The Ultimate Spoils (Tumultus Chronicles Book 1)

by Nathan R. Mancini

  ‘Prefect?’ asked a rather disturbed centurion as he pushed through the ranks to see the out of breath man who had collapsed in their midst. The sound of the approaching veterans from the First Cohort quickly turned the centurion’s attention back down the laneway.

  ‘Kill them, they have betrayed us all!’ shouted Castus, as he saw his hunters come to a halt before the small gathering. The centurion looked down at the Camp Prefect in utter confusion and Castus was sure the man would not act on his order. Luckily the decision was made for him as the veterans of the First Cohort suddenly opened fire on the ranks of their fellow legionaries, killing several in the volley.

  Resorting to their most basic legion training, the men around the centurion instinctually brought up their shields and charged their attackers.

  Castus watched with grief as the two sides clashed. Brothers in arms, men of Ultor, were now at war between themselves. The young legionaries outnumbered those few men from the First Cohort, but the veterans still managed to inflict a bloody toll. Years of service under Kaeso had forged them into hardhearted killers and they fought without fear of being overwhelmed.

  The sound of the battle brought out many more legionaries from their beds into the dawn air. They came out of their tents ready for an enemy, only to witness their brothers fighting each other. They watched on, unsure of which side or authority to follow.

  It was not long before the half-dozen veterans of the First Cohort were cut down, and though a momentary quiet returned to the area, Castus could hear the sounds of battle begin to arise in other parts of the camp. The betrayal was spreading.

  ‘Prefect, I want answers!’ a voice shouted. Castus looked up from the ground to see the centurion returning from the scene of the fighting before him. He stood over Castus and pointed his sword down at him. All Castus could see was the bloody gore that dripped from the steel blade aimed directly at his throat.

  ‘Be calm friend, I am not your enemy,’ said Castus, raising his hands as the rest of the centurion’s men circled around him.

  ‘What just happened here? Tell me what is going on!’ roared the centurion, jabbing the air with his sword to punctuate his demand.

  ‘I wish I understood,’ said Castus. ‘All I know is we have been betrayed. The men of the First Cohort, under Kaeso and most likely Tribune Fulvio, are in league with our enemies. I do not know why or how but one thing is for sure, we do not have time to stand here. The Ironclad are on our doorstep and the legion is unprepared. We must get to the camp centre now and protect General Valerius and his son.’

  The centurion eyed the rest of his men and Castus could see their young faces torn between loyalties. Their supposedly bloodless march on Monarx against the Senate had just taken an unexpected and disastrous turn that would cause many to rethink their allegiances. The echo of further outbreaks of fighting across the camp burdened their thoughts further. Finally, all the men gave their commander a nod and just when Castus was sure the centurion would kill him, the man drew back his sword.

  ‘Then we had best be away,’ said the centurion, offering his hand.

  ***

  First Centurion Eliphas Fallax looked across the frozen fields at the Fourth Legion camp and listened to the commotion inside. He had never felt more exhausted in his life. The race from Emissus had taken everything of the Ironclad. The muscles in his legs were painfully taut and his feet were raw with blisters. Just standing made the soles of his feet feel as if they were burning inside their boots.

  Beneath their discipline and strength of will, Eliphas knew all the Ironclad were silently suffering the same ordeal. The last day had been the worst, for they had not stopped once since the previous dawn. As ordered, they had run through the night and arrived in the small village of Lapsus Magna only that hour.

  ‘The gates have been left undefended to us as assured. What are your orders, sir?’ Eliphas asked his general. Nearby, Consul Zeno turned around and looked at him. Having sent riders ahead of him, the consul had joined the Seventh Legion that dawn to lead them personally. The greying general was clad in full armour plate and his face looked tired and gaunt beneath the cheek guards of his plumed helmet. The betrayal had clearly left its mark on the man, for Zeno looked worse than Eliphas felt. Though the First Centurion knew Zeno still commanded the heart of a zealous young man, he was well past his prime.

  ‘You have done your duty well to get here First Centurion, and you are right – it is time. Signal the legion to advance into the traitor camp,’ said Zeno, adjusting his helmet to sit more comfortably on his head. ‘Come, let us finish this rebellion.’

