Making his way to the door, he noticed that the hallways were now filled with officers of both the navy and the legion, watching him like they had seen a ghost. Ignoring them as best he could, Aurelius slipped into the office and shut the door behind him. Grabbing the desk for support, he allowed the pain to finally show through. His discipline would not allow him to show it where the others could see. The sweat returned to his brow and he felt cold chills running down his spine.
“Ancestors…” he whispered.
He felt weakness in his legs and his head began to swim. He was fighting desperately to remain conscious, when he heard the unmistakable voice of Cyprianus. It was loud and clear, as if he was standing right beside him.
“Marcus,” said the voice. “You must be strong. You are now the strength of the Legio Ferrata. They will need you as you needed me for so long.”
Aurelius focused on the voice. It was strong and steady. It gave him resolve to hold onto consciousness. It reminded him that he needed to fight harder than ever before.
“My son,” said Cyprianus, “you can do this. This is what you were born for. To lead the legions is your destiny.”
“Father,” whispered Aurelius, willing himself back to his full height.
“I am here for you, my son,” whispered Cyprianus. “I will always be here for you.”
When Aurelius opened his eyes, he was standing beside the big wooden desk. He felt stronger than he had since waking up. He could still hear the words of Cyprianus echoing in his mind. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he felt the calming coolness of the discipline that was borne of the legion returning to his body. The momentary weakness was gone. He still felt the pain of his wounds, but he would not allow it to control him.
Glancing down, he stopped when he saw what was waiting for him on the desk. There was a battered old cloak wrapped around something long and slender. A note was laying on it, folded with his name on the top. It simply read, “Aurelius” in bold brush-style script. Reaching for the note, he gently unfolded it, revealing the precise script inside. It read:
“My Praefect. I recovered this from the field of battle and knew that it belonged in your hands. May you carry it to greater fortune. Strength and Honor. Casca.”
Aurelius knew exactly what the bundle contained, even before he unwrapped it. Reverently, he removed the worn grey cloak that still held the ornamental pin of the Primus Pilus. It was clear that the weapon had been wrapped precisely how it had been found. It was still stained with the green ichor that passed for blood in the T’kri’t’ek.
The etchings in the blade shone brightly, highlighted by the greenish crust that had formed there. Engraved in it were the symbols of the Iron Legion. This was not merely the blade that Cyprianus had wielded. It was the blade of the Legatus Legionis of the Legio MMXIV Ferrata, since the formation of the Iron Legion nearly six centuries ago. This was the Iron Legion. It was the physical embodiment of their honor.
On one side of the blade was a bull, the ancient symbol for strength. Inscribed along the length of the blade were the words: “Fortitudo Et Honorem.” Aurelius knew the translation without hesitation. It meant Strength and Honor. On the opposite side was the ancient symbol of the wolf with the inscription along the blade: “Fidelis Constans” which translated as “Loyal and Steadfast.” Both were borne of the legion, dating back to the original host that served the Roman Empire nearly three thousand years past.
The pommel was the eagle of the legion with its wings folded around the hilt. The twin mottos of the Legio Ferrata inscribed on banners clasped in the claws of the eagle. The banners wrapped around the handle and ended at the base of the blade. They read: “Amat victoria curam” and “Aut vincere, aut mori.” Translated as “Victory favors the prepared,” and “Either Conquer or Die.”
Reverently, Aurelius held the blade and carefully studied the details. Although he had seen this blade many times, it was the first time that he had held it. The gold of the hilt felt cool to his touch. The weight of the sword felt very different from his own Gladius. For one, the balance was going to take some getting used to. It was only fitting since the Legatus Legionis did not carry the Gladius of the average Legionnaire. This blade was a Spatha. Both longer and thicker than the Gladius, this was a commander’s sword. A leader’s weapon.
