“We have two more cohorts of soldiers forming up by the bridge,” Sarimarcus said.
“Send them up after the first arrow storm is over,” Bordan ordered. “Keep the next two across in reserve.”
As his sentence ended the promised hail of arrows fell from the sky upon the Empire soldiers marching into battle. Most struck shield or earth, but a few found their mark and soldiers fell with cries of pain.
The climb up the hill, arrows falling constantly, took forever and Bordan’s grip on the reins of his horse tightened with every gap that appeared in the ranks. In the soldiers’ wake, silver bodies and red shields dotted the hill. Some were still while others staggered or crawled down the hill.
True to his order the new cohorts were fighting their own way up the slope now turned from grass to slippery mud. Their advantage was the lack of arrows aimed their way; however, the line was anything but Empire straight.
“Order a cohort west,” Bordan said. “They are to clear the lines and start up the hill. If they come under attack, have them retreat out of range and try again. That should occupy more of those mercenaries.”
“Yes, General,” Sarimarcus said, turning away.
“I want two cohorts in reserve here all the time. However, when more are across and formed, send them east and west, alternate. If they meet no resistance, they are to crest the hill and attack from the flanks.”
“Of course, General,” Sarimarcus nodded and strode towards the bridge and waiting troops.
Bordan watched the battle ahead. The front ranks are for the young and fit, not the old and grey, but blood was blood and his was surging. One hand on the reins of his horse and the other on his sword, the frustration built.
At the crest of the hill the two lines met, and the clash of steel was as if a thousand blacksmiths had gone to work at their forges all at once. Unable to see the details, his imagination brought scenarios to mind, snippets of battle, memories of his own time in the ranks conjoined with the sight before him.
An axe rising into the air, the sun’s light scattering from its chipped edge. A whisper of air and a cry of effort as a shield met the blow and shattered. Splinters pinwheeling through the air and sudden lack of weight on his arm. Gladius stabbing forward, driven by training and instinct. A gap opening in the line ahead. A soldier falling and stumbling over the injured man, desperate to keep his shield high and sword in tight. Moving into the gap and slamming the shield forward to create room, peering over the top, wary of an attack. Heavy armour and biting pain at the base of your neck where the helmet’s rim met flesh. Sweat pouring down your face, under the cheek guards, and hot breath burning lungs as each precious gasp powered you forward.
“You want to be up there, General?” Godewyn’s voice came from low on Bordan’s right.
“Too old, too slow,” Bordan replied as he looked down to the High Priest. “And I thought I ordered you to the rear of the ranks.”
“I am not sure you can order me anywhere,” Godewyn answered. “How goes the advance?”
“You can see as well as I,” Bordan answered.
“We’ve had a messenger from Cohort Cypria,” Sarimarcus said. “She crested the hill and met resistance but is pushing towards the eastern flank.”
“And those to the west?”
“Nothing yet, General,” Sarimarcus answered.
“Send a runner,” Bordan ordered, lifting himself in his saddle to look west. The soldiers were climbing the hill, though he could not see what was happening at the top.
Water was brought and Bordan took a drink, watching as the lines at the top of the hill ebbed back and forth. A constant stream of injured soldiers came down the slope and staggered, stumbled to the medicus. The litters were full, and the poppy was doing the rounds. Battlefield surgery was unpleasant and though soldiers appreciated the surgeons and staff, they were justly scared of them too. Stitches to close wounds were common, but amputation was often a death sentence for the injured soldier. The sweet aroma of burning pitch mingled with the smoke of charred flesh which hung above the field hospital.
Bordan caught the moment the battle changed. The Empire line at the top of the hill convulsed, a wave spreading out like a ripple on a pond. His breath caught in his throat and the water he had just swallowed went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttered, his ribs aching and his stomach muscles spasming to clear the water from his lungs.
“Throw in a cohort of reserves,” he choked out, pointing to the hill.
“Aenator,” Sarimarcus shouted and the call sounded out.
