‘You still have not answered my question,’ pressed Corvinus, ‘why?’
‘Because I am still committed to my original task,’ said Xaphia. ‘I came here to bring your species to a higher stage of existence and whilst The Fall has been a crippling setback, I intend to fulfil that purpose. On the Parum Islands, I saw Arcem as the only force powerful enough to fight off the barbarians and bring Tumultus back to its former glory. There were times when the same could have been said of others. Syphax once held the flame of civilisation in its grasp, but it became self-righteous in that knowledge and its kings grew too proud. Look at it now: almost two centuries later Arcem is in the very same position and like Syphax, its vision is crumbling. When I saw your father do battle on the Parum Islands, I saw the fire of his spirit and knew he was a man with the strength to bring change, and so he is. With the Spolia Opima and an uncorrupted vision, your family shall bring Arcem and Tumultus to its rightful place in history. That is why I swore to serve you.’
Corvinus nodded his understanding. ‘But first we must be traitors and shed the blood of our brother legions to overthrow the Senate,’ he said.
Xaphia bowed her head in agreement. ‘Yes, first there is that.’
***
First Centurion Eliphas Fallax of the Ironclad Seventh Legion looked over his shoulder and down the long marching column of legionaries, searching the horizon for his foe.
The sound of enemy drums grew louder with every hour that passed and he knew by nightfall they would be upon them. The Syphaxans had been on their heels ever since the scouts of the Thirteenth Legion sighted them outside the city of Arrium. Eliphas had managed to evade them for several days, but looking around at the weary faces of his men, he knew they could not maintain the harsh pace much longer. Since Arrium they had not stopped running, eating on the march and sparing only a few hours for sleep each night. The journey south was taking its toll on them. Eliphas was proud of what they had endured so far, but men were beginning to drop whilst their enemies seemed to only grow stronger, drawing closer in their pursuit with every passing hour.
The First Centurion once believed Arcemite legions to be the fittest in the world. With regular eighteen-mile hikes a part of their ruthless training regime, they were always able to outpace their foes, but the tenacity of their enemy had now broken that belief. Eliphas found his thoughts wandering back to a conversation he once shared over a drink with a Syphaxan. The man had been a captain – Sejanus was the name that came to mind, but Eliphas could not be sure – what he did remember however was the man’s story. The Syphaxan told him that the people from his village did not have horses or camels with which to travel, but would instead jog from town to town. In nothing but bare feet they would cross miles of hot desert sand and rock every day. Eliphas remembered laughing at the man’s boast, believing him to have been spinning some exotic tale. He shook his head at the memory; how wrong he had been.
After running almost non-stop for days, only to have the Syphaxan hunt continue to draw closer, Eliphas had come to believe the man’s claim.
Back then, the two legions had been training together and were like brothers; their generals were almost family, after all. How things had come to this, he did not know, but whatever their past friendships Eliphas would not shirk in his duties.
Eliphas searched the length of the highway for the enemy. They would soon be in sight, he could hear them. They had been on their trail doggedly for days, beating their war drums all the way. How he hated their dreadful sound. It pounded at the legion’s thoughts throughout the day as they ran, playing at their nerves and echoing in their minds as they tried to sleep at night. Such hardships would have broken lesser men, but the Seventh Legion was Ironclad and they endured the enemy drums as they did all hardships – with silent, unwavering discipline.
Listening to the enemy draw nearer, the First Centurion began to experience fear and as an Ironclad he hated himself for it. The feeling had been clawing at his resolve for some time; he hid it from the men and crushed it beneath his sense of duty, but it had taken root. It was not that he was afraid to die – he knew the Republic was worth such sacrifice – what Eliphas feared was for the first time in his life, he would fail. He knew he could not reach Monarx in time with the Syphaxans closing on him and that knowledge tore at his heart. Everything depended on him bringing the legion to stop the traitor consul. General Zeno and the Senate were counting on him. By the gods, he could not fail them.
