S. Turney - Interregnum

He looked around again, smiling with reminiscence. “This is definitely it. This is where it’ll happen. We need to get Tythias and the others moving faster. I want the high ground here and the sun in their eyes early in the morning.”

Balo nodded. “It’s nice ground, I agree, but why are we here now ?”

“You need to remind yourself the lie of the land and where the lines will be drawn. I know you were there, but it’s been a quarter of a century and we need to be prepared.”

He stopped and glanced around the low hills surrounding them and the spurs of land on either side that jutted out like horns. Balo’s gaze followed the general’s. At some places on the hills the land had been terraced for farming and fields of vines and groves of olive trees surrounded picturesque white villas. Some of the buildings here were fairly grand affairs being, as they were, the centre of large estates belonging to wealthy landowners. He squinted. His initial observation in the slowly fading light had been misleading. These villas, including the two expensive ones in prime position on the spurs of land, were empty and had stood empty for some time. Though there was no sign of damage or neglect from this distance, the lack of sound or movement was disconcerting and saddening, and no smoke rose from the buildings. No animals barked or lowed and no peasants or slaves moved around the tangled fields. War had loomed and struck here several times before this and the villas’ owners were gone or dead some time since. Quiet reigned in the valley, disturbed only by the whistling of a gentle breeze and the rummaging of some animal in the undergrowth nearby.

Cialo coughed. “I’ve no idea why we’re all here general, but if there’s something you need to tell me, I guess now is the time?”

Kiva nodded. “Yes. This is it. I figure we’ve got two days; three at the most before both us and Velutio are here. We ride back to camp tonight after we’ve had a little rest and a little sightseeing and I think we’ll be there around dawn to join the column. Balo, you know what you need to do here. Keep your eyes peeled and take in absolutely everything you can. You’ll need it. Favio, you stay with Balo for the time being.” He turned to the man who’d served Velutio for two decades until his conscience would let him no more. “Cialo, I said I had a job for you, and I do. Come with me and I’ll explain.”

Sabian gripped and ungripped both fists rhythmically as he strode from the command tent. The sound of his teeth grinding together drowned out the sounds of camp being broken after the night. He swept his gaze back and forth around the camp. Since the disappearance of Cialo, he’d no one to talk to on a personal level. His position was becoming untenable in this place. Velutio was making command decisions and then forcing him to deal with them and the various lesser lords in the army were bypassing him and taking their gripes directly to the old lord. He might as well not be here other than the fact that Velutio still claimed he valued Sabian’s battlefield expertise. True enough that he’d taken Velutio’s army through months of warfare and their army had suffered only minor losses and no defeats, but morale was at an all time low now. They’d lost more men in two weeks of desertions than they’d lost in months of battle. So far no individual lord had tried to pull out, but Sabian had a feeling such a state wasn’t all that far away. Perhaps he should’ve been more decisive in those days on Isera. If he’d taken up with Caerdin then, none of this might have happened. Equally, if he’d not let the islanders and the Wolves leave, the same applied. It was his fault directly that this was happening and, having given his oath to Velutio and supported his stand against Darius as a rival claimant. The most irritating thing was that less than a half dozen people the world over knew that Darius actually had a direct claim to the throne rather than some spurious one that Sarios had invented. Velutio, on the other hand, had no claim. In all truth, he was supporting a usurper, but it was too late to do anything about it. All he could do was bring the army to the Tosco valley as Velutio had ordered and try to beat the rebels there and claim the high ground. All he could do was try his best to win the battle before their entire army deserted.

And yet…

He strode down the hill from the headquarters and kept his eye on the troops folding tent canvas and gathering their equipment; perimeter guards relinquishing the night’s passwords and heading back to their units. In the last few days the camp guard were much more concerned about people crossing the boundary from the inside than the outside. Was Sabian the only one who thought of that as a sign?

Perhaps he should just give up and walk away. There would be no dishonour in that. Not desertion, of course, but resigning his commission. He could turn round and stride back into Velutio’s tent and leave his sword and uniform there. Walk away.

No. Not now.

He continued to march down the hill, anger still flooding through him. Velutio was being unusually sentimental wanting to re-fight an old battle with Caerdin and he could see why, but Caerdin had almost certainly engineered it to happen this way. Sabian knew he was a good strategist and a damn good commander, but could he hope to beat Caerdin on level terms and especially on ground Caerdin knew and had the advantage on?

Damn… damn… damn!

He spotted Lord Dio standing outside his tent in full armour, slugging back watered wine from a goblet. Dio was a man who in the right circumstances would have been a friend and probably a staunch imperialist. He’d served Quintus as a governor in the last days of the Empire and had been a friend to Caerdin. Steeling himself, he changed tack and made for Dio’s tent.

The elderly lord placed his goblet on the small table next to him and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He turned and smiled at the approaching man.

“Commander. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Sabian regarded Dio. The old man had long, grey hair tied back neatly after the fashion of the northern barbarians from whence his family had come many generations back. He was clean shaven with startling blue eyes and a tall, thin frame. He certainly didn’t look as old as Sabian knew him to be.

“Lord Dio. Are you in a rush? I’m in need of some conversation…”

The elderly lord nodded. “As a matter of fact I was just going to do the rounds and check on the men. They like to know I take an interest. Care to join me?”

“Actually,” Sabian replied, “I’d prefer to talk in private if I can tear you away. Your troops don’t really need to see you anyway. They must love you; they’re one of very few units who haven’t suffered desertions yet.”

Dio nodded soberly. “Very well.”

He turned and, picking up his goblet and helmet, walked back into his tent. Sabian consciously stopped grinding his teeth and strode in after the man. Inside, the tent was organised much as a military command tent, rather than a lord’s personal habitation. Four chairs sat around a table full of charts and maps and lists and the insignia of Dio’s forces hung from the rear. A small bed and a travel chest were the only concessions here to comfortable living.

Sabian stopped in the entrance and glanced around to make sure Dio’s guard were not attending too closely. Fortunately the old lord was respected enough that the guard felt safe to keep a perimeter some distance away. Just in case, he closed the flaps of the tent and tied them shut anyway.

When he turned round, Dio was watching him quizzically. “If I didn’t know you better commander, you have the look of a man about to desert.”