Livillia’s face had whitened, her hands were clenched at her side, and she had frozen in place. With a stiff gust of wind, Kyron was sure she would tip over.
“Of course you don’t,” Emlyn continued. “You mock. You speak against him and his master. You try to control the thoughts of others who have seen the benefits he brings to this, to them. It scares you, and he scares you.”
“I am not frightened of magic, him, or you.” The Curate’s words were thinned by her compressed lips.
“You keep telling yourself that, Livillia,” Emlyn said. “You keep believing in everything you were taught by those above. Don’t ever start thinking yourself, Curate, or your faith will be snuffed out like the last guttering flames of a campfire.”
“You cannot.”
“I did,” Emlyn snapped back, anger entering her voice for the first time. “Now, is there something you actually wanted?”
“Is everything all right?” The shouted question came from Borus as he strode back into the shelter of the tree.
“The Curate just came to… to…” Kyron floundered.
“She,” Livillia said, her voice ice and finger pointed into Emlyn’s face, “cannot speak to a Curate of the Holy Flame like that. I demand you do something about it.”
“I didn’t hear your discussion, Curate,” Borus said, nodding towards the two priests who stood with raised staffs. “You’ll be wanting to put those down, lads.”
“I demand you punish her,” Livillia screeched. “Put her in ropes. Whip her.”
“Burn her?” Emlyn added, a smile of innocence upon her face.
“Insolent bitch,” Livillia snapped.
“I didn’t hear your discussion, Curate,” Borus said, “and Emlyn is here to guide us to safety. She has already assisted in gathering the food you and your priests have been eating these past days. If you’ve a complaint, take it up with Spear Astentius. I follow his orders.”
“You will not have heard the last of this, Cohort,” Livillia snapped, turning on her heel and stomping past her two startled priests out into the rain which fell upon the trail.
“One day,” Borus said, heaving a sigh and reaching out one hand to rest again the trunk of the tree. “And before you tell me the story, I don’t want to know.”
Kyron did not sleep well. The rain hammered against the waxed canvas of his lonely tent and even buried amongst the blankets he shivered.
Emlyn had not made any attempt to talk to him about his experience with the village tree. When he had come back to the world, all she did was smile. Three times yesterday he had tried to broach the subject, searched for the words that would explain what he had seen, who he had talked to.
“Was it real?” he had asked the last time.
“Did it seem real to you?”
“Yes, but…” he admitted, and the words dried on his tongue.
“You experienced what you experienced, Kyron,” she said. “That is as real as anything gets to be.”
“It can’t have been.”
“You are that learned and wise to know all that can be and cannot be?” She favoured him with a wry smile.
“Well, no, obviously not,” he answered.
“The trees show us realities in their roots which reach across the world,” Emlyn said. “However, your reality is not mine to know.”
“There was something in the food,” he accused.
“Yes,” she said, matching his stare with one of her own, “and we all drank from the same pot. Don’t go looking for answers when there are none, Kyron. Accept things as they are when you must, question when you must, but know you will not always get the answer you like.”
“Now you sound like Padarn,” he said.
“He was a very wise man,” she answered, turned and walked away before he could say anymore.
His thoughts dwelled on his parents, on their explanation, and on his grandfather and his own version of events. Perhaps all were telling the truth, from their own perspective. Padarn had been little help and had kept things from him. His ancestry being the most vital.
Though, he considered, it may be that he should have opened his eyes sooner, seen the world for what it was. Upon rejoining the army, talking to Astentius about the supplies they had procured, the difference in names struck him. Each hinted, though blurred by choice and generation, at their heritage. Kyron was so much closer to Emlyn than Astentius. Though heritage seemed no barrier to progress in the Empire, his grandfather being an example.
He staggered out of his tent when he heard the rest of the soldiers begin to move, as the shouts of officers roused those who would much rather stay in their beds. The tent was simple to deconstruct, a few wooden poles and waxed fabric kept taut with ropes and carved wooden pegs.
He joined Emlyn and Borus near the front of the column as they began to move once more. The mud sucked at his feet or slipped out from under his boots. More than once, Borus caught him by the arm and set him back on his feet.
“Best to stay clear of the priests for today,” Borus said as they stopped for a mid-morning rest. “I heard Livillia screaming at Astentius last eve. He hasn’t given way, but if she starts on the men, speaking against you, he may have no choice.”
“She’s been doing that the whole way,” Kyron said.
“Maybe,” Borus acknowledged, “but now she has more reason and more poison to inject them with.”
“We’ll be out of the forest by this afternoon,” Emlyn said. “After that, it won’t matter what she says. Many of your men will just be grateful to be alive.”
“And she’ll take credit,” Borus cautioned. “For the Flame, of course, but I’ve seen priests like her before.”
“We will avoid her,” Kyron agreed.
The rest of the morning was wet and tiring. Twice the waggon got stuck in soft ground, brown water welling up beside the sinking wheels. Soldiers had gone back to drag it out and the whole column had to stop while it was freed.
