The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Corvinus, his gaze full of suspicion as he saw the Evastii helmets.

  ‘Remembering my kills,’ Xaphia answered, bundling her trophies into a square piece of cloth.

  ‘Kills? What kills?’ the young general asked, throwing his cloak across the room. ‘I ordered you to stay behind last night, where did these come from?’

  ‘Actually you ordered me to stay out of sight, which I assure you I did,’ said Xaphia.

  ‘The Evastii were to be faced by the Third Legion alone and that extended to you,’ said Corvinus. ‘You knew full well the meaning of my orders and have sworn to obey them. I am your master!’

  ‘And as such I am vowed to protect you,’ said Xaphia standing. ‘These helmets are from the Evastii patrols on the lower foothills of the mountain last night. Patrols your scouts had failed to observe, that would have sent word back to their camp warning of your approach. That is, had I not gone on ahead and eliminated them for you.’

  ‘There were Evastii sentries on the approach?’ asked Corvinus, clearly appalled at the idea.

  ‘Of course,’ hissed Xaphia, ‘did you really think the Evastii would be that easy? The barbarians live in a state of endless war, against Arcem and each other. The Evastii tribe could not have developed to the force it is without some measure of discipline in its defences. I found several patrols last night. Your legion only came upon their frozen corpses.’

  Corvinus paused as he thought back to the night before.

  ‘We did come across Evastii bodies on the foothills,’ he said, ‘but there were too many for that to have been you. There were dozens.’

  ‘You know I do not lie,’ said Xaphia. ‘They could not have been from Fulvio’s failed assault – think about it, you were watching and noted the Evastii formations on the ridges of the plateau, there was no resistance on the lower slopes.’

  The young general was silent for a long time as he tried to think, the frustration of his meeting with Horatius clearly still simmering behind his thoughts.

  ‘I will talk to you later on this,’ he said at last. ‘I cannot command a legion, least of all trust you, if my orders are constantly overlooked and compromised.’

  Xaphia’s gangly figure bowed low, ending the conversation with her usual gesture of submission. As she spread her arms out wide, she felt the movement pull taut the leather sleeve on her arm, slightly revealing the pale skin of her wrist. She froze at the realisation, feeling her freshly made cuts trail a dark line of blood down her gloved hand. Beneath her mask, her ears twitched as she heard a single drop fall to the floor.

  Xaphia quickly stood upright, arms by her sides. She stared at her master, searching for a sign the young general had also witnessed it. It had only been a fleeting instant, perhaps too fast for the human, she thought.

  If he had, Corvinus said nothing. The young general remained impassive before his guard. ‘Send word to Prefect Castus,’ he said after a tense moment. ‘Have our dead cremated and the wounded loaded for transport back to Ultor. Instruct him to leave the remaining Evastii corpses for the crows. I want the rest of the camp up and ready to march by midday.’

  ***

  General Rufus Horatius felt the heat of the funeral pyre against his skin as he walked up the slopes of the Gaur Mons, watching the pile of corpses, blackened like charcoal, crumple in the flames. Corvinus, he thought, shaking his head, still a boy and calling himself general. Horatius knew the boy’s father was a soldier, a man and a consul to be trusted, but what of the son? He was green – a lucky amateur upon whom fortune had smiled. Also like his consul father, the boy fought with a misplaced sense of honour. Burning the bodies of the Evastii, Horatius shook his head, amateur. The enemies of Arcem deserved no such respects. They deserved to rot, unburied and without honours to their dark gods. The barbarians never wasted any time on Arcem’s fallen, except to defile their remains and wear them like trophies.

  He had seen it all. He had walked the battlefields in the aftermath of a triumphant barbarian and seen the gruesome relics they left behind. Mounds of severed heads would scatter the land, piled as tall as a man with the skulls of men, women and children. The wounded would be found nailed to trees along the roadsides for miles around, with their insides stretched around the branches.

  Horatius spat into the flames, sick at the thought. These enemies could only be fought with the utmost hostility and ruthlessness. They deserved no quarter or respect. Arcem could not afford them any weakness. They were a people to be hunted and killed, nothing more.

