Jason Lewis: Empire Under Siege

Metrotis grinned broadly. “Yes, yes. This opens up so many possibilities; I really can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

Martius raised his right hand to his brow, resting it on his forehead. “And how are our… guests at the moment?”

“Oh.” Metrotis shifted in his chair, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Well, ah, I am making some progress on the language for one of them. I think his name is Wulf, or VVulf as he pronounces it. Interesting, really — the language seems to bear some relationship to the southern fisherfolk of the Basking islands.”

“And the other?” Martius leaned forward impatiently. “What of him?”

Metrotis paused. “Much the same really; he eats, he sleeps. I think he may have damaged his brain in the battle. Might be improving though. He glanced at me this morning, but he’s still mute. It really is not an easy job you have given me, Uncle.”

“You have to keep trying, Metrotis. I don’t know anyone better for the job.”

“I know, I know. He’s a hero of the Empire and we need to help him recover. Maybe I could try some of the herbs I’ve been experimenting with. Some of them have, erm… interesting properties.” Tilting his head again, Metrotis fixed Martius with an earnest gaze. “He is safe to be around though, isn’t he, Uncle? It’s just… when he looked at me this morning, well, my legs went quite weak. It’s not so bad with Wulf — he’s chained up, so what could he do? I mean he is big but…”

“He’s no threat, Metrotis,” Martius said.

“Which one? Wulf or the other?”

“The other.” Martius opened both arms wide as if in obeisance to the gods. “He’s just an injured soldier.”

“Yes, yes, of course; he seems a gentle soul really.”

Martius leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead absently. “Yes, a gentle soul…”

The legion bar was full. For once, the soldiers were relishing life rather than courting death. It was a dark and musty building, built, as were all legion bars, to a standard imperial template. The troops had a phrase for the design: ‘no expense spent’, and it seemed fitting to Conlan as he looked around the vast square hall. Low rafters did nothing for the ambiance, leaving the building feeling claustrophobic rather than cosy.

Scattered around the room were the trophies of the Third: shields, armour and other objects captured over centuries of battle. The walls were adorned with paintings and tapestries depicting the illustrious history of the legion, clearly marking the generic building out as different from all the other legion bars scattered throughout the military quarter of Adarna. It belonged to the Third.

A woodsmoke haze filled the top half of the room, making it preferable to sit down in the clearer air below. In every corner voices were raised in alcohol induced merriment — laughing, jeering, shouting and cheering in equal measure.

Conlan had always been a little horrified by how quickly his comrades could forget. It seemed so easy for them to put the terror of battle aside and get on with their lives. They had all lost brothers in the legion — comrades at arms; yet they were able to continue as if nothing of note had happened.

What was the point of it all? Conlan wondered. He had suffered a sense of great loss since his return to the capital. Fitful nights filled with nightmares left him exhausted each morning. The image of the crimson-haired warrior in white armour haunted him, her eyes boring into his mind each night as he lay in his bed. Barely able to function, Conlan had thrown himself into distraction, perfecting indolence by tortuous practice. He sat on a rough-hewn bench, arms resting on a simple trestle table, relishing his anonymity and his beer.

Looking up from his ale, Conlan saw his sword brothers approaching. Lucus — young and brash — grinned like a loon at everyone he passed; Jonas had a telltale bounce in his stride, the confidence of a survivor — no, a hero of the great battle.

How do they disassociate themselves from it all? Or are they just putting on an act, hiding their own inner demons?

“Ho, Lucus. Tell us your tale,” an old legionary called from a corner.

Lucus smiled amiably, and swerved toward the old veteran, whispering something to Jonas and smiling conspiratorially before they parted company. Lucus was welcomed with a hearty slap on the back by the veteran, a man named Salla, and immediately absorbed in conversation.

Reaching the table alone, Jonas placed a large tankard before Conlan. “There you go, boss. Pint o’ the best.”

“I didn’t realise there was a choice.” Conlan drained the dregs of his last tankard.

“Well, technically there isn’t, but I reckon this was a fresh keg.”

Stifling a grin, Conlan took a sip. “Tastes a lot like the last one.”

“Yeah, I know. Kinda nutty.”

Conlan raised his tankard. “The noble dead.”

“The noble dead,” Jonas returned the toast.

Conlan’s mind drifted. The noble dead… just a ritualised way to justify loss. Dylon had been noble, in his own way. And in the end, he had paid the ultimate sacrifice for that nobility, as had Jon Gyren and all the rest. But was it worth it? Was the world so much better with the barbarian threat neutralised?

“You alright?” Jonas fixed him with that look.

“Fine, fine, just daydreaming.” It was so difficult to concentrate of late; nothing seemed real anymore, nothing important.

“You know you’ve been doing that a lot recently,” said Jonas. “I reckon that knock to your head did something to you. Been getting any more headaches?”

Conlan shook his head. “No, but I’m still not sleeping well.”

“It’ll get better. You’ve seen it before. Gods, Conlan, you know we all get the jitters sometimes. Shit, I mean, we lost so many brothers. But we have to go on, boss. The only other way is madness.”

“I know.” Conlan didn’t like appearing weak in front of his men, even Jonas. “Concussion can take a long time to heal. That bastard hit me hard.” Conlan wasn’t convinced he had concussion, though. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel physical. It felt like a door in his mind had opened. And the new world through the door was not at all comforting.

Jonas cleared his throat. “You know I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“What?”

“On the battlefield, when the horn blew.”

Conlan sighed. “What about it?”

“What were you going to do? Y’know. I thought you’d frozen. I thought you’d lost it.” Jonas faltered, clearing his throat again. “What the hell happened, Conlan?”

“I had a moment… A moment when I thought Yovas had made a mistake.”

“And?” Jonas raised his brows.

Conlan had hoped Jonas wouldn’t remember, so much had happened on the battlefield. Just one tiny hesitation . Or was it a moment of clarity? Conlan knew that something had changed in him in that moment. What would Jonas think if he told the truth? Best not to find out. “I wanted to wait to confirm the order. Things get confused in a battle — one mistake and it all goes wrong.”

Jonas’s eyes narrowed. “You mean things didn’t go wrong?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think so. So you wouldn’t have disobeyed? For a moment I thought you’d… run.”

Conlan pursed his lips. “You know I wouldn’t run, Jonas.”

“I know, I know.” Jonas shrugged. “Just wondered.”

“I wouldn’t have run, Jonas, I wouldn’t have broken. It was just hesitation. I had just taken a blow to the head.” Conlan wondered how Jonas would react if he knew the truth, that he would have tried to take command of the legion. In the end there had been no need, because Yovas had not retreated. Conlan knew that if it had come to it, he would have mutinied on the field to prevent a retreat. The blow to his head had opened a door and when that door opened, years of legionary conditioning had broken.