Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

The last seven years had not been kind to Turbis. Where once he had been whip thin, the epitome of the imperial soldier, now he was bloated — a self-conscious and grotesque version of his former self. Turbis’s only real exercise was a regular stroll around the gardens of his town house, where he still tended the roses that Symia had loved so much.

Riding beside Martius, Turbis couldn’t help but marvel at the man. Martius was fifteen years his junior but looked much younger than his fifty years, his silvering hair the only real sign of ageing. Close observation revealed creases on the forehead and around the eyes, but other than this his olive complexion seemed to have made Martius immune to the rigours of time.

Turbis wondered what it would be like to stand before the dark god for judgement. Would he be found wanting? Or would he pass into paradise and join Symia? His mind drifted despite the jolting gait of his mount — back to the early years. Returning from the sand wars, Turbis had been hailed a hero, the saviour of the Empire. The old emperor had heaped honours upon him as if they were trinkets or sweetmeats handed out to a child. Overnight, General Turbis found he had become the most powerful man in the capital, and a household name. Senators, merchants, bankers — all courted him, believing perhaps that some of the glory, the power that he had won so hard in the sweltering heat of the eastern desert would rub off on them. The truth was that he hadn’t cared. For Turbis had gone to war through a sense of duty — pounded into him by years of legionary service — to protect his country, but also to protect his new wife; to secure their future and the future of their children to come. Not for glory, not for honour, but because it had to be done.

Antius Turbis had saved his nation, although the true threat of the sandmen had never been properly measured. Turbis wondered now, looking through the lens of a lifetime of ambition, whether the politicians of the time knew that a good war, an external threat, kept the population focused and reduced internal strife. He was content though, regardless of the politics, to bathe in the glory of his victory.

Turbis’s horse stumbled, wrenching him back to reality as he fought to stay seated. The jarring gait of the mount reminded him that he had not ridden for a very long time. Martius, ever young, ever strong, rode directly ahead, looking like the image of Xandar himself after his victory at the battle of Adarna.

Turbis remembered the first time they had met. Martius had been a cohort commander, still in his early twenties. Turbis had been suspicious of his reputation, which, even then, had preceded him. The young Martius had a reputation for risk taking and disregarding the traditions of the legions. It was for just such a misdemeanour that he had been summoned to stand before his general.

“Do you know why you are here, commander?” Turbis had made a point of not deigning to raise his eyes to look at the youth before him.

“Yes, General,” Martius had replied, his tone properly deferential. “I refused to lead my cohort after the tribesmen that attacked my legion camp yesterday.”

Turbis turned the page of the ledger he was reading. “You refused an order from your commanding officer, eh?”

Martius had shifted his weight gently. “I believe I did, sir.”

Turbis looked up into Martius’s eyes — he had never forgotten the indomitable will that he sensed in the man even then — and he saw that Martius would not try to make excuses; the man had made his decision and he would live with the consequences. Sighing, Turbis had closed the ledger, the large book thumping closed with grim finality. “You believe you did? Is that all you have to say for yourself, Commander?”

Martius had shrugged his shoulders gently. “I merely answered your question, sir.”

“Do you know what the penalty is for insubordination in a time of war, Commander Martius? Do you know what will happen to you?” Turbis had snapped in reply.

Martius had shrugged again. “I believe the maximum penalty is death, sir.” His face betrayed no emotion.

“And do you think that because you come from an influential family you will be spared this punishment?” Turbis had sighed in exasperation. The imperial army was full of aristocratic young men out to prove themselves before entering a life in politics and, for the most part, Turbis despised them all.

Martius had met Turbis’s gaze unflinchingly. “I ask for no special treatment, sir. I only ask that you judge for yourself.”

“Judge for myself? Well, young man, I have a report in front of me from Father Dunnas. He states that the tribesmen attacked whilst the legion was fortifying for the night. The attacking force was light and little damage was done, the tribesmen easily fought off. Your cohort was standing ready to take the watch and thus you were ordered to give chase and run them down.” Turbis leaned forward. “What else is there to judge, eh?”

“It was a feint, sir.” Martius raised an eyebrow, eyes still fixed on Turbis. He gave no indication of stress, despite the fact he might be arguing for his life. “A trick. The attack was light because it was their intention to get us to follow. We know the tribes have united under a new leader and many say that he has served in the legions. If so, he knows our tactics. They would have led us into a trap and destroyed us.”

“And you believe your assumption gave you the freedom to mutiny?”

“I did not mutiny, sir. I simply asked Father Dunnas to reconsider his order.”

Turbis’s hackles had risen at the insubordination, “You asked a legion father to reconsider his command! You are a cohort commander, not a general. What gives you the right?”

Martius seemed unfazed. “I believe that listening is a key aspect of sound leadership, sir. If one does not listen to one’s men, then disaster is certain to follow. I have a duty to the men under my command and I will not lead them needlessly to slaughter.”

Turbis had sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day and the damned fool standing before him seemed hell bent on sentencing himself to death. Turbis had shuddered at the thought of delivering the sentence to one so high born — a distant relative of the Emperor himself. “But the fact is that you disobeyed an order, I have the statement here right in front of me from Father Dunnas.” Turbis had waved a hand toward a parchment on the desk. He recalled debating whether to end the conversation there, sending the young officer off for punishment. But something in the man’s demeanour had stayed his hand. “Tell me… what did Father Dunnas do when you disobeyed?”

“He had me confined to quarters last night, and this morning I was brought before you for judgement. I believe he sent two cohorts after the rebels rather than one.” Martius paused, for the first time seeming uncertain. “General, may I speak freely?”

“Go on, go on. I probably can’t stop you in any case.”

“I do not believe that Dunnas is a capable officer… He is out of his depth.”

Turbis had slumped down in his chair, despairing that Martius had not used the proper title when referring to his commanding officer, “You disobey an order and now you see fit to criticise the father of your legion? Tell me, Commander Martius, what am I supposed to do with you?”

At that moment a messenger had entered the tent and, upon seeing the general was not alone, stood awkwardly at attention. The messenger’s chest heaved from recent exertion.

“What is it?!” Turbis finally gave vent to his frustration, slapping his right hand down on the desk, almost upturning his ink well in the process.

“Sir, I have an urgent message from Father Dunnas of the Eighteenth.” The messenger moved forward to hand a parchment over.