by S. J. Ryan
“You don't seem troubled at the loss,” he said.
“Their killers may prove more helpful than the agents in leading us to the prize.”
Prize? She must mean the Box. “So you are following them?”
“It's best that I keep my distance at this time, but do not fret. They will not evade my notice.”
Bivera refrained from sighing in exasperation at the inscrutability. He normally would have conducted preparations from his office, but he felt a need to exit the room as quickly as possible. He excused himself, went downstairs and collared colonels and majors, inquiring of status. Bivera had always believed the key to management was to build a machine that could run of itself, and with the momentum of years of instruction and routine, without exception everyone was doing their duty with efficiency.
“Very good, carry on,” he must have said a dozen times, while thinking how badly he wanted a drink. But his self discipline would never allow that while on duty.
Informed that Inoldia had departed the building, Bivera returned to his office and watched the bay with a spyglass from a second story window. True to schedule, the masts of the first ships poked over the eastern horizon within the hour. They were narrow-hulled, large-sailed biremes built for speed, that had been modified with high crow's nests from which soldiers flashed signal mirrors between shore and the coming fleet. The biremes were followed by a squadron of triremes, which disgorged soldiers onto the docks, setting up the security perimeter.
Then came the rest of the fleet, decks brimming with soldiers. Oars chopping the previously placid water, the triremes slipped through the mouth of the bay and anchored in rows. In accordance with new imperial naval policy, they maintained a separation of at least one ship's width between hulls. As more ships arrived, Bivera lost count around two hundred, but he didn't need numbers to see that this was a much larger invasion force than before.
“He's brought at least half the legions,” Bivera remarked to his subordinates. “With such a drain of manpower, I wonder how he expects to prevent Kresidala from nipping at our eastern provinces.”
The bay became a jam of row boats. The thousands of soldiers were transported to shore, where they assembled into squares, cohort by cohort, and marched outward through the city gates to the encampment areas that Bivera's officers had surveyed and marked beyond the walls. Along with the soldiers came an even larger contingent of barrels and crates.
“He is preparing for an extended stay,” he remarked. “Almost a siege”
“They want it badly,” a captain murmured. Then he coughed nervously. “Sorry sir, spoke out of turn.”
“You refer to the fabled 'Box,'” Bivera replied. “Yes, my informants tell of the rumors rampant across this island. 'The Wizard from Aereoth' and 'The Flame-Haired Witch Queen' and 'The Quest for the Pandora-Box of Britan.'”
“Yes sir. I've heard the same. It seems a country drenched in superstition.”
“I wonder.”
Bivera returned his attention to the bay. The ships in the center violated the new spacing policy in that their crews were lashing the vessels hull to hull. With the speed that comes only from meticulous planning and constant rehearsal, they erected a platform of timbers that spanned across five hulls in width and five hulls in length, and atop the platform they erected a patchwork tent whose high interior was supported by the masts of the covered boats. When their construction was complete, they had fabricated a structure of canvas and rope that, albeit temporary, dwarfed Government House.
Nearby on the bay, another platform was created, this one on hulls three by three. In the center, a tower was erected, rising twice as high as the sail masts. The spools and cables of a hoist were set in place, and the workers tested the rise and fall of a platform contained within the metal gridwork of the tower.
“Tall enough to be a signal tower,” Bivera said. “But needlessly sturdy.”
“Some new weapon of war, perhaps,” a major replied. “A catapult-tower to ward away the flying ship that the Britanians are said to have commandeered.”
Bivera did not mention that he had been informed in a secret report from Rome that the airship was no myth. He scrutinized the tower again and scowled. He didn't like this new era of warfare, where the face of battle changed with every season. It certainly hadn't been of service to Rome.
Just like the worthless Sisters of Wisdom and their nonsensical ploys! Why wasn't Inoldia using her power of flight to serve as a scout? What did she hope to accomplish in a foray with ten men that the legions could not do with tens of thousands?