Aurelius hesitated for a moment as he glanced at the chair behind the desk. Slowly, he eased into it and immediately felt both the comfort of the seat and the weight of the responsibility that came with it. Searching the drawers, he found what he sought; the cleaning kit that all officers of the legion kept in their desks. Removing the kit, he laid the blade respectfully on the old cloak and began preparing the cleaning supplies. It was time to make this weapon shine again.
Aurelius lost himself in the familiar motions of cleaning the blade. First, he used a light solvent to clean off all the blood and tissue. Then he wiped the edge clean with a soft cloth. Next came the oil that would treat the blade and prevent it from rusting. Once the oil was applied, he wiped it from end to end with the oil-cloth.
When he was satisfied that the sword was clean, he spat onto the whetstone and began running it down the edge. The soft rasping of the stone was soothing. It was almost meditative for the veteran warrior. It was a time for a soldier to reflect and prepare for the next battle. The care and maintenance of his weapons is supremely important to a him. After all, it is the weapons that you wield in battle that will bring you home again.
Once the blade was sharpened, Aurelius wiped it down again with the oil-cloth. Taking the leather belt and scabbard from the desk, he slid the blade home and buckled the belt around his waist. It felt heavier than he expected. Aurelius knew that the weight he now felt was more than just the weight of the knife-edge. It was the weight of his duty to the legion that he felt settling onto his shoulders. It was a burden he would bear with pride.
Once Aurelius had the blade adjusted and settled into place, he remembered the original reason for coming to the office. It was time to make a call that he knew must be made. The outcome of which could decide the fate of his legion and the entire fleet. Reaching over to the panel in the desk, he toggled the intercom system and activated the comm.
“Communications,” said a cheerful female voice.
“This is Praefect, I mean, Legatus Aurelius,” he said, correcting himself. “I need a secure channel.”
“Of course, Legatus,” replied the young woman. “Who would you like me to reach for you?”
“I need a private communication to Praefect Cicero of the Felix Legion,” said Aurelius.
“Stand by, sir,” replied the young COMM officer. “I will connect you in a moment. Would you like audio only or visual?”
“Visual, please,” he answered.
“One moment, sir,” she said.
There was a brief pause and the video monitor on the wall activated. The first image to appear was the Fleet Insignia with the words “One Moment” beneath it. Then the screen shifted to an office that was larger than the one Aurelius currently occupied. Clearly the allotments for crew quarters had changed in the last two hundred years.
“Legatus Aurelius,” began Cicero. “How can I help you, sir?”
“For one thing,” began Aurelius smiling, “You can drop the Legatus. We’ve bled together. You may call me Marcus.”
“Fabianus,” replied Cicero. “How are you, my friend?”
“I have been better,” said Aurelius, darkly. “Yet I still live.”
“That is good news for the legion,” said Cicero, smiling.
“I was wondering if we could speak?” said Aurelius, leaning forward against the desk.
“Of course,” said Cicero. “What is it you wish to speak of?”
“Not like this,” replied Aurelius. “I would like to speak face to face. I do not want to meet on Agamemnon, either. Can we meet on the planet? Perhaps near the steps of the capitol.”
From the tone of voice that Aurelius had used, Cicero could sense th
e implied concern. He wanted no chance of Corporate Security overhearing them.
“When would you like me to be there?” said Cicero.
“As soon as possible,” replied Aurelius.
“I will arrange transport immediately,” said Cicero.
“One more thing,” added Aurelius.
“Yes?” asked Cicero.
“Keep this discreet,” said Aurelius. “The fewer that know of this meeting, the better.”
“I will make the necessary arrangements,” said Cicero. “No logs will exist of this trip.”
“Good,” replied Aurelius. “I look forward to seeing you again, my friend.”
“See you shortly,” said Cicero, cutting the channel.
“I just hope my instincts are correct,” whispered Aurelius. “I hope I can trust you.”
Aurelius opened the transport log on the internal server. There was a duty rotation preparing to head for the surface of the planet. They were taking down troops and supplies for the garrison that had been established on the planet. Aurelius knew that the cargo-master would allow him to slip aboard without logging him as part of the crew. He would just have to make certain that no one recognized him. That would require using a lower ranking officer’s uniform and closed helmet. Both were easily obtained.
