The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  One of the tribune’s personal slaves crouched down in the snow on his hands and knees before his master. Using the man as a stepping block, Fulvio climbed up to the saddle, paying no regard as the man grimaced beneath his iron-studded boots.

  From his new height, he overlooked the camp square where the Fourth Legion were assembled and waiting. Over five thousand men stood ready in disciplined lines.

  At the head of the formation Kaeso beat his fist in salute, a gesture repeated by the one thousand legionnaires of the First Cohort standing behind. Double the normal cohort size, it was composed of the most elite centuries in the legion. Each soldier a veteran of over ten years, they were some of the hardest men in Arcem and the spearhead of any battle.

  Fulvio surveyed those before him and felt his chest swell with anticipation. He did not fail to notice the dejected faces on the men of the Third Legion, looking on from beyond the ranks in the corners of the camp square. Somewhere among them Corvinus would be watching, jealous and broken.

  Fulvio’s smile grew wider, revealing his perfect white teeth for the world to see. Corvinus had obviously crumbled under the pressures of leadership, all but abandoning his command. Obviously the strength of the father had not been passed down to the son. Plebeians, Fulvio shook his head. For all their stubborn boasting they lack the proper pedigree to compete. Corvinus had turned out to be just another young fool trying to contend with a true Arcemite – a Tarquin. Fulvio did not know whether he should feel insulted by it all but quickly put the thought aside as he looked up at the mountain above and the challenge ahead.

  Now was the time for war.

  This was why he had been born, Fulvio smiled, to lead. Few in history are destined for power – to have the strength of will, the vision and the courage to be legendary. Though the Gaur Mons was a foreboding sight, Fulvio held no doubts. He could not, it was in his blood. After all, it had been his great ancestor, Publio Tarquinius who had been first to storm the citadel of the ancient King Atrox the Terrible and seize Arcem from the clutches of the barbarian. He had won the day and had secured the dead king’s riches for his part, thereby starting the family fortune. Though he had later become the first ever Consul of Arcem, it was of course Romanus – the populist upstart that he was, who had stolen the credit that day and became his more famous and loved co-consul. Fulvio promised himself he would never let anyone steal the day again.

  That one mistake by Publio had taught the Tarquin family the truth of things. They quickly understood what was important, what mattered more than gold or anything else was their name. If it had not been for Romanus that day, it would have been the Tarquins and not Romanus to be revered among the demigods.

  Fulvio looked down to his hand and the single gold ring that he wore. Embossed with the family seal, it had once been his father’s. As his sole heir, Fulvio swore he would raise the family name to its rightful place in history. He would win more triumphs than any man before him and see the pages of the Chronicles filled with his deeds. The Tarquin name would forever be remembered and would always be powerful. That was what mattered.

  Beginning today, he would show them all how a real man of Arcem leads.

  Outnumbered and alone, he would break these barbarians in a valiant display of Arcemite superiority. That would surely make him a hero.

  The promise of glory was so rich in the air not even the winter cold could touch his glorious mood.

  ‘This will be a famous day,’ Fulvio whispered to himself before reaching down to take his plumed helmet from a nearby slave.

  Drawing his sword, he signalled an awaiting legionnaire. The man took a breath before raising a brass trumpet to his lips. A double note sounded, its deep hum echoed across the camp before being lost in the wind.

  With that, the Fourth Legion began its advance up the Gaur Mons.

  ***

  Corvinus had watched Fulvio go with a heavy heart. It troubled him that this was the only way he could think of to settle the tribune’s constant squabbling and that it would be the men of his father’s legion to pay the price. He promised Taranis he would make the appropriate sacrifices in honour of the fallen when this was over.

  They marched in perfect columns up the foothills of the mountain, the thud of their footfalls reverberating across the plain. At some signal that was unable to be heard at this distance, Corvinus watched in admiration as the ranks of legionaries spread out neatly into formation across the slopes of the mountain. It was magnificent.