The soldiers proceeded to build a second tower. It was made of metal and as tall as the first while yet more slender. There were no spools, cables, or hoses within; it seemed to exist for its own sake. Metal wires were strung between the base of the second tower and the tent, but as Bivera could discern no practical purpose to the apparatus, he lost interest.
A major came to his office that afternoon with the summons for an imperial audience. Bivera was instructed to leave his own guard behind. He was escorted to a boat which took him to the newly-constructed barge. The tent's decor ran to expensive rugs, tapestries, and sculptures. There was even a fountain at the entry, a miniature of the one before the imperial palace. The purple plumage of the imperial guard was in profusion, monitoring a line for entry into a maze of temporary walls.
Valarion was in the inner sanctum, surrounded by officers and scribes, issuing orders and reviewing a table-map of Britan that was far larger than the one in Bivera's office. Runners brought messages to clerks, who had to use sticks to extend their reach as they pushed the markers for ships and cohorts across the immense map of the island and associated seas.
Bivera had been waiting minutes before Valarion motioned his sycophants aside and beckoned into an unadorned side room – virtually a tiny house within the tent – where they were alone.
With the door firmly closed, the Emperor produced from a chest a cheap jug and a pair of dented cups, which he must have purloined from the storage of a trireme He poured the murky brown liquid to the brim of the cups. “Naval rum. For nostalgia's sake. It will always have a soft spot in my heart.”
He winced as he sipped. “And a hard spot in my belly.”
Bivera grinned and took a smaller sip. “It's good to see you, my Lord.”
“Spare me the title in private, my friend. Now, I've read your reports. Is there anything that you wish to emphasize in confidence?”
“I try not to speak openly of this lest it demoralize the men, but – the Leaf has been transforming itself into a viable national army. Its recruitment has expanded and its troops are better trained than some Roman soldiers I've seen of late. They certainly have better morale. We now face an enemy as resolute as any short of Kresidala and Pars.”
“You've seen what resources I've brought this time. You still think we cannot defeat them?”
“We may yet defeat them, but at what cost to the imperial treasury or in lives of soldiers?”
“Of what matter is either? I mean that I personally do care of course, but the Sisters will yet be the end of the Empire!” Valarion downed his cup. “Lords, I hate this job! Or at least, what it's become.”
Bivera sipped quietly as Valarion discussed the discomfort of the voyage. It was evident from his rambling that the Emperor had been drinking heavily beforehand. Indeed, his complexion had the ruddy glow that one acquires after months of heavy drinking.
Valarion slammed the cup down and eyed Bivera. “Here is the thing, General. Besides sheer numbers, we have advantages that will mitigate theirs. We've built another airship, and the one they stole is no match. And, we will be able to anticipate their every move, for we have the Oracle.”
“'Oracle?'”
“You'll see, you'll see. Now, can I delegate to you while I rest? This barge will be your new headquarters for the duration of the operation. Inform the orderlies of whatever accommodations you require and whatever you need brought from shore. You'll be quartering here for
the time being.”
Valarion seemed unaware of the inconvenience that would cause to Bivera's family. Bivera sometimes wondered if Valarion knew he had a family. Bivera was reluctant to broach the subject, for he knew that Valarion was touchy on the subject of families.
That evening, a banquet was held under the great tent. There were more generals present at the tables than Bivera had thought were in the Empire as a whole. He noticed some faces had changed, in particular that while the Fourth's banners were flying from ships in the anchored fleet, General Irkut was missing. In his place was a gaunt man who looked nervous. Well, they all looked nervous.
From the festivities, one might have thought the campaign had already been won. There were singers, musicians, acrobats, dancers, and even comedy routines. The skits were more sophisticated than those of Bivera's children, but he found the scripted sneering at Britanian 'savages' to be grating. The other officers laughed.
But maybe a little too loudly, Bivera decided. Watching their faces, he observed the same pattern of shifting eyes above smiling lips. They were afraid of something. Even the battle-hardened field commanders – and what could frighten men who were unafraid of death?