Slipping out of the office, he went down to office of the Armicustos, or legion quartermaster. The quartermaster was an old soldier who had lost his leg during a mission. They fitted him with a prosthetic but that eliminated him from drop status. By posting him as quartermaster, he could keep his rank and position within the legion. Aurelius had made certain that he would not be retired from duty for the injury. A fact that the quartermaster never forgot. He gave Aurelius the requested items without questioning why.
Fifteen minutes later, he was slipping into the shuttle. No one even gave him a second glance. Just another junior officer who kept his helmet on, so he wouldn’t have to speak with the enlisted men. That was a habit that Aurelius personally despised but was secretly thankful for at that moment. It allowed him to pass unquestioned. It was a twenty-minute shuttle ride to the planet’s surface.
Once on the surface, he slipped away unnoticed. Picking his way through the severely damaged city, he could still see the bloody aftermath where both man and T’kri’t’ek had breathed their last. The buildings were badly damaged, but most were still standing. The heavy stone architecture had stood against even the heaviest of explosions. They could rebuild here. The scorching on some of the marble columns and archways might never fully be removed, but it would leave a grim reminder that this place had been paid for in blood. In the blood of his legion.
As he approached the steps of the massive capitol building, he could see someone waiting there at the bottom of the steps. They were clad in the simple grey cloak of a soldier, with the hood pulled up against the cool morning air. To most, it could have been practically anyone standing there. Aurelius’ trained eye saw more than most.
He could see that beneath the heavy cloak were the glossy boots of a senior officer. The bulge at the right hip gave away the outline of a Gladius in its scabbard. The bulge at the left, a heavy blaster. The confident stance was obvious. From the squaring of the shoulders, the positioning of the hands near the weapons, and the weight kept on the balls of the feet for quick action, this could only be a trained warrior. This was no common soldier. This was a legionnaire.
“Hail, brother,” said Aurelius.
The cloaked figure turned around and Aurelius could see his face beneath the hood. It was Cicero. Removing his helmet so Cicero could see who it was, Aurelius felt the warmth of the morning sun on his face. It felt good, despite the chill to the air.
“Good to see you again, my brother,” said Cicero, extending his hand in greeting.
Aurelius grasped his forearm and they locked together for a long moment, gazing at each other. They were taking the measure of one another. There was resolve in both of their eyes. Aurelius saw strength mirrored there, as well. There was no sign of betrayal or deceit.
“Let us walk while we speak,” said Aurelius.
Moving off to the west, they instinctively locked into step together. A habit of soldiers for centuries, they couldn’t break if they tried. It wasn’t even done on a conscious level, ingrained from years of marching in columns. Drill and Ceremony was the backbone of discipline.
“Why all the secrecy?” asked Cicero.
“What I am about to discuss with you is not for the ears of Corporate Security,” said Aurelius, glancing around the area and checking the shadows.
“Do you think that we are being followed?” said Cicero, looking around.
“I do not think so,” replied Aurelius, “however, it pays for us to remain vigilant.”
“You do not look well, my friend,” added Cicero. “Are you certain that you should be out and about?”
“I do not have a choice,” answered Aurelius, glancing at Cicero. “I fear that none of us may have a choice in this.”
They walked in silence for a few moments, listening to the sound of the wind whispering through the ghost of the city. The eerie silence sank into the marrow of the two seasoned warriors, filling them with a sense of dread and foreboding that neither of them could fully explain. Despite the pale sun that occasionally crept through the overcast sky, they both felt the damp chill in their bones.
As they walked in no specific direction, Aurelius began quietly explaining everything that they had learned about Garibaldi and his plan for the Iron Legion. He left out nothing, detailing how Garibaldi was willing to sacrifice the entire Felix Legion just to fulfill his plan. He even explained how the Praetorian of Cicero’s own fleet had been given orders to fire on the ships of Septimus Decius; orders that he had thankfully ignored.