  Which is precisely what they should be doing now. The thought of waiting for this amateur general and his men to finish here made him itch with annoyance. He had not worked the Tenth Legion so hard to go about helping tidy battlefields like some local militia. They should be out in pursuit of the Evastii king with vengeance in their hearts and steel in their hands.

  But what frustrated him even more was the fact that he knew he must wait. The support of the two Valerii legions the young Corvinus now commanded was an opportunity Horatius knew he should not let pass by. Together they would have three legions – a force large enough to finally outnumber the barbarian – and that would be an advantage worth the wait.

  Horatius surveyed the fields below him. The legion camp was slowly beginning to disband, its picket walls were already removed and the last of its tents disassembled.

  At least Corvinus had the sense to leave the rest of the Evastii fallen to rot, he thought. Horatius managed a grin, remembering the fire he had lit in the young general that morning. He would push the boy hard and make sure he earned the rank he carried. Arcem should expect no less of its leaders.

  Over the crackle of the fires, Horatius heard the wet crunch of someone approaching across the snow.

  ‘General, the legions shall soon be ready to move,’ a deep voice called up to him.

  Horatius turned.

  ‘About time,’ he mumbled, walking down the mountain’s slope to where his First Centurion stood saluting. Though Germanus was a true son of Arcem, born and raised, he still boasted a thickset figure and a lengthy head of blonde hair that betrayed his foreign ancestry. When he was without his helmet, the sight could often make his general scowl. Bitter as he was, Horatius was still a man who judged his men foremost by their results rather than their lineage.

  ‘The initial reports from the scouts are in sir,’ Germanus continued. ‘The Evastii trails show the enemy made for the eastern flank of the mountain before taking the narrow mountain passes north with urgency.’

  Horatius grunted at this.

  ‘Sir, I understand you still believe there to be a great danger in Ariogaisus, but this is good news,’ said Germanus cautiously. Years of strained relations with Horatius had taught the First Centurion just how far he could push the brooding general. ‘The Evastii are fleeing north to their own lands. Had they taken the passes east they could have lost us in the mountains like the other hill tribes and plagued Arcem for a generation, instead they are running home. Their army is now either too scared or too fractured for the counter-offensive you fear.’

  Horatius stood in silence for several moments as he considered this. Germanus simply waited, knowing he should not continue the matter any further.

  ‘Tell me First Centurion,’ said Horatius at last, ‘what do you think of this young Corvinus?’

  ‘Sir, the Valerii legions have certainly struck a heavy blow against the Evastii here, that much is undeniable. The Evastii trails north are all scattered and unordered. Whatever happened last night, the Evastii were clearly in a frantic retreat,’ said Germanus. ‘How Corvinus managed to do so with but one legion is beyond me.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘I trust the consul, sir. If Consul Valerius orders command to fall to his son, then Arcem says he is ready to command. We have fought beside our brothers in the Fourth Legion many times and I trust them. If they can fight alongside the Third Legion and follow its commander, I too will give him a
chance.’

  Horatius nodded.

  ‘What are the attitudes among the ranks?’

  ‘From the brief contact I have had with the men sir, I would say they are in high spirits. Even the ones in the Fourth Legion who were not involved in last night’s fighting still regard the consul’s son with respect. However, there was some bitterness present among the veterans of its First Cohort for missing out on such a decisive action.’

  ‘What about the Bronze Fists?’ asked Horatius. ‘What is the word within the ranks of my legion?’

  The First Centurion straightened instantly.

  ‘General, the Tenth Legion only awaits the command to bring death upon the Evastii once more,’ said Germanus. ‘Your men are ready and eager to march, with or without the Valerii legions. They only want to fight and redeem themselves after their failure to hold the barbarians on the borderlands.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Speak freely First Centurion, we are alone and I know you hold doubts,’ said Horatius.

  ‘Doubts? No sir, not I,’ said Germanus, quickly saluting. ‘I only hold back some of the lesser worries the men share regarding the journey from Tarqus, sir.’

  ‘You speak of the deaths?’