A cry went up from the cohort of soldiers to the rear and the rumble of feet shook the ground.
“Are you all right, General?” Godewyn asked, his hand on Bordan’s shoulder.
“Fine,” he coughed, wiping his mouth with his gloved hand. “Push. We need to push. They’re breaking.”
“General,” a messenger ran up, panting and face red.
“Speak.”
“Cohorts to the west have engaged the mercenaries on their flanks,” the messenger said between gasps.
“Sarimarcus,” Bordan said, his throat raw from coughing, “order the last cohort to secure the bridge. We’re heading up the hill. Godewyn, join the cohort on the bridge and make sure they stay there.”
“General,” the High Priest said, and Bordan drew in a breath to argue, “I think that is a very good idea.”
Bordan itched to move, the temptation to drive his heels into the flanks of his horse was speeding his pulse. Bordan took a breath and coughed once more to clear the water from his lungs. Glancing over his shoulder, he slipped from his saddle and nodded as Sarimarcus returned.
“Let’s join the advance, Spear,” Bordan called over the noise of the cohort of soldiers as they passed by. The two officers joined the last rank and headed for the hill.
Underfoot, the mud was slippery and made worse by the blades of compacted grass. The lorica segmata slowed him and progress was only made possible by digging the toe of his boots into the earth to grab some purchase. Halfway to the top, his legs burned, but the sound of battle came clearer, the ring of swords on armour sounded brighter and the whimpers of the dying were a constant murmur on the breeze.
At the top, Bordan took his first sight of the plateau leading to the forest. The road passed under the battling soldiers and into the distance where the forest was only an indistinct brown smudge. Between the battle and forest, and further to the east and west, the land was farmed, and the shoots of the new crops were breaking the surface.
Homes and farm buildings, now a part of the battle landscape, were dotted along tracks leading from the main road. Smoke rose from a few, evidence of habitation and life going on despite the bloodshed taking place. Around some Bordan could just make out the people, families he supposed, standing and watching the battle. Ready to pick over the remains, he knew. There was money to be made from death if you were not too squeamish or simply poor and starving. An empty belly robs a man of many of his morals.
General Bordan paused to draw in air and give his legs a chance to recover from the climb. The cohort of soldiers parted and with a smile and sigh he marched forward aware of the looks the soldiers on either side gave him. He held his head high and face impassive, one hand on his sword and his other with its thumb tucked in his belt, the very image of a victorious general.
“Cohort Acaunus, General.” Sarimarcus introduced the officer of the one hundred men who saluted.
“Cohort,” Bordan returned the salute. “It looks as though the battle is almost over.”
“Yes, General,” the Cohort agreed.
The ranks of the Empire surrounded the mercenaries on three sides, leaving the route of a retreat open. It was always best, and been Empire doctrine for centuries, to allow a defeated army the room to retreat. Better to give a man the chance to live than have his sons return ten years later looking for revenge.
“Your soldiers are fit and ready?”
“Yes, General.”
“Spear,” Bordan ordered, “sound the advance. I want the ranks in front to clear a channel. We are ending this battle by striking at its heart.”
The bugle calls sounded out and the cohort marched, Bordan in the centre of the second rank, Sarimarcus by his side. As they approached the rear of the battle, the troops parted and the line narrowed, drawing into an arrow aimed at the small farmhouse around which the mercenaries fought and defended. Bordan was forced further back in the ranks yet even so he felt the moment the point met the enemy’s flesh.
The joy of a wedge formation was the power it brought to one particular point of an enemy line; however the attendant downside was the fragility of that point. To either side, mercenaries hacked and slashed at soldiers no longer in their accustomed joined shield wall. The shields were there but the gaps between were larger and each was less protected than before.
As they drove forward, his soldiers began to pay the price. As each fell, staggered, or was dragged into the mercenaries’ lines to be butchered, Bordan found himself closer and closer to the edge. Bending, he scooped up a fallen soldier’s shield, feeling the comforting weight on his arm and drew his gladius.
