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.
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.”
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.
“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.
“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.”