Bivera remembered his dream with its terrified look on the face of Maldus. Maybe he should inquire about Maldus. Surprising that Valarion hadn't mentioned Maldus. Usually, every time Valarion returned from the capital, he shared gossip as the first business. Not this time. Maybe because he was Emperor, and had learned to trust no one with privileged information, not even Bivera.
The officers were giving their attention to a half-drunk Valarion as he regaled:
“. . . The witch had proven her powers by subduing three of the great lizards at once. Well, the guard posted at the Coliseum is a superstitious lot and was reduced to quaking in terror, and I had no choice but to descend to the floor of the arena and draw my sword and confront her myself. I might have prevailed, but then her equally menacing accomplice broke loose and enabled her escape. Alas, seeing that the crowd was in uproar, I had to stay and prevent a panic that might otherwise have led to the trampling of thousands.”
“You made the right decision,” assured a general.
Valarion sighed. “Perhaps. Yet now we see that the embellishments of their version of the events of that day have empowered the will of the Britanian nation to rise as a whole against us. Never underestimate the power of myth, gentlemen. It can move worlds in the minds of primitives.”
The audience nodded sagely. Bivera saw the glances of others, and realized that they were staring at him because he hadn't nodded. He tossed back his drink and wished he was home.
His new quarters were in one of the satellite tents located on the barge. Files, maps, and even furniture had been transported from Government House to his new office. They had neglected to bring over his cot, and substituted a bed that was bigger and softer than the one he slept in at home. Merely looking at it made him miss his wife.
He threw himself into work as the de facto quartermaster of the invasion force. He familiarized himself with the new systems of legion logistics, and was impressed with their simplicity, efficiency, and the numerous crosschecks that inhibited opportunities for corruption. Unlike some campaigns he'd been in, there was no danger on this one that the legions would go hungry or bootless through misappropriation.
Bivera wondered who was responsible for the organizational streamlining. Valarion surely had his cunning, but also little patience for administrative detail. Perhaps it was that new chief scientist. Well, someone with a flair for logical sequential thinking had left their imprint.
Maybe this will work out after all, Bivera thought.
Tiring, his head sank to the table and he closed his eyes, half-dreaming of how conquest would be followed by peace, and then Britan would enjoy the fruits of Roman civilization – baths and theaters and brigand-free roads. And he would retire to the villa with Elandra at his side, a simple country squire enjoying a slow-paced life of pastoral beauty, watching their children sprout as fast as the crops . . . .
He was awakened by an orderly in the company of a captain, who reported, “There has been an attack on Laydon, sir.”
“An attack?” Bivera asked, sitting upright and struggling to wake.
“Yes, sir. Rebel forces have killed civilians in a reprisal for collaboration with Rome.”
Bivera stared. The captain's response seemed a little too expository for an initial report. After a pause, the general arose and followed the captain to the waiting boat. Ashore, his horse had been brought and was waiting.
The sun fully arose by the time the contingent of soldiers on horseback reached the hamlet of Laydon. No clang of a smith's hammer, no clucks of chicken, no shouts of children. Smoke hovered over the roofs like the smothering pillow of a murderer.
Swords drawn, they entered, wary of dangers lurking in the long shadows cast by morning light.
Huts were in smoldering ashes, the ground outside littered with personal effects. Animals had been slaughtered en masse, as well as humans who had not fled fast enough. Bivera heard a woman wailing. Around the corner of a hut, he found her crouched on the ground, battered and bleeding, her dress torn. She cradled an unmoving child in her arms.
She glared directly at him. “This is your doing, Roman!”
“You were attacked by rebels,” Bivera replied. “We have come to protect you.”
“However they are disguised, I can always tell Roman filth!”
The captain at Bivera's side growled and touched his hilt. Bivera stayed him.