  ‘Yes sir. The loss of nine good men has been hard felt in some of the ranks, General,’ said Germanus. ‘Particularly that they were lost due to sickness and exhaustion, without a sword in their hand or even seeing the enemy for that matter.’

  ‘Why should so few cast such mourning across our ranks? If they were good men they would have kept pace,’ said Horatius dismissingly. ‘I can only use the strong, if the weak fall behind it will be for the better when the time for hard fighting comes.’

  Germanus stood quiet, already regretting his candour.

  Horatius stepped closer, his armoured gauntlet gripping the First Centurion’s shoulder in a firm grasp.

  ‘The legions are the only thing defending our people from a life of chaos and bloodshed. We are the line in the sand. It cannot be for us to complain,’ said Horatius sternly. ‘We must be ruthless, with our enemies and with ourselves. Arcem demands this of us – all of us. Did I not share in every step the legion endured since Tarqus?’

  ‘Yes sir, as a true example you led the way yourself,’ answered Germanus, meeting his general’s gaze.

  ‘Yet they complain...’ mumbled Horatius, removing his hand. ‘First Centurion, before we march I think you should go and remind the men of the duties they took on when they answered our nation’s call to be soldiers of Arcem.’

  ‘Yes, General. I promise you the men will be focused and eager for the battle to come,’ said Germanus, saluting. ‘Your Bronze Fists will be unrelenting and savage. They will not disappoint you again sir.’

  ‘Oh, I know they won’t,’ said Horatius, flexing his gauntlet.

  ***

  Corvinus untied the leather straps of his armour and shrugged off the heavy weight of his breastplate. He was not entirely sure why he was hurrying, Xaphia was on guard somewhere outside, but something about their conversation that morning made him want to be alone.

  The breastplate, still battered and torn from the fighting on the Gaur Mons, landed in a heap atop his bed as he threw it away, out of mind. Wincing at the movement, Corvinus then began pulling off the thick, winter tunic beneath as well.

  Eager to expose what had been paining him all morning, it was not long before he was standing with the chiselled features of his upper body completely bare.

  Bringing a nearby candle in close for light, Corvinus anxiously cast his gaze down. His whole body was an aching mess of dark bruises and scrapes from the fighting, but such minor wounds he was used to after battles. However, what concerned him was the grey mess of his shoulder, where the Evastii champion had shot him. The wound, despite being closed over, still hurt as much as it had during the combat. It was almost as though the Spolia Opima had frozen his body in the moment of healing, along with all its associated pains.

  ‘All blessings in life come with sacrifice,’ said a shadowy voice that split the silence of the room.

  Corvinus looked up, already knowing that he would see the bronze faceplate of his guard standing beside him. ‘By the gods beneath, what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Corvinus replied, cursing Xaphia her ability to sneak up on him.

  ‘It means this will not be a painless process,’ Xaphia said, pointing at the grey wound threaded across his shoulder. Walking forward, she leant in close to inspect the other injuries on his chest and arms.

  ‘And you know this, how?’ asked Corvinus, his annoyance growing.

  ‘The hurt is written in your eyes,’ Xaphia said, carefully taking his arm for examination.

  Corvinus looked away. He could barely think as it was, he did not need her teasing as well. Another shard of pain stabbed through his senses like a hot knife, causing him to grimace. Glancing back, he saw Xaphia prodding at the bruised muscles of his arms with intense scrutiny.

  ‘The Spolia Opima healed every trace of my wounds after the surgery, why are these still so raw?’ Corvinus asked, gesturing with his free hand.

  Xaphia hissed at his question.

  ‘So human,’ she laughed, ‘you are blessed by the gods with untold power and yet you still expect everything. Your kind truly has no patience.’

  Corvinus’ fist descended with blurring speed and Xaphia – somehow sensing the strike – unsuccessfully tried to avoid it. Standing so close to one another, the blow connected with full force. Smashing against the side of her helmeted head, Xaphia was knocked to the floor.

  With fists ready, Corvinus stood over his fallen guard. His heart was beating wildly in his chest and his entire body twitched for action, but much to his surprise, Xaphia did not retaliate.