  The training and discipline of Arcemite soldiers was unmatched across Tumultus. Man to man, the northern tribes certainly had the advantage. The giant brutes would revel in the sport of such a contest. But when you fight Arcem you do not fight a single man; you face a line of brothers with complete unity and trust in one another.

  It was how the great Romanus had taught them to fight and how he had eventually banished Arcem’s barbarian overlords from their lands centuries before. Unity – that was the strength of the legions. Where others lacked the restraint to fight as one, Arcemites fought together, as an unbroken wall of shields and swords that would utterly trample all in its path. It was by such discipline the soldiers of Arcem could outfight any other. Except of course, today they were not going to war with complete unity and that was why Fulvio could not succeed.

  Like some bestial cry, the rough echo of a distant horn sounded from the Evastii camp.

  ‘The barbarians have seen the advance,’ said Bantius as the mountain suddenly came to life, in a flood of movement.

  From their viewpoint back in camp, they could see the dark figures of enemy warriors amass into rough battlelines upon the crest of the plateau. The enemy numbers continued to swell as more Evastii tribesmen were roused by the calls of their chiefs.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ asked Valko. At first Corvinus heard nothing but as he concentrated, he could make out a faint buzzing noise, low and soft, barely a whisper in the winds. It was unsettling and it did not take long before Corvinus figured out what it was. He had heard its harsh tone many times before.

  ‘War chant,’ he said, ‘their bloodlust must really be going wild for us to be able hear their shouts back here.’

  Valko nodded.

  The chant quickly grew louder, increasing in both volume and rhythm as the Fourth Legion ascended further up the mountain and the promise of battle drew nearer for the tribesmen.

  ‘They’re feral,’ said Bantius in disgust.

  ‘You should get used to it, you’ll be hearing that a lot from now on,’ said Valko.

  ‘It’s dreadful.’

  ‘Then it’s working.’

  Bantius shook his head.

  ‘We should be up there too,’ he said.

  Corvinus turned his focus from the mountain to face his second in command. ‘You heard Fulvio last night, he was quite set on winning all the glory,’ he replied.

  ‘Still, if not for glory, just to cleanse Arcem of these barbarians. Tribune Fulvio was right in that; they insult us with their presence,’ said Bantius.

  Corvinus sighed. Even now Bantius remained a sycophant to the aristocratic nature of Fulvio. The man was probably too blinded by his aspirations to see the insanity of it all.

  ‘So what do you propose?’ Corvinus asked. ‘You would support a frontal attack, against a superior force, uphill on the Gaur Mons?’

  ‘Superior force,’ Bantius scoffed. ‘They are barbarians. Yes, they may have some numbers but really Corvinus, superior? I think not. We have triumphed so many times before against such odds that I would bet on Arcemite steel any day, against any foe.’

  ‘Look, they are finally engaging,’ said Valko, breaking the discussion.

  They all turned to watch as a torrent of missiles was flung upon the Arcemite lines from above. The legion formation suddenly turned red as its soldiers raised their painted shields around them like an armoured tortoise. Though the tactic was effective against much of the lethal hail of arrows, spears and stones that rained against it, a trail of
bodies remained in the wake of the Fourth Legion’s advance. They would be the first of many casualties that day.

  Corvinus watched the battle unfold, carefully noting the pace of the legions, where the ground was hardest and the discipline of the enemy.

  ‘See where the climb is steepest,’ said Valko, pointing to a rocky patch of the mountain. ‘The cohorts on the eastern slopes seem to be hard pressed, look how slow their pace is compared to the rest of the line. We must avoid scaling it from that side when we go. Already the corpses are piling up there.’

  Corvinus nodded, thankful to have someone else of similar thoughts.

  As much as they were a godsend against the enemy barrage, it soon became obvious the large rectangular shields of the legions were hampering their balance on the climb. Yet despite their difficulties the Arcemite lines continued their relentless advance up the mountain.

  Explosions soon began to pocket the legion’s line as barrels of black powder and flammable oils were rolled down the slopes.

  The battlelines of the two armies slowly became lost from sight as a thick shroud of smoke rose above them from the crude explosions and sporadic gunfire. Such warfare was largely new to Tumultus. With nations just now relearning to make such ancient weapons, firearms could not be produced in sufficient quantities for use on any significant scale.

