Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

“Forget the damned parchment!” Turbis snapped, noting as he did that Martius had an eyebrow raised, “What’s the bloody message, eh?”

The messenger hesitated, “Sir… Father Dunnas asks for support. He says two cohorts went missing last night. He has taken the Eighteenth out of camp to investigate.”

“He’s done what?” Turbis’s heart had pounded a dread beat, “The damned fool!”

Within five years of the incident, and with no lack of support from Turbis, Martius had risen to command his own legion and gone on to defeat a rebellion of the hill tribes that had threatened to engulf the Empire in civil war. Ten years later he published his first book on military tactics and within a few short years of his seminal work, Martius, with the assistance of Turbis, had transformed the imperial army into the greatest military force on earth.

It had not all been plain sailing, Turbis remembered, but Martius had an uncanny ability for getting out of difficult situations. He had once heard a senator state that Martius could fall into a sewer and come out smelling of roses. The senator didn’t know the half of it. Turbis was convinced Martius led a charmed life.

Seeing Martius now, racing ahead to battle, Turbis wondered what would have happened that fateful day if he had not hesitated. Would the Empire even exist if Martius had not survived?

They had made good time across the field. No longer on high ground, it was difficult to determine the state of the battle, but Turbis was certain that the legions had not all broken. It looked as if the new eastern front had formed, with pockets of resistance from the three legions that were cut off diverting the invaders’ attention. It seemed even the savages knew they could not leave an enemy at their rear.

The eastern front could only have formed if the flag system had worked. A miracle of modern science. It amused Turbis that Martius did not seem to approve; so unlike him not to embrace progress, but Turbis wondered if Martius’s feelings for his nephew had clouded his judgement. Turbis smiled — Martius did not realise how similar he and Metrotis were.

The legion cavalry group had gathered as ordered, some distance behind the Eastern front. As the command group neared the cavalry, Martius stood in his stirrups, arms raised in a masterful display of horsemanship, his horse still cantering forward. “We ride north-east! Then south, single line and charge the bastards. Do you remember how it’s done my boys?” His voice projected over the din of battle.

Many men exchanged glances, others nodded. “Yes, sir!” a few called.

Martius reined his horse in, turning in a tight circle.

We are not prepared for battle , Turbis thought as he struggled to bring his own steed to a halt. We are boys and old men . The legion bodyguards before him, on the other hand, looked magnificent soldiers, but they had not been drilled in large scale cavalry manoeuvres since they were at the academy. The charge could end in disaster, but what other option? Turbis prayed to the gods that Martius’s luck held one more time.

Martius scowled, standing in his stirrups again. Lifting his sword from its scabbard, he pointed it at the cavalry group. “DO YOU REMEMBER HOW TO FIGHT?” His roar was so loud that many horses, trained for battle as they were, shied away.

“Yes,” came a lonely reply. But many nodded, whilst others straightened in their saddles as if remembering who addressed them. A few even glanced at Turbis, who, assuming what he hoped was a confident demeanour, nodded solemnly in their direction.

One man, barely into adulthood, sweat glistening on his brow above eyes that were unnaturally intense, leaned forward in his saddle “Yes, sir!”

Martius wheeled his mount north-east. Looking over his shoulder, he fixed his gaze on the boy. “Good! I’ll take the centre. Follow me!” And with that he kicked his horse into a gallop, clods of earth flying up in his wake.

Turbis followed suit, feeling the strain on his thighs as he tried to keep up. Behind, the cavalry followed at speed, but with no semblance of order, many whooping and braying for the battle to come. Turbis was momentarily irritated by the lack of discipline but realised that, in the end, it didn’t matter. The charge was a forlorn hope; the most they could do was buy time for the legions to combine, form square and make a fighting retreat. Even then, surrounded by the horde, the army could not last.

Soon Turbis was wheeling south with Martius. The General slowed the pace to a canter as horsemen jostled left and right to form into a ragged line.

Turbis saw the enemy ahead. Less than a quarter of a mile away the barbarians had spotted the cavalry and started to stream towards the new threat. They rushed towards the horsemen like leaves blown before an autumn storm. Here and there, caught in the roiling mass of battle, Turbis saw pockets of legionaries stranded beyond the lines, fighting for their lives. To the right a lone standard waved, awash in a sea of enemy warriors.

Turbis squinted toward the standard but was not sure what he saw. Surely a whole legion could not have survived? The Twelfth? The Third? Then, a light flashed through the heavens. Glancing toward it, Turbis saw another; it descended like a lightning flash from the sky, but it was like no lightning Turbis had ever seen. Another flash, then another and another in quick succession, white against the yellow sun.

Martius looked toward the lights too, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head and acknowledged Turbis’s quizzical look with a minute shrug of his shoulders before, with a quick glance left and right, he leaned forward, sword pointed at the enemy. “Charge!”

Seeing Yovas’s charge struck any doubt, any uncertainty, from Conlan’s mind. He knew what had to be done.

Jonas ran at his left side. His blue eyes fixed on Conlan, an unasked question in his gaze.

Somehow shedding the exhaustion of battle, Conlan increased his pace. He could see where the double line of the shield wall ended ahead. Yovas and his cavalry bodyguard were already bogged down. Their initial impetus, which had carried them twenty yards into the enemy ranks, had left them marooned.

Just as Jonas predicted, the enemy had turned the Northern flank. Clearly, Father Yovas, seeing the ruin of his legion at hand, had rolled the dice and risked an audacious charge. Perhaps he hoped that he would buy the legion time to adapt, to change formation. Maybe the old father had acted on instinct alone, Conlan neither knew nor cared; one task only stood ahead of him — he had to reach Yovas.

Father Yovas sat atop his steed, wielding his long cavalry sword like a man possessed, his teeth clenched in a rictus grin of battle fury, eyes flashing white in the sunlight. Blood flew from the blade as he beat down on the heads of his foes. The first group of infantry had reached him now, driving like an arrow into the crush around the father and his bodyguard. Incredibly, Yovas’s charge had been sufficient to halt the enemy advance. For the moment.

A freakishly thin barbarian wielding a meat cleaver and bearing a small wooden shield stood ahead of Conlan, his back turned, pushing with his brothers to get forward to attack Yovas and the cavalry. Perhaps hearing the rolling thunder of the running cohorts, the barbarian turned, and faltered as he saw Conlan and his men charging forward. Before the savage could react, a javelin, thrown on the run from within Dylon’s advancing wedge, smacked through the back of his neck, catapulting him to the ground.

Conlan led his wedge in at full pelt, no thought for his own safety as he hurdled the fallen man. The speed and ferocity of his charge took the tribesmen by surprise. The flow of the battle around Conlan shifted as the upper hand returned to the legion.