  ***

  General Gaius Valerius awoke from another night of troubled sleep to the sounds of battle. Beyond the walls of his tent, the rest of the camp seemed to have exploded into a world of chaos. Legion horns trumpeted above the clash of arms and endless shouting that carried through the winter morning.

  The general rolled over and grabbed the gladius from his bedside as he heard a series of footsteps approach the doorway. Whatever was happening, he swore to meet his end with a sword in hand.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he called out, rising to his feet with sword held ready. The general was still wearing his armour from when sleep had finally claimed him during the late hours of the previous night and Gaius knew he looked a mess. The march on his beloved city had tortured his soul every step of the way and rest had not been coming easily to him at night. The closer he got to Monarx, the greater the sense of apprehension that befell him. But it was too late to change things, he had told himself, over and over again.

  A shadow loomed over the folds of the tent doorway and Valerius felt his body tense as it readied for a fight. He paused as the familiar voice of the Camp Prefect called out.

  ‘General, you must get out of here now,’ gasped Sentius Castus with open distress. Gaius noted the prefect’s armour was already dirtied as if he had been crawling in the mud and had the occasional splash of blood across his breastplate. Castus hunched over as he tried to catch his breath, his face dripping with sweat.

  ‘Sentius, what is happening?’ Gaius asked calmly.

  ‘There is a mutiny within the ranks, sir,’ said Castus, unable to look his general in the eye. ‘I am sorry, but we have been betrayed by Tribune Fulvio and First Centurion Kaeso. Legionaries from the First Cohort have sided with the Senate and are coercing the rest of the legion to surrender their arms. There are still many cohorts that support you, sir and the camp has descended into a warzone. However, Consul Zeno has also just arrived and the Ironclad have joined the battle.’

  Gaius tightened his grip on his sword. ‘Get me my helmet.’

  The Camp Prefect saluted. ‘Sir, I implore you to save yourself. I have a dozen loyal men outside to cover your retreat. Rejoin Prince Hannibal in the north, or go into hiding somewhere. Please, the Senate will not forgive you for this.’

  The general walked over and put a hand on Castus’ shoulder. ‘I’m sorry old friend, but I will not spend my last years in exile. It is too late to go back. This day is in the hands of the gods now.’

  ***

  The ominous toll of the sentry bell woke Corvinus instantly. It was surely not a good omen and its dreadful sound sent a shiver down his spine. He did not know what could possibly warrant the alarm, surely the nearest Senate legion was miles away, pinned in the north by Prince Hannibal and the Thirteenth Legion. The Ironclad cannot have defeated the Syphaxan, he thought, so who can they be fighting now? It could not be citizen militias from Monarx, for they would not have dared to meet the legions in the fields beyond the walls of the capital or they would be slaughtered. What is going on? A dozen questions rushed through Corvinus’ mind in the instant it took him to sit up from his bed and reach for his armour.

  ‘Slave,’ he called out the doorway. A few moments later, the young face of a legion serf entered Corvinus’ quarters. Though the boy was clearly made anxious by the sentry bells, he still remembered to bow before coming in to help his master i
nto the various segments of his armour.

  ‘Who approaches the camp?’ Corvinus asked.

  ‘Sir, there has yet to be confirmation, no runners have come from either General Valerius or Tribune Fulvio, but I have overheard the shouting outside. There is rumour that the Ironclad are waiting right outside the gates,’ said the slave as he fastened the leather buckles on his master’s pauldron. The armour was the same brilliant piece he had worn before the Senate and despite the hard march, its plates were still polished to a high sheen. In the corner of the tent, in a chest by the bed, was Romanus’ legendary sword, the final piece of his war gear.

  ‘Waiting?’ repeated Corvinus, raising an eyebrow. ‘What would they be waiting for?’

