Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

The horn was a last resort. What is Father Yovas doing? Conlan thought, feeling the weight of exhaustion bearing down on him and letting his head droop. There is no hope . The words echoed through his mind… Whoever uttered them was a harbinger of doom.

“Conlan,” said Jonas, seemingly unperturbed, an island of serenity. “We can mourn Gyren later. No time now. Conlan, let’s go. You need to give the order. You need to lead. We have to retreat.”

Conlan felt the burden of leadership, a huge weight crushing his will, clouding his thoughts. He could feel death close by, and in a moment of cathartic comprehension, he understood his ultimate fate was to fade unnoticed from the world. No glory, no honour — just another bloated carcass on the battlefield.

“No.” Conlan heard the word as if another had spoken it.

A flicker of confusion ran across Jonas’s face, “What do y — “

“No.” Conlan looked up to meet his friend’s gaze. He was already dead, and the dead had nothing to fear. Looking around, he spotted Dylon nearby with what was left of the Eighth cohort, rallying men to follow the father’s order.

Then, perhaps fifty yards north, he saw a tightly packed group of legionaries advancing in formation. Perhaps thirty cavalrymen cantering at their side. Realisation dawned: Yovas, the legion father, was not retreating for a last stand; he was on the attack — taking the initiative. Conlan wondered if, perhaps, the old soldier could see something from horseback that the rest of his men could not. Whatever the case, the father had not had time to gather many troops. The Standard-bearer of the legion at his side, Father Yovas raised his right arm, lance in hand, and charged.

Conlan felt, as much as heard, the rolling thunder of hoof beats through the din of battle. The troops on foot followed Yovas in a sprinting crush, so eager to follow him that they risked losing formation.

It all happened in a heartbeat. The father — commander of the legion — had made his move and Conlan could not leave him without support. “Ninth cohort to me! Dylon! Let’s go,” he beckoned the remnants of the Eighth cohort.

Dylon grinned, flexing his huge shoulders “Eighth cohort form up! Fighting wedge. Move, you dogs!”

“Wedge formation, form on me!” Conlan called to the Ninth, jogging forward, not waiting to see if the others kept pace, his gaze fixed on the standard of the Third as it swayed in the sunlight — a golden three atop its obsidian staff — gently beckoning, daring hope.

Martius surveyed the battle with a keen eye. A familiar calm had settled on him, options flying through his consciousness in quick succession — but which one to follow? He knew that time seemed to slow down in moments of stress — to focus in on the moment — as if the brain was merely idle until triggered in such a way. Martius was amazed his old mind was still capable of action and reaction at such speed. Looking north, his eyes alighted on Kourtes and his retinue heading down the hill, destined for the road to Sissia. Only seconds had passed since the Twelfth broke, but it felt like an age.

Drawing a deep breath, Martius took a moment to survey his command staff. Their attention was fixed on him alone, as they waited, obedient but pensive, for his judgement — they knew the stakes. For a moment, Martius the familiar loneliness of leadership.

“Turbis,” Martius addressed his old friend tersely; no time for anything else. “Options?”

The old man fixed him with a steely glare, ruddy cheeks inflating as he exhaled slowly, “The Twelfth are gone, routed.” Turbis shook his head lightly, betraying his disdain. “The Third have been turned… They will not last long. The fathers should know what has happened by now, they will have seen it or the signal flags. We need men on the right, fast.”

Martius nodded encouragement to his old friend, pleased to see Turbis still retained some of the mettle he had once displayed as primus general. Martius knew he had little time, but he trusted the old man’s judgement in battle implicitly. Turbis was, after all, more experienced in warfare than any other man in the army — himself included.

“If they break the Third, we’re finished. Release five cohorts from each legion, form a new eastern front and move forward at double speed.” Turbis spoke with clipped precision, his eyes scanning Martius’s own as if seeking approval.

Martius nodded. “Villius.” He turned to address his proctor. Villius sat rigid in his saddle — his hands fidgeting with his horse’s bridle. “Send the signal. Use the damned flags, no time for runners. The legion fathers are to detach the rearmost five cohorts; they will form on the Fifth.” Martius knew that this order abandoned the Second legion, who held the position directly west of the beleaguered Third, but he needed to buy more space and time. Three legions was the price he must pay for it. They would be hard pressed and unable to manoeuvre in any case. “Standard formation, ten deep and charge.”

Villius nodded, licked his lips and turned to relay the instructions.

“Oh and Villius,” Martius said.

“Sir?”

“The cohorts from the first three legions will advance as soon as they have formed, the others will form behind and advance in support. Father Keint of the Fifth Legion will lead… on foot.”

“Sir.”

Turbis nodded and let out a snort. “So the others can advance behind, you can use them to form the legions into a fighting square if it doesn’t work?”

“Yes.” Martius replied

A puzzled expression crossed Turbis’s florid face, “But I don’t understand — why is Keint on foot?”

“Villius.” Martius chose to ignore Turbis for the moment, time was too short for niceties. “The bodyguard cavalry are to detach from each legion and reform on command. We will meet them on the field. The fathers are to remain on foot to lead, with their runners only, understood?”

Villius frowned, “But sir, as General Turbis says, the fathers…”

“Will be trapped with their legions. Yes, I know.” Martius knew the legion fathers would understand the stakes — most would rather die with their men than face the infamy and shame of defeat; whilst the legions would fight all the more fiercely if their leaders were in danger. “Do as you are ordered, son.”

His face flushing red, Villius turned to pass instructions to the flag operators.

“Martius,” Turbis’s tone was commanding, perhaps showing his annoyance at being ignored. “What is the plan? Why are the fathers on foot?”

Martius’s brow furrowed. “We need the fathers with their men. The infantry will never get there in time though; we need to do something, fast. If the damned Xandarian cavalry auxiliaries had arrived, we might not have faced this problem.” But there had been so little time to muster, the emperor’s orders had been so late coming. “We have two hundred cavalry with command. With the legion guards, we will number over five hundred. We will form up and charge.”

“Martius…” Turbis dropped his voice to a whisper. “Command are mostly boys, old men, scribes and runners. Many have no battle experience.”

“They soon will, old friend. They soon will.”

Turbis felt the familiar emotions of battle roiling through his mind and fought the urge to yawn. This always happened before battle, and Turbis had observed it in others many times; but it had always struck him as decidedly odd, for he certainly was not tired.

He found his body was eager for the madness of battle once more. Turbis wondered if too many years sat behind a desk, too many years in the pleasure houses of the capital since his beloved wife Symia passed, too much food and wine, would lead to his death. He knew he was not the man he had once been, but there was no more noble end than death in battle. And it was certainly preferable to death in a brothel. Sensing his time might have come, Turbis embraced the opportunity to create a fitting end to his legend.