  Only ranking officers and a scarce few centuries of the First Cohort would be so favourably equipped. For the rest, blades and brute force would still be the decider in this battle.

  Although he could not see through the haze, Corvinus heard the Evastii war chant reach its shivering climax before being overtaken by the din of battle and knew the two lines had finally met in close combat.

  Besides the terrible noise, not much else could be discerned from the battle. All Corvinus could be sure of was whatever was happening on that mountain was a bloody struggle.

  As the hours drew on, water carriers and legion runners would occasionally return to camp, their clothes stained with blood, often carrying the limp bodies of wounded comrades. Corvinus had ordered the Third Legion to help these men as much as they could but forbade them to enter battle. Though it tore at him with every passing minute knowing the intensity of the fighting, he could not. He had decided upon this path and needed to be committed. It is the only way, he told himself.

  After a while he could no longer listen to the awful noise of war and left Bantius and Valko at the camp lookout. He needed to go for a walk, to stretch his legs and find a distraction.

  As he did so, something made him pause. It took him a moment to realise but above the sound of battle, through the smoke, a lone solemn trumpet echoed across the distance.

  Fulvio was in full retreat.

  V

  ‘Valour is superior to numbers.’

  Chronicles of Tumultus

  Sentius Castus approached the command tent. The thin layer of ice that had built up on the roadways of the camp crunched beneath his tread. Several braziers lined the entrance to the general’s tent. Their coals burnt low, flames dancing in the mountain breeze.

  The figure of the young general’s bodyguard stood still by the doorway. The bronze mask of the guard’s helm stared at Castus, following his every step towards the tent.

  Castus had seen such masks before. They were often decorative features that wealthy enough officers wore on parade but he had seldom known anyone to actually use one on campaign. Castus shivered slightly, knowing it was not because of the icy wind. There was something different – unnatural almost – about this guard that he could not precisely identify.

  The mask continued to stare at him; its gaze as cold as the frost that rimmed its metal’s edges. How long has the man been standing guard outside? Castus thought. Does he not realise that the snows are starting to build up on him as if he were a statue?

  It was custom for senior staff to meet with their general and Castus’ armour would have marked him out as such. Yet the Camp Prefect could not help but feel the need to explain himself under the scrutiny of the guard.

  ‘Salve,’ Castus nodded to the sentry in an attempt to ease the tension. The guard remained utterly still, never speaking a word. The helmeted head was the single thing that moved, slowly turning to follow his approach.

  It was only when Castus was at the entrance of the tent that the guard returned the gesture and nodded back to him. The motion was unhurried and quite odd, more a signal to permit access than any expression of greeting.

  Such unusual company the upper classes can afford, Castus thought as he pushed back the flaps of the doorway and left the guard outside in the wintry night air.

  Once again the inside of the general’s quarters was warm and inviting, though there were no slaves to receive him this time. There was no one he could see for that matter, the young general included. Not knowing whether to go in further, Castus stood there in the silence, slightly anxious as the flecks of snow fell from his cloak and melted into the great fur pelts on the floor.

  Castus looked around the room. It was unchanged since the war council the night before. Braziers still smouldered in the corners and legion standards rested against the walls. The table used in the council the previous night was nearby, still piled with a mound of reports and maps across its surface. But they were different, Castus realised. They had been written over, scribbled on. A series of notes and rough sketches now covered much of the terrain almost to the point of obscuring the original topography.

  Castus walked over to the table to better glimpse them.

  The Gaur Mons had been drawn over and new routes of attack marked in with lists of the names and numbers of certain cohorts on each approach. Castus lifted one of the papers up. He could see in particular they showed the western slopes of the mountain and the plateau of the Evastii encampment above. His suspicions were confirmed, the young general was planning his own assault.

  ‘Help yourself to some wine on the table there,’ said a voice suddenly. Castus spun around for its source and saw Corvinus in the corner behind the table before a small shrine of Taranis. Praying for victory no doubt, Castus thought.