Eliphas also knew he could not afford to fight the Thirteenth Legion, for the Syphaxan levy was almost twice the size of his force. Any battle now would leave his men so mauled they would be of no use against Valerius – if they even survived. There was only one option left to the First Centurion and it pained him almost as much as the thought of failure.
‘Centurion Marius,’ he called out to the ranks ahead of him. The plumed helmet of the grizzled centurion turned as he stared back towards Eliphas with his one good eye. The man slowed his pace, allowing for the First Centurion to catch up.
‘Sir,’ said Marius with great difficulty. As Eliphas jogged alongside the man he saw Marius’ face was contorted with pain and his breathing came in ragged gasps. The march was taking its toll on the veteran centurion. At the same time, Eliphas knew he would never complain. Marius was an old hand among the Ironclad and stoic like their general, he would push on through anything with pure strength of will.
‘I need you to do something for me, something you are not going to like,’ said Eliphas, pausing in his run. Marius came to a stop and stood before his commander, panting heavily.
‘Sir, I did not join the legion nor fight its wars for my enjoyment,’ he said between breaths. ‘I did so because I believed in its cause and accepted its duties. So give me your orders and I shall see them done.’
Eliphas looked the old centurion in the eye. He truly was a man of the Seventh Legion, a steadfast example to them all, with a soul of iron. This was why Eliphas trusted no other with this order and why it would be the hardest decision of his career.
‘I need you to take two cohorts and buy us as much time as you can,’ said Eliphas.
Marius nodded to the First Centurion, knowing what was being asked of him. ‘It has been an honour serving with you, brother,’ he said at last, offering out his hand in farewell.
‘The honour has been all mine, old friend,’ replied Eliphas, taking his hand. They shook in the Arcemite fashion, wrist-to-wrist and held each other’s gaze before saluting. ‘The Chronicles will know your name. By the gods I swear it.’
‘I think the Republic deserves better-sounding heroes than Marius the Grim,’ said the veteran centurion, as he walked off down the column and began shouting for his cohorts to rally.
Eliphas watched the man go with a heavy heart.
‘Die well,’ he whispered.
***
Marius had always known his day would come. A soldier did not live through a dozen campaigns and almost thirty years of service without realising that one immutable fact. He had travelled all across Arcem and its dominions in his time, from the frozen north to the sands of Syphax. He had seen many things and witnessed many deaths. Sometimes it was sickness or the cold that would take a man in the night, more often than not it was an enemy. He had learnt all one could do was pray for a worthy end and meet it with a head held high. That was the Ironclad way.
Marius had never had a wife, or a son, or daughter. The legion was his life and he had long since grown to accept that. Even when the legion prefects had informed him his fifteen years were over and he could retire, he chose to stay on for another term. Death was the only release for a career legionnaire and he would not wait for it in a home like a lonely civilian. He would meet his end in battle, as a man of Arcem.
Many men had tried to kill Marius throughout his life. He had fallen dozens of times and the hard flesh beneath his armour was riddled with the scars of his profession. More than once, Marius had found himself on a stretcher with death whispering his na
me, but he had always clung to life. Now, as he stood listening to the approaching drums of the enemy, Marius could also hear that familiar voice carrying in the wind, calling his name again.
Marius sniffed at the idea and spat towards the advancing enemy. He had stood on the cliffs of the Parum Islands against Balhiran pirates and fought the Evastii before the walls of Cras in Ariogaisus’ first incursion. He had marched into the Great Plains from the gates of Secundium to slay the horsemen of the Oirthir and even skirmished with a Thrysan phalanx beyond the Arctos Mountains. But never had Marius fought the sons of Syphax – no Arcemite had since Romanus subjugated them over a hundred years ago.
As the sun rolled across the grey winter sky, Marius watched the enemy approach from a small hilltop. Behind him, nothing but a slight trail of dust could be seen of the rest of his legion’s flight hours before. He understood Eliphas needed to flee in order to fight an even more important battle and did not begrudge the man for his part – it was not the Ironclad way.
