Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

An almost imperceptible shudder ran through the ranks, the barest whisper of doom. Conlan tensed and faltered for a split second.

“What was that, sir?” Lucus shouted to be heard over the noise of the battle.

Conlan glanced around. Some aspect of the noise, the mayhem of battle, had changed; that much was clear. It was not where he expected — the bulge in the centre of the line held fast. Instead, the line collapsed on the right flank and Conlan could not wrench his gaze away as the legionaries in the distance lost cohesion and closed in on each other, their formation compromised no space to fight, many on the front line turned to take flight.

Years of training took hold. Conlan saw the battle with piercing clarity. Action or death, these were now the only options. Dylon must have seen it too, for he turned his massive frame toward Conlan again, this time grim, face fixed. There were no words; he simply nodded his head before turning his attention back to the Southern front.

“Ninth, wheel right, form on me!” Conlan ordered, abandoning the southern front to Dylon and the rest of the Legion

“Ninth, wheel right, form on centre branch leader!” Jonas and Lucus echoed in stentorian tones, and others repeated the message so that it rolled along the line from cohort branch to branch.

The Tenth cohort followed suit without hesitation, years of drill leading to instant action. Conlan didn’t even turn to recognise their support, secure in the knowledge they would follow.

Anchoring himself to the line behind Dylon, Conlan faced the new threat from the west. They would hold the corner and form a new bulwark against the horde, to take the brunt of the fighting. Men streamed along behind to form on Conlan’s right.

“Sound vigilance!” Conlan shouted. He could only hope that this would be enough to attract the attention of the troops that were now isolated, fighting for their lives beyond his new front, and show them their path to salvation.

The westerly sun was bright and low — the advantage would belong to the enemy, with its light at their backs. Through a sea of running blue and silver legionaries a gap in the crumbling wall of steel had opened wide. The enemy were advancing — the army’s flank was turned. Conlan prayed the remnants of the broken Twelfth legion might have a hope of retreating in good order to rejoin the rest of the army before panic took hold.

“Where’s Commander Gyren?” Conlan fixed his gaze forward, unable to tear it aside as the enemy cut his brothers down, barely twenty paces away. He battled the urge to run to their aid. Some would make it, others would die. But if his line fell, the entire army would be outflanked.

“Don’t know, boss,” Jonas replied, no trace now of fear in his voice. “Reckon you’re in charge now.”

The enemy approached rapidly, a terrifying mass of fur and steel. Conlan cursed his luck and Jon Gyren too. A cohort commander should be with his men, “Lucus?”

“Sir?”

“I need you to get to father Yovas. Tell him his legion is being overrun. The Twelfth are broken; we need reinforcements. He needs to send word to the general. Go, now.”

“But sir.”

“Now.”

“Sir.” Lucus turned and pushed through the lines behind, his place quickly filled by another.

The horde hit the line like a storm. Snarling, spitting, pounding. A roar rose up from their ranks as they sensed victory.

Felix Martius’s knuckles whitened, his hands tightening around his horse’s reins. Ten legions, he thought, thirty thousand fighting men, against an army of what? Scouts had estimated a million. How many in reality? One hundred thousand? Two hundred? Reports suggested the legions did not face an army, but an entire nation on the move.

Looking down on the seething horde below, Martius did not doubt it. He wondered if it would have been wiser to hold back from a pitched battle, harrying the invaders instead — cutting off their food supply, starving them into submission. The barbarians were too close to the heart of the Empire. One precinct had already been overrun. They could not be allowed access to the heartlands. Too many cities to the north had no real defences, no walls or ditches. Who, after all, could challenge the power of the Empire? If the enemy got through, Martius knew, there would be slaughter.

Nine legions spread out below in a line, blocking the valley of Sothlind. Martius held another, freshly raised and untested, in reserve. There was no other passage for the horde through the Dardane Mountains, no other route into the Empire. Martius’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the front line, satisfied that the plan was sound. There is no alternative .

“Villius?” said Martius, turning to the young officer at his side.

“Yes, General?”

“The first cohorts appear to be advancing. That is not the plan.”

“No, sir, it is not.”

Martius considered Villius a good proctor, but the man seemed to lack emotion, and he was not sure what to make of the trait. “Send word to the legion fathers. Hold the line. They will mire in their own mud if they are not careful.”

“At once, sir,” Villius replied.

Seconds later, ten riders galloped towards the battle. Martius heard flags flapping in the wind behind him, as soldiers frenetically raised and lowered them. “I don’t trust those bloody flags, Villius. Who in the heat of battle pays attention to flags?”

“Of course, sir.” Villius fixed his attention on the front lines.

“It’s that damned Metrotis with his ridiculous inventions. Boy thinks he knows everything, Villius.”

“Of course, sir,” Villius shifted awkwardly in his saddle “He’s your nephew, sir?”

Martius smiled wryly. “That he is, Villius, that he is. Takes after my sister… in many ways”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir.”

Banishing thoughts of his nephew, Martius turned his attention back to the battle. The line still held fast. “There are a lot of them, but they lack discipline!” He raised his voice so that all around would hear. “They fight as individuals, for individual glory; and that will be their downfall, just like the hill tribes thirty years ago.”

“Meat for the grinder,” said Turbis, a staunch soldier and veteran of many battles. Turbis was legendary amongst the legions for rising through the ranks over forty years of service. Once, he had been commander-in-chief of the armies of the Empire, the primus general. Now in retirement, he was Martius’s most trusted advisor.

Martius nodded. “Meat for the grinder.” He wondered if his old friend was truly confident or simply playing the game as well.

“The emperor wants them all dead, Martius. Their insubordination cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”

Martius flashed an icy look at the speaker. “They will not go unpunished, Praetorus Kourtes. I believe the punishment has already begun.” He wondered at how detached Kourtes was from reality. “An entire precinct has been overrun, untold thousands of our citizens are dead, cities and towns put to the torch. Insubordination is perhaps an understatement.”

Kourtes sniffed disdainfully. “Dead, Martius. All of them. You have your orders.”

Martius turned in his saddle. “Yes, Praetorus. I would remind you that I take my orders directly from the emperor. As I said, they will be punished.” He fought to control the rising contempt in his voice. “And that is what will happen.” Politicians were always distasteful creatures in Martius’s experience. Kourtes, dressed in the high fashion of the year, his body wrapped in patterned silks from beyond Farisia, looked the very epitome of the species.