  Even for soldiers, power in Arcem was as much a religious undertaking as it was political, but unlike the Valerii, the prefect was not as devout as his rank expected. Castus was not a particularly spiritual man. Though he saw no harm in making the right offerings to the gods, he believed most in hard work and preparation and that suited his role well. If logistics were a faith, he would be a very pious man indeed.

  ‘I’m sorry but I had the slaves dismissed, they were distracting my thoughts,’ said Corvinus, still at worship.

  As he placed the map back on the table, Castus stepped closer towards the young general. As he did so he noticed the curious way in which Corvinus sat in prayer. With his legs crossed and hands resting on his knees, Corvinus appeared to follow the Syphaxan practice rather than the proper Arcemite form of kneeling. With eyes closed, the young general looked more to be in meditation than prayer.

  Castus smiled. He had known Gaius Valerius long enough to know his somewhat unorthodox philosophy; unlike much of the nobility, he insisted there was much to be learned from the civilised world outside Arcem. Many a time he had spoken of the need to renew Romanus’ grand vision of reclamation, to rediscover the lost histories from before The Fall and reunite Tumultus. Clearly the man had imparted some of those ideals in raising his son.

  ‘Thank you sir, but I did not come for wine,’ said Castus, standing to attention, unsure if he should salute a young general praying with his eyes closed. A lifetime of discipline led him to do so anyway.

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Corvinus smiled. ‘You came to see if I was going out tonight?’

  ‘I wanted to make sure you were well advised,’ said Castus.

  ‘Ah,’ Corvinus said, standing to face the prefect. Like his father, the young general was tall by Arcemite standards and stood over the stocky veteran prefect.

  ‘It’s just, are you sure about this
sir?’ Castus asked, ‘Tribune Fulvio-’

  ‘Fulvio is still sulking in his tent with no one to blame. Later, once he has finished licking his wounds, I will consider him again,’ said Corvinus. ‘Tonight however, Arcem will have the victory the gods have promised. I am confident that today’s action only strengthened our advantage.’

  ‘Look, I understand Fulvio can be an arrogant bastard sometimes but I urge you not to do this. There are other ways we can defeat the Evastii,’ said Castus. ‘Give me the word and I can have the mountainsides dug in and surrounded. Guns can be brought up from Ultor and we can then pound the enemy to submission. It will take time but it is not impossible.’

  ‘We cannot afford a protracted siege,’ said Corvinus. ‘These are northerners we are facing; they understand the cold. Winter would see us wither long before they start to break.’

  ‘Then at least wait for General Horatius.’

  ‘Sadly, I cannot,’ said Corvinus.

  Castus shook his head, suspecting the young general’s motivation. Whilst General Horatius and the Tenth Legion would surely bolster their forces, to have another, more experienced general in the power play would surely see Corvinus sidelined and ultimately disgraced. Castus sighed, he loathed the politics that came with rank.

  ‘Please sir, as a friend to your family I insist you do not embark on this raid,’ he said. ‘Your father would never risk so much on such an uncertain clash and I know he has grand plans for your future. You could be slaughtered up there. At the very least take the Fourth Legion with you. They are still fit and all the more hungry to serve after their efforts today. Mobilize them too.’

  ‘I value your concern Castus,’ said Corvinus, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘But my father was not much older than I when he earned his name in battle.’

  Castus met the young general’s gaze, seeing his eyes burn with familiar conviction. It was true. Corvinus’ father had earned his name as a young man. Castus remembered it well. It had been during the Great Raid, almost twenty years ago. The northern tribes had cast their entire naval might against the Parum Islands. The slaughter had raged for several days and seen many of Arcem’s leaders cut down. The two of them had been lowly centurions together, but it was Gaius Valerius who had singlehandedly rallied the Arcemite lines on those blood-stained beaches when the battle was at its fullest. It was also there that Gaius had inherited his epithet The Corvus, after the raven sent by the gods swooped down and scratched out the eyes of a giant Balhiran pirate about to deliver a killing blow.