  The young general’s question was interrupted when the clamour outside suddenly peaked and several loud gunshots echoed above the shouting. Corvinus turned to see his bodyguard enter the tent. Sweeping back the folds of the doorway, Xaphia stumbled inside and collapsed against one of the structure’s support beams. Shocked by the madness of it all, both Corvinus and the slave beside him stared down at the bronze face plate of the guard, lying dead still. Slumped against the wooden post before him, Corvinus finally got the first good view of his bodyguard. Two jagged holes punctured her breastplate, from which her dark, almost black blood oozed out, soaking her tunic. She had been shot, but what startled Corvinus more was the fact he could see Xaphia’s gloved hand begin to tremble as she slowly reached for the sword at her belt. She tried to say something, but her voice was strained with pain and her words were muffled beneath her helmet.

  It took Corvinus a second to realise what she had said, but by that time another figure had entered the tent and it was too late. Tribune Fulvio stood in the doorway, pistol in hand, with a cruel smile on his lips.

  Xaphia looked at her master and hissed her command again. ‘Run!’

  But Corvinus knew there would be no escape.

  Fulvio took a step inside and levelled the smoking barrel of his pistol at the downed guard convulsing at his feet. Corvinus glimpsed the weapon with dread. It was a priceless piece of history from before The Fall; a handgun Fulvio’s own private weapon-smiths had no doubt rebuilt from the historical pieces he had looted, bribed and coerced into his possession. A single-barrelled pistol, gilded, with a revolving chamber capable of holding several shots – there was nothing else like it on Tumultus. It was a piece of technology far superior to anything the legions had yet to replicate. The specially-engineered cartridges alone surely had cost him a fortune, but Corvinus knew for such man, vengeance was worth any price.

  The pistol barked loudly and Xaphia’s twitching instantly ceased. The sound of the shot sent the slave beside Corvinus cowering to the floor. Holding his ears, with eyes closed, the serf was reduced to a trembling wreck.

  Fulvio smiled wickedly as he turned to the young general. ‘You are finished,’ the tribune said, his words emphasized by the muffled echo of distant gunshots and shouting outside.

  Corvinus remained in place, his eyes burning with hatred. Caught unprepared, the leather webbing with his own pistol lay with the scabbard holding Romanus’ sword, out of reach in the chest by the far wall.

  Searching for anything to be used to defend himself, all Corvinus could think of was the dagger sheathed in his belt. His arm darted for its hilt, but Fulvio was not looking to duel and levelled his pistol at the young general, firing off two shots before Corvinus could lunge. One of the shots went wide, piercing through the tent wall behind him whilst the other found its mark, striking Corvinus squarely on his breastplate. The bullet connected in a flash of sparks that felt like someone had kicked him in the chest. Though it failed to penetrate, the polished steel was scored with a large depression across its surface where the shot had been deflected.

  In the moment it took Corvinus to recover his balance, the tribune had already drawn his sword. Despite the fact the gladius was a short sword, the blade still gave Fulvio a dangerous advantage of reach over Corvinus.

  ‘Did you really think a fraud like yourself could insult my name and get away with it? You and your whole family are little better than that dog cowering next to you,’ said the tribune, stepping further inside the tent towards Corvinus and the slave sheltering at his feet.

  Corvinus paid no attention to the man’s taunts; his entire concentration was fixed solely on the blade point staring directly at him. He knew that Fulvio bought only the finest weapons in Arcem, so he did not doubt the tribune also afforded the best sword masters to instruct him in their use.

  ‘I have been waiting a long time for this and by the gods, I shall enjoy killing you,’ laughed Fulvio, as he launched himself at Corvinus in a frenzy of steel.

  The tribune attacked in a fit of passion and his technique suffered because of it. He hacked like some enraged barbarian, trying to kill him in one murderous strike. Corvinus could easily read all the wild lunges and mad slashes that came his way – but anticipating his enemy’s moves was little help in stopping them. Armed with only his dagger, it was almost impossible for Corvinus to parry against such heavy blows and in the confines of his tent, there was little room for footwork to evade the strikes. Corvinus’ eyes never strayed from the tribune’s blade and as a consequence he found himself knocking clumsily into the furniture around his chamber. He almost tripped over the slave quivering at his feet and without looking down, Corvinus sent a heavy boot into the man’s midriff.

