There were three trunks, two large and one smaller that was about half the size of the others. A small camp table functioned as a desk. It had been placed in the center of the tent. A writing set along with parchment had been set neatly on the table.
Stiger stepped over to the nearest trunk and opened it. It was filled with folded clothing, including several pairs of boots and sandals. He closed it and moved on to the next. It contained more clothing, including socks, gloves, and spare equipment. All of the clothing was cut from the finest material. The third chest, the smallest, held documents, a number of scrolls, and books among an assortment of other personal items.
A folded piece of velum lay atop. Stiger opened it and found a painted portrait of a young woman. Was this Delvaris’s wife? She was exceptionally pretty, with humorous eyes and long brown hair. Stiger had a sudden flash of Sarai’s hair. The wrenching sense of loss overcame him with shocking abruptness. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He folded the portrait carefully back up and set it aside.
Stiger picked up one of the scrolls, opening it.
Scara’s History of the Legion.
It surprised Stiger that Delvaris had a copy of such a rare text. Stiger had once owned a copy himself, but it sadly had been lost, along with his tent, to the Rivan. All of his personal possessions had been taken by the enemy. The gods only knew where they were now.
Closing the scroll and tying the string securely, he put it back in the trunk and picked up a second scroll. This one proved to be a history, too. Another scroll caught his eye. It had the imperial seal. Stiger pulled it out and carried it over to the desk. Sitting down on the stool, he opened it.
There were two scrolls inside. One was a duplicate of the orders from Emperor Atticus. Stiger had seen these before. His own copy had been taken from him when he had come through the Gate. He peered more closely at the orders. Was this actually the same copy? Stiger had folded his own copy so that it fit better in his cloak. This one appeared much newer and without the fold. Could this be the copy Garrack would give him in the future? The more Stiger thought on it, the more he suspected it was.
The other scroll was from Delvaris and one he had not seen before. It was written in a smooth, clear script.
If you are reading this, then I am most probably dead. We don’t know each other, though I would have very much enjoyed the pleasure of meeting you. I understand you will be a descendent of mine, a man out of his own time. How I know this, I am unable to share, and even if I wished, I could not.
Stiger leaned back on the stool and held the letter closer to the light.
It comforts me somewhat to know you are a relative and also an accomplished soldier. The emperor has appointed you to command of the Thirteenth. It is my honor, pleasure, and duty to pass on the responsibility for my legion. These are good boys, nearly all of them veterans. Tribune Arvus, Camp Prefect Oney, and Centurion Sabinus are some of the finest fighting officers I have had the pleasure to command. I know they will serve you well. The emperor sent his best soldiers south. We marched with the intention to honor the Compact. I am led to believe you will know of the Compact Emperor Karus entered into with the dwarves.
Stiger paused. Without fully understanding, he had restored the Compact himself, rekindling the alliance. At the time, it seemed the right thing to do, and everything he had learned since had only reinforced his decision as the correct one. He continued reading.
With the exception of a handful, knowledge of the Compact has been suppressed. Those few count themselves guardians of the empire. There is nothing more important than the Compact, for through this alliance we protect not only this world, but our empire.
I leave you Venthus. He has been my constant companion since my early twenties. Twice I have attempted to reward his service by offering him his manumission. Each time, he has refused. He has known no other life, other than that of a slave. It could be Venthus may fear living as a freedman and the uncertainty that might bring. I honestly do not know.
I have always done my best to treat him well. He has repaid me through loyalty and his service to my family. I humbly ask that you care for him and, if able, provide him a comfortable retirement, for he is dear to me.
Venthus also has skills you may one day find of value. I will leave him to explain further.
Before leaving Mal’Zeel, I made arrangements for my wife and children to be well cared for. If the opportunity presents itself, I would ask you to anonymously look in on them. They, the empire, and the future are why I willingly choose to sacrifice everything. I wish you good fortune, for I suspect you will need it.
The letter finished with Delvaris’s wax seal. Stiger recognized his ancestor’s crest.
Stiger blew out a long breath and set the letter down on the desk, lost in thought. This was not the first time he had wondered how Delvaris had known of his coming. There was still so much he did not understand. Someone had clearly prepared the way for his arrival, assembling allies and a small imperial army for him. Who, and why had they done it?
Stiger decided to share the letter with Father Thomas. Perhaps the paladin would have some further insight. That, unfortunately, would have to wait. Father Thomas, along with Therik, was still sleeping off the healing.
“Your coffee, sir,” Venthus said, stepping back into the tent. The slave put a clay mug down on the desk, next to the letter. Stiger almost moved to cover it up, but then decided not to, as it would draw unwanted attention. He casually leaned forward toward the mug, which steamed in the chill morning air. The fragrance of the coffee was rich and inviting. Stiger picked the mug up and sniffed at it.
“Will there be anything else?”
“No,” Stiger said. “Ah . . . yes . . . have the clerks arrived at headquarters yet?”
“I believe some of them have, master,” Venthus said. “I saw a light burning when I passed. Shall I send for one of them?”
“No,” Stiger said. “I will walk over shortly.”