The Thirteenth Legion emerged over the foothills before his cohorts in a sea of gold, emerald and crimson banners. Marius saw the legionaries in the ranks around him begin to tense. Pounding in their ears, the Syphaxan drums rose in ferocity as they reached their climax before battle, sending fresh shivers into the waiting Arcemite lines.
Marius felt nothing but contempt for the Syphaxans as he watched them advance. He helped to train many of the ranks now lined against him. Marius looked on as Hannibal used his vast numbers to encircle the Ironclad cohorts in a smooth, well-disciplined flanking manoeuvre. As the enemy surrounded their position, the sheer hopelessness of their situation spurred Marius to recall the previous Battle of Campus Ferrum.
It was an ancient memory, decades old, on a battlefield not far from their current position, where the Seventh Legion made its last stand against the tyrant Julius Terra. Marius was a young man then, but a raw recruit. General Zeno was in his prime that day and led them to victory against all odds, earning the legion its proud name. The legionaries Marius remembered from that battle seemed like gods. True men, standing strong in the face of an unlawful dictator; they were magnificent. Men were made of sterner stuff back then, he thought, principles mattered.
As the memories came flooding back to him, Marius found himself wishing for some of those old comrades. Castor, Antonius, even Spurius – brothers he had fought and bled with since the beginning. They would have given the Syphaxans a good run. With them they had been unbeatable. But they were all gone. The years ground them down and saw them fall, one by one. All those heroes from Campus Ferrum, the men he once believed immortal were no more. Besides General Zeno, only Marius remained of the old legion he once knew.
‘I will be seeing you shortly my brothers,’ the aged centurion whispered into the wind as he turned toward his cohorts. He studied the faces of the legionaries around him and saw them all looking back to him; their young, nervous faces searching his hard features for any sign of hope.
‘Legionaries, to me! Listen now, for lives depend on it,’ barked Marius. The ranks came to attention, their discipline overcoming their fears.
‘There will be no retreat. We stand now to protect the hope of our beloved Republic and the lives of our brothers ahead of us. If our foes continue their pace, our legion and all we hold precious will be destroyed. So we hold them here!’ shouted the veteran centurion. The cohorts pounded their spears in the ground in affirmation.
‘We men of Arcem have defeated the host of Syphax before. In centuries past we beat them to our will and made their armies do our bidding. I say we can do it again. Let us remind our enemies who their betters are.’
The clatter of spears against shields rose louder, building into a thunderous climax.
‘If we die here today, we do so as heroes and the Chronicles will remember our sacrifice. Defiant in the face of all odds, we are Ironclad!’ bellowed Marius, drawing his gladius. ‘Now let’s put these traitor bastards to steel!’
The shouts that erupted from the small force of legionaries on the hilltop were so deafening that it drowned out the enemy drums and for the slightest of moments, made every Syphaxan pause in their advance.
As one the Arcemite cohorts locked their shields together and in a well-disciplined line, they charged forward to meet their foe head on. None hesitated in their step.
The din of battle was heard for miles in all directions and did not settle until the downing of the sun that evening. Not one of the legionaries of Marius’ cohorts retreated. In the heat of battle, they had never burned brighter. Like hot iron from the forge, they were glorious and deadly. They fought like heroes and sold their lives dearly.
Night finally descended over the foothills. There, on the good earth of his homeland, amidst the young faces of his men, the hard features of Marius the Grim lay – his cold face creased with a smile.
XI
‘The strong did all they could, the weak suffered what they must.’
Warlord Voratrix, regarding the defeat of King Ariogaisus.
