Cry of the Newborn

by James Barclay

  'I will have quiet,' said Roberto.

  He looked around him. The camp road was stained dark with blood in a dozen places. Injured and dead men and women lay on the ground. He counted thirty and there would be more damage among those hidden by the faces that stared back at him. Angry faces. He walked up and down between the lines of hastati. No one would meet his gaze. He handed his sword to Herides, who had appeared at his left shoulder.

  'I am glad you were not involved in this stupidity,' he whispered to the young man, then raised his voice. 'Surgeons and stretcher parties, clear the wounded. I will talk to them later. As for the rest of you—'

  'They called us traitors,' came a voice from the Atreskan side accompanied by gesticulating and more abuse.

  'Quiet!' Roberto stalked across to the speaker. 'When I want to hear the reasons for this waste of blood, I will demand them.' He turned away. 'The next one who speaks before I order it will be flogged. The one after that will be executed. Am I clear?'

  Silence.

  'If the Tsardon are watching, they are surely celebrating victory tonight if they were not before. After all, they do not need to raise a blade against us and yet we shed blood and die. And this is how you, in all your wisdom, feel we should defeat the threat to our homes and families? Perhaps I should remove myself from this army and let the hastati decide where we march and when we fight.'

  He let his voice swell to a shout.

  'How dare you spill the blood of your comrades. Men and women with whom you have fought side by side these past years. How dare you lessen the reputation of this army. My army. Do you really want me to demand you leave your swords at the gates when you enter the camp? Are we children or are we the Conquord's finest?

  'Well?'

  There was a roar of assent.

  'Yes. Yes we are,' said Roberto. 'And what you few have done is damage the wills of all. And you have disappointed me.'

  He walked the lines again, saw the heads hung and the regret creep into the faces of those who dared look towards him. Around his feet, the surgeon teams were moving the injured and dead.

  'I know some of you by name. I have heard your pride at serving in my army. Where is that pride now? Are you so delicate that you cannot take jibes? Is your mental constitution really so frail? Any who think so know where the gates to this camp are. I will not have you in my army. I will not have you fight under my mother's banner. You disgrace it, you insult it, you sully it.

  'Do you think I care where your individual personal sympathies lie? You march as one under the Conquord banner. I will not have dissension. And I will not have any of those under my command raise a blade against another. We will build a ring for those who wish to fight over their petty grievances. And that is the only place it will happen.

  'Anyone who breaks that rule from this moment on will be executed. No trial. No appeal. We are at war and I do not have the time for the unworthy.' He shook his head a final time. 'Idiots. All of you. Pathetic, posturing idiots. Look forward to long years in the hastati because neither the principes nor the triarii will have you. Get out of my sight.'

  He spun and marched back towards his tent, calling his command team to him. Both Shakarov and Davarov were at his side in moments, both speaking into his ears. He ignored them until he reached his tent by which time all eight he expected were with him.

  'Sit down, Goran, Davarov. Sit, sit.'

  'General, you cannot let these slurs—'

  'Goran, I will not repeat myself. This is already a long night, please do not make it any longer.'

  Davarov put a hand on Shakarov's shoulder and the two of them sat. Elise, Dahnishev and Neristus were there. His masters of horse for his Atreskan legions were there too and the Master of Sword for the 8th Estorean.

  'No one sits here without bearing a measure of guilt,' he said.

  'General, there was pr—'

  ‘I won't hear it, Goran. I just won't. Do not whine at me. You and I and all of us share this problem. We knew there would be tension when Nunan confirmed the Atreskan rebellion. We knew the alae would be torn and their morale hit. We knew the Estorean legion would feel under threat and outnumbered. We sat here in this tent and discussed all these things and how we would avoid them boiling into conflict.

  'But it hasn't worked, has it? There were bound to be taunts and insults. Boys and girls do it at school and they never grow out of it. But we're running an army here, not a playground, and a punch on the nose is replaced by a spear in the gut. Dahnishev, how many are dead?'

  'Seventeen,' said the surgeon. 'And eight more will never fight again. The other ten will not fight again this campaign year. I don't know how many are too ashamed to come forward with anything more minor.'

  Roberto shrugged and shook his head. 'We are throwing away lives in advance of fighting for them. I expected tension, I expected fist fights. But I didn't expect sword fighting. This will be nipped in the bud. And I will execute transgressors, make no mistake.

