Empire Under Siege Page 2

  Turbis snorted. “Just like we planned, lambs to the slaughter.”

  “Never let the enemy dictate the battle, my friend,” Martius allowed himself a smile, knowing it would bolster the men’s confidence. The bulge on the right of the line continued to grow. “Villius, have five cohorts of reserves support the right.”

  “Sir.”

  A gust of wind blew from the West causing Martius’s horse to shy. “Easy boy.” He reached down and patted its neck. “Easy.”

  “Did you hear that, sir?” Villius’s head tilted gently to one side “Sounded like somebody screamed something? Sounded close.”

  “Noise travels strangely over a battlefield. Something spooked my horse, though.” Martius was loath to admit that his hearing was also not what it had been.

  “Didn’t hear a thing, boy,” said Turbis, clearly not troubled at admitting a weakness. His eyes glittered as he fixed the young soldier with a glare. “Must be Toruss, the god of war, shouting for joy.”

  Villius looked down, his face gently reddening in a rare show of emotion.

  Martius smiled. What must it feel like to speak to a legend, he thought. An entire lecture at the academy was dedicated to Turbis’s battle with the sandmen in the west; his twenty-day lightning march through the desert was fabled throughout the Empire. Turbis had lost a thousand men to the heat, but arriving exhausted, still defeated an army twice his number at the battle of Hadraniss; thus assuring his place in history.

  Turning his attention to Turbis, Martius acknowledged his old friend was not the man he had once been. A huge tub belly was obscured by an ornate silver breastplate. A mythical sand gorgon embossed in the metal couldn’t disguise Turbis’s growing softness. His cheeks were mottled and red, his thinning hair white. The eyes have never changed though. They’re as hard as they always were.

  All down the line the cohorts began rotation. Martius always marvelled at the proficiency of the manoeuvre, but would admit to few that it made him nervous. Military academics had demonstrated many times that refreshing the front line won battles and saved lives, but the move carried significant risk. Martius glanced expectantly down the line, left to right, as the rotation began.

  His gaze alighted on the Twelfth legion as it started to break. A subtle shift in the front line, like rippling water; then blue cloaks started to detach from formation, the rear appearing to fray as men streamed north like so many raindrops. The reinforcements that Martius had ordered in to support, already taking up position, faltered. The pendulum had swung away from the Empire.

  Martius’s heart skipped a beat; the battle could be lost in moments. “Villius, all reserves to the right. Now. They are to charge. Wedge formation.”

  “Sir.” Villius, having regained his composure, betrayed no emotion.

  “Praetorus Kourtes.” Martius turned in his saddle to face the nobleman. “Please retire with your retinue… slowly.” Martius prayed the foppish fool would follow his instruction; it would lower morale if the army saw anyone fleeing the command post.

  Kourtes reddened and lifted a hand, brushing it through his thinning blond hair, betraying a fine tremor as he did so. “But I am to stay and watch the victory, General.”

  Martius shook his head. “You will ride at leisure until out of sight. Then get to Sissia as fast as you can. The Fourteenth legion is due to arrive within a day. Seek the legion father, Maran Kultis. If you hear no word from us, he will know what needs to be done.”

  Kourtes glanced nervously at the battle, his head twitching absurdly to one side. “Very well, General. You will provide an escort, surely?”

  “I cannot spare a man.” Martius felt his patience fraying. “Go now while you still can. We stand and fight or die this day.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Conlan

  BACK, EVER BACK. CONLAN was exhausted; the line could not hold. Blood trickled slowly from the wound on his head, his right shoulder screamed in agony every time he raised his sword.

  No hope of relief, he stuck to the drill: block, stab, bash, using his shield as a weapon as much as his sword. Hold formation, close the ranks, protect your legion brothers.

  Pushed back again, Conlan narrowly avoided tangling in the dead and dying as the line bowed under the sheer weight of the enemy’s numbers. No matter how many he dispatched, more jostled to the fore to take their place.

  The legion took fewer losses now; only the strongest survived, but still with every four or five barbarians dispatched to meet the dark God, a legionary fell. There seemed no end to the enemy.

  A huge, red-bearded savage - axe in hand - roared as he aimed a blow over Conlan’s tower shield. The blade caught the top of the shield, nearly ripping it from Conlan’s arm. Forced off balance, he almost fell, but the legionary behind used his spear overhand to stab the beast in the face, tearing his left cheek and exposing the skull beneath. Conlan whipped his sword forward over his shield, as much by instinct as intention, slicing it across the barbarian’s neck. Blood gushed forth, the barbarian’s eyes glazing as he went down. His countrymen trampled over him as they surged forward, eager for death.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, Conlan heard the whistles blowing to signal rotation. He felt the familiar proximity of the man behind him moving into position. Conlan bashed his shield forward with all his might and turned quickly to retreat. A little too slow, something crunched against his back plate - shoving him forward - and then he was through to the rear. The shield wall, miraculously, still held.

  Conlan surveyed the carnage. The whole line had turned to face the enemy on a new front just as he had intended, but it could not conceivably hold. It was only a matter of time before the legions were flanked again as the barbarians worked their way North.

  A hand clapped on Conlan’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie.

  “You alright?” asked Jonas, looking implausibly relaxed. There was not a single dent on his armour. The only sign of battle was his sword arm, caked in gore to the elbow, and a tiny spot of blood sitting incongruously below his right eye.

  Conlan nodded dumbly, fighting to catch his breath.

  “They’re gonna turn us again, boss; that or break through. It’s only a matter of time. The Twelfth have broken. I saw their standard fall. If these bastards were proper soldiers we’d be standing before the dark god already.” Jonas’s eyes were searching; his stare was strangely intense.

  Conlan nodded again. “I know.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Where’s Commander Gyren? We need to form square, then we might hold. Maybe the reserves…” His mouth felt parchment dry, his tongue a choking husk.

  Jonas sighed, releasing his grip on Conlan’s shoulder, “Gyren’s dead, Conlan.”

  A knot formed in Conlan’s stomach. John Gyren, his mentor for the last nine years, dead. A horn sounded before Conlan could come to terms with the news. It was a long and plaintive note - the father’s horn, a signal for all disengaged men to muster to legion command, to be lead by and to protect the legion father and the standard. Conlan knew that the battle must be lost. A retreat to the legion father would destabilise the front line. Abandoned, the fighting men would lose morale and retreat towards command, seeking protection. The legionaries would be squeezed together, unable to fight cohesively.

  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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Martius

  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.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Turbis

  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.

  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.