Sentius Castus walked along the palisade barrier of the camp perimeter, scrutinising the strength and quality of the construction in his morning routine. As Camp Prefect, it was his responsibility to ensure the legion remained supplied and well quartered each night. For Castus it was a duty of little thanks but great importance, for an army could not march on empty stomachs nor fight without rest. Sure, there were more prestigious ranks within the command structure of the legion that saw more action and more glory, but he did not envy them. As the son of a lower-class family, Castus was content to have risen this far in the legion. More to the point, he was good at what he did and the satisfaction of that was enough for him. Castus liked to think he had a tight run of things as Camp Prefect. To him, war was but a vast contest of logistics – one complex routine whereby everything was planned and itemised down to the smallest of details and those found best prepared were victorious. That was why each night when the legionaries made camp he inspected the defences and re-examined them every morning when he woke before dawn. With a sharp eye he would work off memory and look for any signs of vulnerability or intrusion throughout the night. As Camp Prefect, it was his duty that nothing ever escaped his notice or caught him unprepared.
So as Castus made his way around the camp perimeter on the third morning after the Fourth Legion had set out from the forests of Praedium, it came as a tremendous shock to see the camp gates swinging wide open in the winter breeze. Castus froze stiff at the sight, trying to comprehend the impossibility of what he was seeing. They were mere days out from Monarx and were meant to be at full battle readiness. By the hells of Khronus where were the legionaries stationed on the gate? Surely they could not have been killed by the enemy, for at least one of them would have got a warning out. But if they had not been killed, then the obvious explanation was desertion – but that was equally unfeasible. The Fourth Legion had been in high spirits since General Valerius told them of his plan to save Arcem. There was one even more outrageous explanation that Castus quickly realised – the gate sentries had not deserted but intentionally abandoned their posts. Which was of course absurd, Castus clearly remembered last night’s patrols were to be supervised by veterans of the First Cohort and they were dedicated supporters, loyal only to General Valerius and... Tribune Fulvio!
‘Blood of Taranis!’ swore Castus. The sentries would have never abandoned their posts for fear of the First Centurion’s wrath; they would only have done so if they had been ordered to by Kaeso himself. Castus ran down the frozen laneway to the camp entrance. Skidding on the slick ice, he crashed into the swinging timbers of the gate. Quickly steadying himself in his urgency, Castus gazed out into the fields beyond the camp.
It took several seconds for his eyes to adjust, but slowly shapes began to materialise in the dense morning fog and when they did, what Castus saw almost made his heart stop.
Beyond the camp gateway, the men of the Seventh Legion stood in perfect ranks, waiting. Castus k
new that should have been impossible, the Ironclad had been in Emissus many miles away and Prince Hannibal had been sent to deal with them, and yet they stood right before him. General Valerius must be warned, he thought.
Castus slammed the gate shut and scrambled up the small mound to where the alarm bell hung from a post. He grabbed the hammer dangling underneath and struck it against the metal bell, over and over again. Each hit sent a loud clang echoing across the camp to stir the men to battle. Castus smashed the hammer against the bell with such panic fuelling his movements that every strike sent shards of pain through his arm, but he did not dare stop.
Castus saw half a dozen legionaries hurry from nearby tents to investigate the alarm, with swords ready. He laughed with nervous relief, if he could rally the camp maybe they could turn things around and defeat the Ironclad yet. The smile was quickly wiped from Castus’ face when he realised the men approaching him with swords drawn wore the segmented armour plating of the First Cohort. Seeing one of them raise a pistol towards him, Castus felt his muscles seize up with grim anticipation. Things were happening too fast and it was as if his body could not accept the betrayal occurring. A shot ricocheted loudly off the side of the bell, spurring Castus back into motion.
Dropping the hammer, he leapt down from the bell post and ran, powering his legs as fast as they could go. Several more shots followed after him but none found their mark as he darted between the rows of tents.
Castus risked a glance behind him and saw the men following close on his heels. He redoubled his efforts, pushing onwards towards the centre of the camp. Behind him he could hear the clanking of the veterans’ segmented armour plates grow closer. The men of the First Cohort were the best of the legion and their strong bodies – physically in their prime – were sure to eventually outpace the ageing Camp Prefect. Castus turned another corner sharply and crashed into a group of legionaries forming up outside their tents. Tumbling to the cold ground, Castus managed to gaze up and he thanked the gods when he saw the men were wearing the chainmail armour of the legion’s lesser cohorts.
The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1) Page 23