Venthus glanced down at the desk and became perfectly still. His gaze slowly traveled back up to Stiger, his hand going to his mouth.
Silence grew in the tent.
“I see,” Venthus said as he peered intently into Stiger’s face. “You look and sound just like him, but there was something off about you. I thought you a little distant after your return. I figured it was just me. After all, you had been away traveling with the thane for so long.”
“You know the contents of this letter?”
“I do,” Venthus said without hesitation, his eyes on Stiger.
“How?”
“The legate shared it with me,” Venthus said. “He made me swear to keep the contents in confidence. I have and will continue to do so.”
“Then I am him,” Stiger said, tapping the scrolls. “The one both of these were meant for.”
A look of immense sadness came over the slave. His shoulders slumped and he half turned away, gazing at Dog, who was still curled up in the corner. Dog’s head came up and he stared at Venthus.
“My master is dead.” Whether Venthus said that to himself or the animal was unclear.
Dog gave a sad whine.
“He was killed before I could save him.” Stiger paused, feeling the other’s grief. His own was so fresh, Stiger felt his eyes become moist. “I am sorry for your loss.”
Tears brimmed in the slave’s eyes. Venthus averted his gaze a moment, wiping them away. “I feared when he went with the thane and did not immediately return, the unthinkable had happened. However, the tribune kept receiving regular dispatches and communications from the legate, so I was unsure.”
“Arvus and Sabinus knew but told no one else. I assume they were responsible for the fictitious dispatches.”
“So, it was a ruse.” Venthus’s face hardened. He wiped at his eyes.
“I must know your intentions,” Stiger said.
Venthus did not immediately reply. The slave’s eyes searched Stiger’s face.
“Your intention
s?” Stiger prompted.
“I will serve, as I served him, faithfully. He asked that I do so. To honor his memory, I shall.”
Stiger stood, pushing the stool back with his foot. He stepped around the desk and offered his hand.
“I am Bennulius Stiger, direct blood relative and descendent of the man you served. I would take it as a personal honor to enter you into my service. That is, unless you prefer your freedom, which I shall immediately grant. In such an event, I will do what I can to make you comfortable.”
Venthus drew himself up and sounded somewhat indignant. “I said I would serve you, and that is what I intend to do. What shall I call you, master?”
“My friends call me Ben. For now,” Stiger said, “call me as you would your late master. Much counts on what is going to occur in the next few days. The men must not know there has been a change, at least not yet.”
“That is what I will do, until you instruct otherwise,” Venthus said.
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything you require, master?”
“No,” Stiger said, “and thank you for your discretion.”
“Think nothing of it.” Venthus gave a bow and ducked out of the tent.
Stiger stared at the tent entrance for a time, thinking. Who had known in advance he would be traveling back in time? Certainly not Thoggle or Sian Tane. Had either known, Stiger felt sure Delvaris would still live. They would not have allowed the minion to kill the legate. He wanted answers, but just as he was starting to think he understood, the puzzle became more complex.
The smell of the fresh coffee drew his attention. He took a sip, savoring the warmth and taste. The coffee had been sweetened with sugar and it was to his liking. This was, he realized, something else he shared with his ancestor.
Stiger put the two scrolls away, along with the picture of the woman, and shut the trunk. He then pulled on his boots and, carrying the mug of coffee, made for the tent entrance.
“Dog,” Stiger said. “Are you coming?”
The animal stood, thoroughly shook himself, and followed Stiger out of the tent.
A guard detail was posted outside. None of the guard’s positions was closer than ten feet from the canvas walls. This was designed to give the legate some privacy. The legate’s tent stood alone amongst the encampment. The nearest tent in the headquarters compound was twenty yards away. In the predawn darkness, the sentries snapped to attention. Ignoring them, Stiger started for the headquarters tent and his office, to his left.
As he walked, he sipped at the hot coffee. Two sentries stood before the entrance to headquarters. Both snapped to attention. Nepturus and another clerk were already at work. They were at their tables, styluses in hand. Both stood to attention, expressing no surprise at Stiger’s early arrival.
“Good morning, sir,” Nepturus said.
“Good morning,” Stiger replied and stopped before the entrance to his office. “I would like to review the strength totals for each cohort. Do you have that available?”
It was time to learn about the legion he had been given.
“I have our strength totals as of yesterday, sir,” Nepturus said. “I will bring them in shortly. Once we have today’s count, I will give you them as well.”
The legion was still sleeping. Soon they would be rousted. Then the morning routine would begin, which included a thorough count of effectives.
“Very good,” Stiger said and stepped into the adjoining tent that was his office. Dog lingered behind, sniffing hopefully at Nepturus’s hands.
Using steel and flint, Stiger lit a lamp on his table. It provided some light, but not nearly as much as Stiger would’ve wanted. Nepturus entered, carrying several wax tablets. He laid them down on Stiger’s table.
“This also just arrived.” Nepturus handed over a scroll. It had an unfamiliar purple wax seal. “A dwarf delivered it.”
