address you today, just as a great disaster has been averted. We give thanks to the gods for their grace and support in our time of need.” He surveyed the crowd with great solemnity. “We have amongst us today many heroes. My generals, Felix Martius and Antius Turbis, stand before you and shall receive great reward for their endeavours. They, with my brave legions, have saved the Empire.”

The Emperor’s voice sounded high pitched, but curiously flat, to Conlan’s ears.

“We are grateful to our loyal subjects for their dedication and commitment,” the Emperor continued, “Honour, service, humility and dignity. These are the words of our legionary brotherhood.”

Good speech , thought Conlan. Be one of the people, one of the men . Before the battle he would have listened in rapt attention, hanging on every word.

“A grand victory is ours,” said the Emperor, “a victory that sits amongst the greatest achievements of this ancient empire. Our enemies tremble at our valour and hide within their borders. We shall not be troubled again for many years to come.” The Emperor paused, tilting his head to the right.

Behind the Emperor, a scribe, hidden from the crowd, whispered in his ear.

“To my General Martius, I hereby grant an estate in Connoria. From this day forth he shall be titled at court as the ‘Saviour of the Empire’.” The Emperor turned and nodded to Martius, who bowed graciously in return. “To my General Turbis, who bravely led the charge against the enemy,” the Emperor smiled and looked toward Martius again, “I have commissioned a statue to be placed with the other heroes in this very square, to commemorate his bravery.”

Conlan gasped. Beside him, Villius echoed his reaction. Few men had been immortalised in this way; the honour was bestowed perhaps once in a generation. Turbis would now have two statues in the square, a first in the history of the Empire. Conlan marvelled at Martius’s composure in the face of this obvious slight — he showed no outward sign of distress, going so far as to clap Turbis on the back. Turbis, for his part, looked abashed. The crowd cheered loudly, but Conlan thought he heard some jeers interspersed.

“My people,” said the Emperor, “there are many heroes amongst us, far too many to name. All who fought bravely will be rewarded. One example of outstanding courage will be recognised this day above all others.” The Emperor’s head tilted as the scribe whispered in his ear, “Branch leader… Conlan Danson of the Third Legion epitomised the fighting spirit of our great nation when he defended his legionary standard against all odds whilst cut off from the rest of the army.”

Conlan blushed, feeling clammy and hot as he looked up at the Emperor, who did not deign to return his gaze.

“For his bravery I grant him promotion to cohort commander and a place of honour in my own Golden Legion when his time comes.” The Emperor swept his hands out wide as if to encompass the whole square. “In addition, he will receive the highest award the army can grant: the Xandar Cross.”

Conlan could not believe what he was hearing. A cohort commander earned enough to live a good life, get a house of his own, possibly even a small holding. But every soldier in the Empire aspired to a place in the Golden Legion. The Emperor’s own elite bodyguard was made up entirely of veterans who had served a full fifteen years and been released from their legion bond. A member of the Golden legion would want for nothing in life. The honour was great, far more than Conlan had expected. But it seemed empty somehow. Where before he would have wished for nothing more, now he found he cared little for the glory and acclamation.

“To honour the brave men who fought alongside this hero,” said the Emperor, “the eighty-six men who defended the standard of the Third will receive the Empire medal. To honour the bravery of the Third Legion and to recognise our determination to rebuild it to its former glory, it will henceforth, and for all time, be known as the Phoenix Legion.” A great roar arose from the crowd. To be given a name was the highest honour a legion could earn. The remade Phoenix Third would be allowed to fashion a symbol to stand atop the plain number on their standard. “In addition, every soldier who took part in the great battle at Sothlind valley will receive one golden Adarnan, bearing a memorial of the battle on the obverse.”