  ‘That will be the last time you ever speak to me like that,’ Corvinus said, looking down. ‘I am your sworn master, mock me again and ally or not, I will see you dead. Do you understand me?’

  Xaphia’s bronze mask nodded slowly.

  ‘The technology inside you is untested,’ she said, readjusting her helmet back into place. ‘Though I have studied it thoroughly from the surviving histories, there is still much uncertainty. So if you are seeking an answer to your previous question, I cannot say.’

  ‘You cannot say,’ Corvinus repeated, coming back to a state of calm. Already he could feel his muscles protesting their movement and fresh pain coursed through his arm and shoulder from the blow he dealt.

  ‘It would be wise to remember that the injuries of your surgery that healed so perfectly were the result of a very meticulous procedure. My work was flawless and so healed accordingly. The wounds of last night however were brutal things, of blunt and graceless execution,’ Xaphia said, finally rising to her feet again. ‘You are lucky to be alive as it is.’

  Corvinus watched his guard stand with caution. Though his hands were lowered to his sides, his mind was still alert and ready, should he need to defend himself.

  ‘You are not so concerned about the injuries to your chest and arms, are you?’ Xaphia continued. ‘I can see that it is your shoulder that pains you most and causes you to be worried. You do not know what is happening inside your own body and like a soldier facing an unknown enemy, you are scared.’

  ‘I am a man of Arcem and afraid of nothing,’ Corvinus said through clenched teeth. His hands tightened into fists, ready to strike again, but deep down he knew it was the truth and disciplined himself enough to listen.

  ‘Either way, all I know is that bullet will need to come out. Blessed or not, the Spolia Opima cannot be expected to heal everything by itself,’ Xaphia shrugged. ‘The wound still hurts as much as it first did, if not worse, correct?’

  Reluctantly, Corvinus nodded.

  ‘It must be removed, lest the wound fester inside and be sealed in by the Spolia Opima,’ said Xaphia, slowly closing the distance between them.

  Corvinus knew what that meant. Having visited the insid
e of a surgeon’s tent after battle many times during his legion service, he was under no illusion as to the procedure. Outside though, the field hospitals were all being packed and readied for the march north and what few surgeons they had would be busy tending the wounded from last night. Corvinus did not want to trouble them needlessly when there were surely men in more need of their attention. Moreover, he could not, for such a thing would surely reveal the Spolia Opima and risk too much. No, this was something that needed to be done discretely, he realised.

  Slowly, Corvinus went to draw the dagger from his belt, but Xaphia stopped him instantly. ‘Not that,’ she hissed, reaching down into the dark folds of her cloak. ‘The bullet inside you may be Evastii, but we are not so barbaric.’

  Revealing the slender blade of a scalpel, Xaphia stepped forward to her master. The razor-sharp edge glinted in candlelight as she stood before him.

  Corvinus tried not to wince as Xaphia rested a gloved hand on his chest for balance, sending new waves of pain searing into his mind. Breathing nasally, he looked away to the corners of the tent for distraction, whilst Xaphia brought the scalpel up before the sickly, grey wound on his shoulder.

  ‘You’re going to enjoy this aren’t you?’ Corvinus said, bracing himself for what would come next. Already a layer of cold sweat was forming on his skin and his heart pounded loudly in his chest. Though he was not facing her, Corvinus knew that behind her bronze mask, Xaphia’s cold black eyes were smiling at him.

  ‘Try not to scream,’ she hissed and began slicing.

  VIII

  ‘It is the brave man's part to live with glory, or with glory die.'

  Evastii Proverb

  The icy rain battered down upon them as they stood on the edge of the world – the civilised world – staring across into the dreaded unknown. Raising his hand up to shield his eyes, Corvinus watched the armoured figure of First Centurion Hector Valko return from the head of the marching column. Corvinus squinted against the gale, struggling to discern any particular landmark amongst the flat, white terrain before them. Somewhere beneath the powdering of snow lay the frozen banks of the Tymero River and everyone there knew what it represented.