Bordan threw his body behind the shield and a mercenary’s heavy mace, a polished wooden branch bound with iron rings, crashed against it. His teeth rattled and his body shook with the impact. The gladius, his sword which had not seen true battle for over a decade, was an extension of his arm as he stabbed out. A feral smile split his face as he felt the blade bite into flesh.
There was no time to see the damage as another warrior stepped up ahead, the short spear in his hand lashing out at the General. The heavy shield was too slow to bring to guard and Bordan swayed aside as the spear point slid from the metal of his neck guard. His gladius stabbed again, its sharp polished edge driving into the warrior’s gut and out in less than the beat of a heart.
Bordan stepped forward, keeping the edge of the arrow moving and relying on the soldiers ahead and behind to do the same. This type of fighting, like most in the front ranks, was less about skill and more about the rote muscle memory of shield and sword. Keep the stout wood close and absorb the blows, deflect by tilting down or rolling to the side a little, stab with the sword from the concealment of the shield.
Block, absorb, tilt, stab. It was repetitious and all those drills on the parade ground to keep in time with your fellow soldiers, all the time at the pell swinging the lead weighted wooden swords to build up memory and strength, was the strength of the Empire’s army.
In the games, a gladiator fought with skill and daring. Duels between those who favoured the trident and net and those who wielded the swords of the Empire were for entertainment only. It was not real. The blood was real, and death was sometimes the outcome, but rarely was such a contest taken so far.
Here there were no such niceties. No such rules and traditions. This was the Empire army as it was meant to be, a machine which ground down its opponents by constant repetition and overwhelming strength. Enemies were the wheat beneath the millstone of the Empire’s great windmills.
He pressed on and the men to his rear stepped up to his side as they broke through the mercenary line and linked with the other cohorts who pushed in from the flanks.
There he was. Through those warriors still standing, Abra waited. His Empire armour gleamed and reflected the sunlight, the shield on his arm looked well used, but his drawn gladius was still virginal.
“Sarimarcus,” Bordan called over the clash of swords and shields, “I want that man. Push on. Push on.”
The soldiers took up the call and soon it echoed down the lines. “Push on. Push on.”
Another warrior, a youth barely bearded and likely in his first battle came swinging at Bordan. Block, stab, and the boy would never see another sunrise. No older than my grandson, Bordan thought for a moment before pushing the distraction aside.
“Abra,” he shouted, his voice hoarse and dry from battle, as he and his soldiers burst through the line.
The Duke, a merchant, a man born to wealth who had likely held a sword only at ceremonies, blanched. Even so, the man stepped forward, and called out. “Come on then, old man.”
They met shield against shield, swords stabbing but not finding flesh. Abra backed off a step and Bordan moved forward thrusting with his heavy shield, catching the Duke’s and forcing the other man to turn, unbalanced.
As the Duke stumbled and struggled to gain his balance, Bordan stepped forward again, always forward, and brought his sword out to drive it deep into the other man’s lower back, just where metal met leather at the base of the lorica segmata.
Bordan was slower than in his youth and Abra had the luck of the amateur, the scared, as he wheeled around slicing out with the edge of his gladius with intent but without aim. The intended stab was halted and Bordan flinched backward trying to escape that sharp polished blade. Too slow. Too old.
It scored a line across his forearm, just above the leather gloves he wore. Not deep and the pain would come after the battle was over. He saw the blood flicked from the wound by the passing of the sword as a warning, a reminder. Luck was a fickle mistress on the battlefield and many a skilled soldier had been felled by an untried boy.
He shouted, though what words he could not say, and moved forward once more. Abra was still unbalanced, recovering from the wild slice and tried to reverse the path of his sword, cutting from left to right. Bordan tucked the shield in tight to his body and let Abra’s sword rebound from the painted wood and steel. Stab.