  'We're in a very difficult position here. We have no room east because the Toursan Lakelands and marshes will swallow us whole.

  We know the Atreskan border is compromised and we need to stay away from it as long as possible to avoid courting trouble. And my outriders are busy killing more Tsardon scouts than you have had nights' sleep.'

  'Do you think it was organised or an argument gone too far?' asked Neristus.

  'Davarov, any thoughts? Goran? Anyone for that matter,' invited Roberto.

  'There was no armour,' said Davarov. 'People just grabbed what they could. It was not premeditated.'

  'I agree,' said Shakarov. 'It will have been sparked by one slur too many from an Estorean mouth.'

  Roberto bit back his first thought. 'Or the first stab of an Atreskan blade,' he said. 'You were not there, Goran. Perhaps if you had been, this could have been avoided. Blame is an irrelevance in this instance. None who picked up a weapon is innocent but I will not conduct a witch hunt. We cannot afford the time nor the tension. Short-term, though, I want you organising cavalry captains and centurions from across the legions to sentry the infantry tents.' He held up his hands at the protest. 'Just until we see a little more calm in the daily routine.'

  'We need a fight to take everybody's mind off it,' said Davarov. 'Nothing unites us more than a sight of the Tsardon,' said Shakarov.

  'Does it?' asked Roberto, finding himself at the heart of his fears. 'Or does it remind those that still dream of an independent Atreska that they can strike a blow for it by turning on us?'

  'How can we ever know that?' asked Dahnishev. 'There are over seven thousand Atreskans out there.'

  'Yes, and I do not want to see a quarter of them marching to stand with the Tsardon at our next encounter. That, Goran, is what taxes the Estorean soldier's mind. Can they trust the maniple they stand beside?'

  Shakarov stared at the floor. 'You are suggesting a quarter of our people are traitors?' he asked quietly.

  'Do I really need to answer that question, Goran?'

  Shakarov raised his head. 'Well how many do you think it might be?'

  'I don't know,' snapped Roberto. 'These are men and women under yours and Davarov's command. You tell me. What I saw out there tonight was not rebels fighting loyal Estoreans. It was people whose passions and fears had got the better of them to the detriment of us all. But none of us can afford to discount the fact that disaffected legionaries will have been amongst them, and may have struck the first blow. Tell me I'm wrong.'

  The silence was answer enough.

  'So what next?' asked Davarov.

  'We march south. But we do so searching for an answer to these two questions. Do we have an army that will fight as one, side by side? And if we don't, how do we return it to that state? Because if these questions are not answered by the time we encounter significant Tsardon forces again, we might very well all be killed.

  'Sleep well.'

  But no one did. The shouts and taunts rang out throughout the remainder of a still nig
ht. Roberto gave up trying to sleep four hours before dawn and ordered the camp roused for the march. So much had changed over so short a time. From victorious campaigning force, through the closeness they'd forged in the wake of the plague, to this.

  'It takes years to build an army's heart and a day to break it,', said Elise Kastenas.

  She was riding by Roberto who had chosen to lead the marching column. Estorean scouts were in the field after the failure to return of six Atreskan riders. A foraging party from the 15th Atreskan, the God's Arrows, was also overdue. More additions to Roberto's bleak mood.

  'Proving we have failed at the most critical of times,' he said. 'I cannot believe I am having to place maniples of triarii in between bickering hastati of the 8th and 21st. Where did I go wrong?'

  'You haven't gone wrong, Roberto,' said Elise a little sharply. 'The betrayal of Atreska cannot be attributed in any way to you.'

  'But I should have seen the problems it would create. Taken stronger measures.'

  'Your army is built on the independence of its command. It has worked for five years and we have never experienced anything close to defeat. But the fracturing of the Conquord rule in Atreska has ripped open old animosities.' She looked square at him. 'Don't doubt yourself. No one here doubts you.'

  Roberto nodded. He knew she was right but couldn't shake the feeling that God was testing him now. He had experienced a smooth run to the generalship. His army had worked almost seamlessly. He knew he could take credit for much of that and the victories that followed but here and now was a challenge that outweighed any enemy he had faced.

  ‘I don't doubt myself,' he said. 'But I am seriously disappointed that the biggest problem I have faced doesn't brandish a sword in my face, it creeps up behind me wearing the uniform of the Conquord.' He blew out his cheeks. 'I might be able to stop them killing each other but I can't stop them talking. It's like a virus, Elise. You can feel the discontent. Tell me, did you consider my questions last night?'