Stiger turned the scroll over in his hands. It was some sort of parchment, heavier than vellum. He broke open the seal and saw it was from Brogan. Thankfully the dispatch had been written in common, for Stiger did not read the dwarven language. He could only speak it.
“Can you bring me a candle?” Even with the lamp, the light in the tent was dim.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said and stepped back out into the outer office. He returned a moment later with a lit tallow candle in a black iron holder. As he walked, he shielded the flame with his hand. He set it down on the table. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“No,” Stiger said, and with that, the clerk returned to his table in the outer office.
Dog trotted in a few moments later and went to the corner. He walked around in a circle several times before settling down and going to sleep.
Stiger quickly read the dispatch from Brogan. A company of dwarves from the Grata’Jalor garrison would be joining them before day’s end. From the dispatch he learned Brogan was expected to arrive with more than ten thousand dwarves within the next five days. Another ten thousand would follow soon after.
Stiger rolled up the dispatch and tapped it against his chin. There had been no sign of the orcs so far, but that did not mean anything. If they were coming from Berke’Tah, Theo had assured him it would be several days before they arrived.
Stiger set aside Brogan’s dispatch. He would answer it later. He began studying the strength totals. By his calculation, the Thirteenth legion was overstrength, with more than seven thousand legionaries. That was unusual, even for legions in Delvaris’s time.
Seven auxiliary cohorts had been attached to the legion. There were now really only six. One had been effectively destroyed and one of the legion’s cohorts had been severely mauled. Of the six remaining auxiliary cohorts, these were also overstrength. Two of the cohorts were cavalry, with eight hundred horses between them. It was an exceptionally powerful force. One of the auxiliary cohorts was an artillery cohort and the other three were light infantry, each with nearly twelve hundred men, instead of the normal four hundred eighty. Two of the light infantry cohorts included an archery component, together numbering nearly five hundred archers and slingers. Stiger shook his head in amazement. He had at his command almost twelve thousand men. His own private little army.
He noticed the camp followers were tabulated. There were over thirteen thousand. These included craftsmen, traders, prostitutes, and the unofficial families of the men. There would be women and children amongst them.
The tally also included the legion’s current supply situation. The legion had marched south with a huge train of wagons and mules. The quartermaster estimated their food supply would last another five months. That estimate was based upon their current stores, which included food caches seized from the Tervay. The legion had also purchased a large quantity of wine, grain, and oats from the residents of the valley.
“Excuse me, sir?” Nepturus was back.
“Yes,” Stiger said. “What is it?”
“Centurion Nantus of Second Cohort is here, sir,” Nepturus said. “He has requested a few moments of your time. If you are busy, I can find time for him later in the day.”
“Send him in,” Stiger said.
Nepturus stepped back into the outer office.
“You may go in, centurion,” Nepturus said.
Nantus was an older man, nearing retirement age. Then again, Salt was well beyond his retirement. As long as he could march and was willing, Nantus would be permitted to serve. The centurion’s armor was flawlessly maintained. He had the telltale scars along his muscular forearms that spoke of a lifetime of training and fighting. Nantus snapped stiffly to attention and offered a crisp salute. His gaze was fixed upon an imaginary spot just above Stiger’s head.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” Stiger asked. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”
“I heard you started early today, sir,” Nantus said in a raspy voice. It was almost as if he had ruined it by screaming orders over his long years of service. “I thought I might try my luck before the line begins and I n
eed to make an appointment.”
Stiger understood with certainty there would be a line of officers intending to see him on a wide range of issues this morning. Add to that the defensive preparations and there was a lot that needed doing, which would require decisions to be made. Without a senior tribune, much of the duties tasked to a legion’s second in command would fall on Stiger’s or Salt’s shoulders.
“Well,” Stiger said, “congratulations, you are the first of the day. What is it that you want, centurion?”
“I understand, sir, you promoted Mectillius to centurion.”
Stiger immediately understood the issue. It had been Second Cohort’s Fifth Century that had provided his escort to the summit. Likely there were more senior men within the cohort that had anticipated moving into the next available slot for centurion. Salt had as much said so. Nantus probably had someone in mind for the post, and it clearly rankled the man enough to come see the legate and delicately bitch about it, without actually complaining.
“Yes, I did,” Stiger said, deciding to not make it easy for the man.
“Well, sir,” Nantus said, “there is a slight problem.”
“I don’t see that there is,” Stiger said. “Would you kindly educate me?”
Despite those dangerous words, Nantus pushed on.
“Mectillius is not very good with his letters, sir,” Nantus said, his gaze still fixed at an imaginary point above Stiger’s head.
“Well,” Stiger said, “that is a bit of a problem, isn’t it? To be promoted to the centurion, one needs to be able to adequately read, write, and do numbers. Without such skills, the highest one can go is the rank of optio. Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Yes, sir,” Nantus said, “that is the problem. I am pleased you see it as such.”
“Well,” Stiger said, making a snap decision. He liked Mectillius, and for some reason Nantus had rubbed Stiger the wrong way. Stiger had never much liked his decisions being questioned or second guessed by subordinates. “I see it as your problem, not mine.”
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