A trained, practised soldier would have backed away rather than reverse the strike. Sword arm blocked shield and armour was only good for the areas it covered. Bordan’s gladius slid into the man’s groin, cutting through flesh like water.
He saw it in the Duke’s eyes. The reality of death, the exquisite fire of a sword slicing flesh, the warmth of your own life’s blood fleeing your body. Abra crumbled to the earth before the farmhouse, sword spilling from his hand and the shield discarded by fingers no longer strong enough to grip.
Bordan heaved a breath, glancing around to see the soldiers of the Empire form a ring of shields and steel around him. He knelt, stabbing his sword into the soft earth and unbuckling his helmet.
“Bordan,” Abra wheezed. The man’s face was pale, and his eyes were wide as if staring into the dark at a low flickering flame far away.
“Your rebellion ends here, Abra,” Bordan said. “You’ve been given a better death than your assassins gave Alhard or his mother.”
Abra’s only reply was a dry chuckle as his face slackened and all life left his body.
“General,” Sarimarcus said as Bordan sat back on his heels. “The mercenary leader has surrendered. The battle is over.”
“The honour guard? Has anyone seen them?” Bordan looked away from the sightless eyes which stared up to the infinite sky above.
“There are soldiers in the trees, north along the track and I’ve had Cypria send messengers. However, there are also many bodies lying on the earth before the forest.”
“Take the mercenaries’ surrender, Spear, and detail enough soldiers to watch them. They will not earn any money for further fighting today.”
“Duke Abra?” Sarimarcus asked.
“Dead,” Bordan answered, heaving a sigh and grunting as he stood on tired legs which trembled at the strain. “A better death than a traitor deserves. See if you can find Cohort Acaunus. His soldiers fought well, and I’ll need an escort to meet the honour guard. See to the dead and living. And send a messenger to High Priest Godewyn, I am sure he would like to convey the news to the Princess. The battle is over. We will have the Emperor’s body across the bridge before nightfall.”
“Yes, General.”
XLVIII
The Magician
Four years ago:
He sat in his room, alone. The few toys he had played with, his father’s chariot among them, were safe on the shelf and his scrolls were neatly packed into the chest. Summer’s h
eat barged in through the open window and the sound of people on the street outside filtered into his consciousness.
The room, this house, had become his world. Too frightened to go out, to visit the market with friends, to play, to live. Gressius took him to the Grammaticus and brought him home, and he saw fear on the other boys’ faces.
He was aware of the voices first as sounds within a dream. Tall trees of spreading boughs and swirling bark surrounded him. Each track he took, little more than a narrow band of mud and encroaching shrubs led him to another clearing and more trees. The arrangement was different each time, the shape of the clearing varied, and size of the open sky above grew larger or smaller.
It was progress, he thought in his fuzzy dream. He was going somewhere.
The destination escaped his understanding, only the imperative to get somewhere made his feet move.
In one clearing he found a small, clear stream which flowed from between the trees, crossed one corner of the open grass and passed back into the shadows. Kyron staggered to it, his legs tired and heavy, and he sagged down upon the gentle bank. Cupping his hands beneath the surface he drew cool water up to his lips and took a sip. Sweet and clean it moistened his dry lips and soothed the raw scrape in his throat.
It was tempting to follow the river, but beneath the trees there was only dark shadow. Little light reached the forest floor, and as he squinted all he could make out were small puddles of light which illuminated tangles of brambles and thorns. He sighed and pushed himself back to his feet, grunting at the tightness in his chest.
Kyron probed the ache with light fingers and winced at every stab of pain which followed.
“Bruised, maybe cracked,” he thought in a voice which was not his. Kyron looked around, but only the trees stared back. He did notice another path leading from the clearing and set off in that direction.
The trunks hemmed him in and he was forced to duck under low branches which reached out to block his path. Little air moved beneath the trees and it was warm in his lungs. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickle into his eyes, and his clothes were sticking to damp skin.
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