“And this is all confirmed?” asked Cicero, his voice quaking softly.
“I am afraid so,” replied Aurelius. “I have read the intercepts, myself. I wish it were not so, but the facts are undeniable.”
Reaching into the pouch on his belt, Aurelius produced a small data stick and handed it to Cicero.
“Everything we have is on here,” he said, holding it out for Cicero to take.
Reluctantly, he took it. He was hesitant, as if expecting it to burn his fingers when he touched it.
“I will want to review the data myself before making a decision,” said Cicero, not meeting Aurelius’ gaze.
“I would expect nothing less,” replied Aurelius. “I recommend urgency in this matter. Do not wait too long. With the arrival of Garibaldi and six legions, the time for decisions is now. For all we know, Garibaldi may have chosen these legions specifically to finish what the T’kri’t’ek could not.”
“That thought has crossed my mind, as well,” added Cicero. “It is highly irregular to assemble this many of us in one place. I do not believe it is to combat the T’kri’t’ek. The legions have proven ineffective against them until your victory here. Without your armor and tactics, they would not be any more effective than the cohorts that were stationed here to protect the colony.”
Turning towards Cicero, Aurelius stopped, and the two warriors locked eyes. There was an intensity there in Aurelius’ gaze that caused Cicero to lower his eyes. Aurelius commanded more than the respect due his rank. There was something about the man that Cicero both admired and feared.
“I do not know any of the commanders of the legions that just arrived,” admitted Aurelius. “I have not bled with them. You have shed blood with me. Your men fought and died beside mine. That forges a bond stronger than brotherhood. Your men fight with honor and courage. It is a tribute to the Praefect that led them into battle.”
“Thank you, my friend,” replied Cicero. “We only followed the example set by you and the Iron Legion. How could we do any less?”
“I trust you, Cicero,” said Aurelius. “I know you will make the right decision.”
“What decision is that exactly?” asked Cicero. “What are you planning, Ma
rcus?”
“Fabretti does not respect the legions,” explained Aurelius. “They throw our lives away as if they have no value or meaning. I would see the legions restored to honor and glory. Either Fabretti can grant that to us or we will seek it on our own.”
“I know the commanders of three of the arriving legions,” said Cicero. “I will contact them. Perhaps this is something we should all discuss together. In person and without the prying ears of Fabretti Security.”
“Make the arrangements,” replied Aurelius. “I will speak with them. I only hope that they are true to the legion and not the politics of the corporation.”
“We are all Legionnaires,” said Cicero. “They are soldiers, not politicians. They will listen to what you have to say.”
“I hope so,” answered Aurelius. “Otherwise, this may end before it even begins.”
Glancing around, Aurelius realized that they were standing near the entrance to the tunnel where they had first encountered the T’kri’t’ek. They were standing near the spot where Cyprianus had fallen. Aurelius moved to the exact spot and knelt. The blood had stained the cobblestones a rust-brown and would likely never fade away completely.
Laying his hand on the spot, Aurelius closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer. He felt the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks and dripping onto the cobblestones near his boots. There in the dirt, he could clearly see the outline of the Spatha that was now on his hip. It was highlighted in the blood of the T’kri’t’ek that Cyprianus had been fighting when he died. Aurelius felt a stab of pain when he saw the outline of his hand, still clasping the hilt of the Spatha.
“Ancestors, keep him,” he whispered, his voice cracking softly.
Cicero placed a reassuring hand on Aurelius’ shoulder. After a moment, Aurelius stood and dried his tears with the edge of his cloak. The pain in his eyes was as fresh as if he had just witnessed the death only moments before. He had relived that moment in his mind and would continue to do so for many years to come. His loss would be difficult to take.
“We all share your loss, brother,” said Cicero. “Legatus Cyprianus was a much-revered warrior. His memory will live on in the lore of the legion for as long as the legion stands.”
Lost Legion- Blood and Honor Page 13