During the midday break Borus took the report that three more soldiers had died on the carts. It was not clear whether that was due to their injuries, which were severe, or the weather. The biscuits they all forced themselves to chew were especially dry and tasteless. Not even the water from their skins could help them swallow.
“I can see a break in the trees,” one of the soldiers at the front called after they had been moving for a time.
Kyron squinted through the rain, lifting a hand to prevent water from dripping into his eyes. The track did indeed seem lighter ahead, the browns and greens of the trees coming to an end. His heart rose, some burden lifted, but it was accompanied by bitter sadness which he could taste on his tongue.
“What will you do?” he asked Emlyn as the trees thinned. “Go back to your parents?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Not yet.”
They tramped on in silence, Kyron’s gaze fixed on the gap in the trees ahead. “I think the rain is lessening.”
Next to him, Emlyn looked up. “End of the storm. I wouldn’t have wanted to be out in the open during this one.”
“Form up,” came the orders. Borus marched along the front row. “Spear Astentius wants us to look our best as we march to the bridge. Remember, we are soldiers of the Empire. We are the honour guard to the Empire. We were chosen as the best and we will look it as we march.”
“There is a town ahead,” Kyron said. “Cesena, just over the bridge. We will be dry once we get there.”
The last of the rain passed over their heads as the trees thinned and the track turned into something which more closely resembled an Empire road: wide, with a subtle curve to either side which encouraged the rain to dribble into deep gullies cut into the soil. The mud became gravel and stones before giving way to close-set cobbles which announced civilisation to the soldiers.
“Form up,” Borus continued to call. “Get your uniforms sorted out, neat as you can. Retrieve capes and attach. Let’s look like the Empire.”
Kyron watched as there was
a rustle of packs and fabric. Each soldier retrieved the short red capes which they had last worn on their march across the bridge and into the forest. Once out of sight of the town, they had changed into battle dress, and the cape which an enemy might find a sturdy handhold had been the first item to go into their packs. Different belts and clasps, less ornamented, more rugged and durable had replaced the decoration of rank and purpose. Now they were returning to the Empire, certain things were expected of them.
“What’s that?” Emlyn took Kyron’s shoulder and turned him in the direction of the town.
“What?”
The clearing rain revealed the smudge of figures ahead. More than Kyron would have expected for the farmers he knew lived and worked the land on the edge of the forest.
“Borus,” he called, pointing towards the figures. “I think the town sent a guard to meet us.”
Borus came striding back to the front and focused his gaze on the figures which, through the fading mist of rain, were getting clearer.
“Shit,” he said, spinning on his heel and running, armour clanking, towards the Spear.
“What’s the problem?” Emlyn asked.
“I don’t…” Kyron’s sentence trailed off as he saw what Borus had seen. “Those are not Empire soldiers.”
XLV
The General
Five years ago:
“You should have called me sooner,” the medicus said.
“It was just nightmares,” he explained. The boy lay on the bed, his eyes closed, skin cold and pale, with a blood spotted bandage around his head. “What is wrong with him?”
“His humours are out of alignment,” the medicus said. “His blood and bile are too hot.”
“What can we do?”
“I’ll bleed him a little,” the medicus said, drawing a sharp scalpel from his bag, “and leave you with some leeches.”
The bridge was clogged with smoke and soldiers. Already there was a steady stream of the wounded being helped towards the rear, to be bandaged, treated and sent back to battle if possible, or given the gift of poppy if the injury was too severe.
“Down!” Sarimarcus shouted.
Bordan looked up as the Spear’s hand pushed his shoulder and he stumbled to the side behind the ruins of the cart. The soldier’s shield came up and the arrow bounced from it, clattering to the floor where it tumbled away.
“Send in another group,” Bordan ordered, clambering back to his feet. His own shield was heavy on his arm and his lungs were scorched by hot smoke.
A moment later, after orders were shouted, five ranks soldiers marched past, their shields interlocked around the sides and those in the middle holding their own above their heads.
“The last carts aren’t filled with oil,” Sarimarcus said, peeking over the rim of his shield.
“Mercenaries aren’t stupid enough to have them explode when they are using them to funnel us into their killing ground,” Bordan said. “How is the leg?”
Sarimarcus looked down and checked the tight wrapped bandage. “Barely feel it. Only a scratch.”
“We need to push,” Bordan said, gritting his teeth, knowing he was sending men to their deaths. “Get the ranks formed.”
The Spear swallowed and nodded, waving the Aenator forward and issuing the orders. The clarion call to battle sang over the bridge, cutting through the smoke and rain, overwhelming the roar of the water beneath. Men appeared through the downpour, from behind ruined carts and broken masonry, with tall wicker shields, wider than three men and braced to stand up on their own, pushed before them. The closer they had come to the two towers at the far end of the bridge the more the arrows had come from the mercenaries on top, and those stationed to the side of the bridge who loosed blind into the rain.
“The longer we stay here, the more time Abra has to reinforce his troops at the end of the bridge, and the more soldiers we will lose to unlucky arrows,” Bordan said, slapping the Spear on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Second rank.”