The woman cowed her head and wept. Bivera quietly receded and wandered the paths, continuing his assessment of the village. The body count was twelve civilians dead – men, women, and children. Forbidden by Roman policy to do so, none of the Britanian civilians carried weapons other than hatchets and carving knives, while their wounds were deep gashes, the kind inflicted by a full-grade battle sword. Whoever the attackers were, Bivera decided, they were cowards.
What disturbed him more than the extent of the carnage was the economy of the sword strokes used to inflict fatal bodily damage: every wound had pierced a vital organ. It was a legion-taught skill.
Bivera remembered Inoldia's requisition. She hadn't asked for his best men. She had all but asked for his worst.
His ponderings were interrupted by the clattering of hooves into the square, scattering the dazed villagers. A contingent of soldiers arrived and in their midst rode a tall hooded figure trailing a billowing purple cape. As the Emperor dismounted, a colonel rushed forward and exclaimed, “My Lord! It is not safe for you to be here!”
“It is not safe for either Rome or Britan for me to be elsewhere,” Valarion replied in projecting tones.
Bivera's first impression was that his son and daughter had been more convincing in reciting their lines.
The ring of soldiers parted for a sergeant escorting a civilian toward the Emperor. The civilian's clothes were clean and Bivera had not seen him in the village before that moment.
“Sire!” the civilian said. “I witnessed it all. It was brigands, who wore upon their chests the emblem of a leaf!”
Valarion listened to the rest of the 'account,' then inspected the destruction. In the village square, he stooped to pick up a child's doll that Bivera hadn't seen before. Valarion's face contorted in anger and he raised his fist and shouted with trembling voice, “This shall not go unavenged!”
At that moment, an officer rushed into the Emperor's presence and breathlessly exclaimed, “My Lord, scouts have brought news! A party of brigands has been spotted to the west!”
“Then come, let us ride!” Valarion drew his sword and raised it to the sky. “For justice and vengeance!”
As he strode toward his horse, the doll slipped out of his waistband and plopped onto the dust, forgotten. The Emperor climbed onto his mount with minor struggle, clearly not fully recovered from the previous night's binge. Officers and soldiers rushed onto to their horses and followed a
s Valarion galloped ahead on the road west, away from Londa into unsecured terrain, his sides and fore unprotected from ambush. Stunned by the recklessness, Bivera mounted his horse and raced after.
The road penetrated a forest, winding sharply as it did so, and Bivera momentarily lost sight of them all. Unescorted himself, he slapped his horse and redoubled his speed. There is no sense to this, he thought. With the Emperor offering himself an easy target for any rebel hidden in the brush, the fate of the Imperium could be decided by a boy with a slingshot!
Around the bend, Bivera regained sight of the soldiers. Valarion was a hundred meters ahead of the group, charging with literal breakneck speed down a path of dried mud formed into haphazard ruts. As his own horse panted streaming clouds in the chill, Bivera wondered if Valarion was still drunk, or had even become mad.
Valarion plunged alone into a dense wood. Bivera's horse frothed as he stormed past the soldiers. “Why are you lagging! That's the Emperor!” he shouted. They seemed not to hear.
The road was rough and demanded his full attention. With all the shade he could barely see, and in the windings of the path he lost sight of the Emperor ahead and the soldiers behind. The canopy of branches made the road seem a tunnel and when it sloped it was if he was heading underground.
He drew the crop and swatted the horse's flanks. Snorting with remonstrance, the horse spurted. Bivera spotted a horse and rider ahead. Though the figure sat tall in the saddle and wore hood and cape to match those of the Emperor, Bivera sensed instantly it was not the same person. The riding style differed, less skill in horsemanship while simultaneously manifesting more alertness. Although matching the Emperor's horse in same size and color, the new rider's horse was fresher, galloping hard as if it had just started a sprint.
Bivera glanced about for the side trail where the substitution might have taken place. Instead, his eye caught movement between tree trunks and daylit landscape in the fields beyond the woods. Men on horseback were closing onto the road. They were civilians and they carried swords. Bivera estimated at least half a dozen.