  ‘Get the hell out of here!’ he yelled as he kicked the spineless serf. The man scrambled to his knees and crawled for the doorway, knocking a small brazier as he did so. Corvinus cursed as the brazier fell, tipping its hot coals onto the floor. Most fizzled harmlessly on the cold dirt floor but some managed to roll onto the edges of the curtain walls and set the inner fabric of the tent to smoulder. Even as thin trails of smoke began to cloud the tent’s interior, the one-sided duel continued.

  Fulvio stepped towards the young general, his eyes burning with murderous intent. Corvinus saw the tribune begin to raise his gladius for an overhand slice and with nowhere left to move, he knew he would have to stand his ground.

  The blow came down in a heavy arc straight for his neck. In sheer reflex Corvinus brought his left arm up over his head and took the blow on his vambrace.

  With bone-jarring force the blade slid off his armoured forearm out to the side and momentarily exposed Fulvio as the weight behind the strike pulled him off balance. In that split-second of weakness, Corvinus lunged in with the dagger in his right hand. Fulvio was quick to realise his vulnerability and tried to lean away from the attack, but the cutting edge of the knife found its target and managed to slice a deep gash across his cheek.

  Corvinus watched Fulvio recoil from the strike. Had the blade been just a fraction longer – like that of a gladius – Corvinus knew it would have been a death blow. But he had no time to reflect upon that injustice, as the infuriated tribune came at him with renewed intensity. Bringing his sword around in a wide sweep that almost cut Corvinus in half, Fulvio forced the young general to leap back. Corvinus stumbled awkwardly on the side of his bed just as Fulvio kicked out with a heavy boot, smashing him in the gut and onto the bed. Dazed, Corvinus tried to roll back onto his feet, but before he managed to do so another shot rang out from the tribune’s pistol. The force of the shot knocked Corvinus back down, but the pain kept him there. At such close range, there was no chance of his armour holding out a second time.

  Corvinus felt his mind try to retreat from reality as waves of burning pain crashed over his senses in flashes of bright crimson. His side was shot open, he could feel it. Grunting with agony, Corvinus felt his strength desert him and the knife fell from his numb fingers, dropping to the floor.

  Fulvio holstered his pistol and tightened the hold on his gladius as he went to stand over the young general before him. Dripping with blood, his face was twisted into a hateful grin. Vengeance demanded this kill be done with a blade and Fulvio would relish it. With two hands he raised the s
word high for the execution.

  ‘As you die there, struggling like the bastard pleb you are, I want you to know that your name, and your legion, will be nothing but dust after this is finished,’ spat Fulvio. ‘Know that you shall not be cremated, buried, or remembered in any way. I will leave you here for the wolves so that even the gods will spurn you for what you are. The hells of Khronus await you Corvinus!’

  The sword came down quickly in a clean thrust, piercing through armour and the heart beneath in one motion.

  ***

  Tribune Fulvio watched with vengeful satisfaction as his victim squirmed beneath his blade and laughed as Corvinus sighed a final breath. Contented with this reckoning, Fulvio yanked his gladius from his kill. It was time to leave – already the room was filling with smoke as the fire from the spilt brazier spread across the fabric walls. Fulvio wiped the blood off his blade, leaving the body of the young general to the flames.

  With his personal vendetta satisfied, there were other important matters at hand requiring his attention. Outside, Fulvio could hear the sounds of battle all throughout the camp and he knew that the day was yet to be won. Smiling and bloodied, he exited the tent into the commotion.

  Behind him, much of the canvas was already aflame and plumes of smoke followed through the doorway after him, their clouds darkening as the flames inside intensified. As he came out to the cool morning air, Fulvio realised just how strained his body had actually been during the fight. The ecstasy he had felt with the adrenalin surging through his veins was already fading and his muscles ached. The tribune took a moment to clear his head, sucking in a great lungful of the clean morning air to catch his breath again.

  All around, legionnaires of the First Cohort and other allied cohorts of the lesser centuries were battling against their fellow soldiers. Throughout the camp, dozens of little pockets of resistance were being fought as those units still loyal to General Valerius made their stand amidst the rows of tents and hastily constructed barricades. Lacking the advantage of surprise and the killing experience of the heavily armed First Cohort, Fulvio could see these struggling loyalists were doomed.