Sarimarcus grimaced as he stood, lifting his shield to cover his body. Bordan gave the man a grim smile and stood next to him, his own shield raised to protect them both.
They wove their way into the ranks of soldiers, finding a place in the centre of the second rank. The soldiers displaced did not grumble or complain but moved back into the third rank. Bordan had a clear view of the obstacles blocking the bridge and the third group of soldiers he had sent into to clear space to march.
“Forward!” he shouted, and the bugle took up the call.
There was a wave of noise, shouts from the men, shields being raised and locked into place, weapons readied, and they started forward at a measured pace. Bordan lifted his sword and beat his shield with it in time with his steps. All around the soldiers took up the beat and every step was echoed by a thousand swords against a thousand shields.
“Let’s put the fear of the Empire in them, Spear,” Bordan called between steps. “On my command, form the arrow aimed at the gap in the mercenary’s barriers and let the barritus ring out across the lands.”
The commands went out to the ranks. The experienced and well-armoured at the front would take the initial brunt of the attack, but the second rank, including Bordan, would support them.
Arrows struck shields and ranks reacted with practised efficiency, every soldier knowing their role, raising shields and protecting one another. Even so, some found a path through, many having rebounded or been caught by a shield and tumbling through gaps. Any injured soldier would halt, and another would take their place. In this manner they advanced through the smoke and rain.
Over the shoulders of the front rank, Bordan got his first glimpse of the mercenaries. Some wore Empire armour, the chain links of the hamata or the banded steel of the segmata, but many others had covered themselves in padded tunics which would cushion blows and might just stop a weak sword thrust.
“Give the order, Spear,” Bordan said as the energy of battle began to run in his blood, sharpening vision and hearing, a roaring tide in his ears and exultation sweeping away his fears.
The bugle called out and the barritus, a single great cheer rang out from the troops. It shook Bordan in his armour even as his own voice rose in the war cry.
The front rank raced forward, shrinking to a single point which swept out to either side forming a sharp arrow with which to pierce the mercenaries’ protection. Bordan kept up with the second rank, running forward to fill in the gaps and support as the tip of the arrow slid through the gap in the overturned and stone weighted carts the mercenaries had used as a blockade and funnel.
A shock ran through the army as the point of the arrow met the mercenary line. Bordan set his shoulder to his shield and pushed forward, even as those behind did the same to him. Forward progress slowed for a heartbeat as the cries of soldiers and sound of weapon on armour rang out.
Bordan was being crushed, his breath coming in short, dirty gasps and sweat stuck his tunic to his flesh. The rim of his helmet dug into his forehead and sweat misted his vision. His shield hand, gloved to protect his knuckles, was cramping and his arm was a mass of aches, tiredness already seeping into his limbs. In his other hand, his gladius, one he’d carried since he had scooped it off a battlefield decades ago, was a comfort.
He glanced across at Sarimarcus and grinned. “Push.”
The bugle cry went up once more and was followed by the barritus. This cry was drawn from the pit of the stomach, not a word so much as a feeling of rage and pride, a dismissal of fear and a welcoming of death in service to something greater. It was everything he saw and loved in the Empire.
To his left, the cart of the final barricade slipped by as the ranks lunged forward. Now there was room, a sense of space opening up, and ranks, funnelled and channelled by the blockade, could expand across the battlefield. The true power of the Empire ranks could be unleashed upon the mercenaries.
General Bordan, most excellent leader of the Empire’s army, slotted into the front rank as a soldier st
aggered back, arm dripping bright red blood.
A mercenary stepped forward, his large axe already swinging towards Bordan’s head. The blow would likely break his shield arm if he lifted it to protect himself. Instead, the General dropped his hips and let the bottom of his large, heavy shield rest upon the ground. Ducking his head at the last moment, the axe stuck the metal rim of the wooden shield and Bordan felt the shock travel up his arm and rattle his teeth.
Bordan had been wounded more times than he wanted to remember, and killed more than he could recall. Old warriors were old because they had killed and lived. Experience was the only true gift of age, its one compensation for the loss of strength, the slowness of limb, and shallow well of energy.
His gladius stabbed out, slicing into the flesh of the mercenary’s inner thigh. A killing strike, and even as Bordan stood up, the axe fell from the warrior’s weak hands and he stumbled back. Bordan punched out with his shield, pushing the dying warrior onto those behind.
A second mercenary swung a sword at him and this time he raised his shield to meet it, careful to keep his head out of the way in case the sword slipped off the wood. The soldier on his left took a half step forward and slid his gladius between the mercenary’s ribs, and Bordan moved up next to him, feeling the soldier on his right do the same. Moving as one, fighting as one, protecting each other as they went.
“Sarimarcus,” he shouted stepping back into the ranks and allowing another to take his place, “get soldiers in those towers and kill the archers. Replace them with our own.”
The bridge was theirs and now the task of securing this bank of the river consumed his mind. Recognising another soldier, he waved the woman over.
Seven Deaths of an Empire Page 34