  ‘I thought of little else.'

  'And right now, how does it look to you?'

  Elise checked behind to make sure they were not being overheard. She pointed towards a rise in the ground ahead. It was flanked by steep-sided hills that ran east into the Toursan Lakelands and west into the plains of Atreska.

  'If we meet an enemy on the other side of that ridge, we will be in serious trouble. A Tsardon army of equal size could well take us. We've all been speaking to our listeners in the army and there is little doubt that the trust between legion and ala is gone. Certainly in the hastati, and it goes further up the chain. In the cavalry, things aren't so bad. We are not an effective fighting force. I don't think they will turn against us but Atreskan hastati will not die for the Conquord today.'

  Roberto took off his green plumed helmet and pushed a hand through his hair. 'Then we are not an army at all, but a column of citizens. How do you think we can win them back?'

  He already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from another.

  'We can't,' whispered Elise. 'We are marching past their country and their families are there fighting for their lives and their futures. They can't understand why you haven't ordered them in to counter the invasion. They will not see the larger picture. We might be fighting for the Conquord but they have always been fighting to keep the Tsardon away from Atreska. It's the risk of the alae system.'

  'You don't think the problems will calm once we approach Gestern.'

  'They'll get worse,' said Elise. She smiled. 'Why are you asking me this? You already know. We'll be marching through southern Atreska. We've enough desertions now. Roberto . . .' ‘I know. I know.'

  The crushing weight of his disappointment grew. He turned in his saddle and looked back over the marching column, snaking away over miles of flat ground in the early dawn light. The sky was smudged with dust, alerting any watcher that an army was on the move.

  'How many will we keep, do you think?'

  'So many love you as their general. Davarov and Shakarov are wonderful commanders. In the end it's down to their desire to fight for you versus their desire to see their families safe and, for some, the desire to see Atreska liberated from the Conquord.'

  'So it's a popularity contest.'

  'I'm glad you're joking,' said Elise.

  'Only just,' said Roberto. 'Yuran has much to answer for.' 'And he will.'

  Roberto sat straight in the saddle, his decision made. 'Find the command team. When the camp build starts, I want you all with me. This must be handled correctly or we'll have more bloodshed tonight.'

  'What do you suggest?'

  Roberto met her gaze and felt his brooding anger threaten to overwhelm him.

  'Every Atreskan will be given the same choice. To hold to the oath they swore when they joined the legions or to run back to their homes as cowards. And those who wish it will be stripped of their Conquord arms and put out of the camp. We will shadow them to the Atreskan border and leave them there. And I hope every man and woman who deserts this army is dead by dusas.' He looked back to the path ahead. 'I've got a war to win and I won't suffer such vermin in the uniform of my family.'

  Chapter 54

  848th cycle of God,, 18th day of Solasfall 15th year of the true Ascendancy

  Pavel Nunan and Dina Kell presided over a stitched-together legion that its citizens had named the 'Gesteris Revenge'. They had no artillery, fewer than two hundred cavalry and a ragbag of weapons and repaired armour. But they had fire in their bellies, an anger their joint commanders were only too happy to stoke.

  Nunan marched alongside infantry from the Atreskan Rogue Spears and Shark's Teeth; the Tundarran Thunder; the Gosland Spear and Firedragons; and the Bear Claws and the Hurricanes of Estorr and the Estorean Lightning. They made up the bulk of those who had mustered in the Tarit Plain. Just shy of three thousand in all. There were messengers and fast riders moving ahead of the scouts. Those still too sick to move were being tended by volunteers in the original hiding place. No room for sentimentality. Those injured did not expect to be rescued and those that left them did not promise to return.

  General Gesteris had entered the fords at Scintarit with eighteen legions. All were represented in this tiny band, comprising less than five per cent of the massive erstwhile conquering army. They had no real idea what they could achieve but following contact with Roberto Del Aglios, now was the time to move.

  If Nunan was honest, he'd waited in the hope that Kell would return to them. He was happy to have her guile and leadership alongside his. They had marched for ten days straight, moving light and fast and covering up to thirty miles a day, mostly on the Conquord's deserted imperial highways. The scout network was efficient and they travelled unmolested to within two days of the border.

  Nunan had taken them north at that point and they had crossed into Atreska by the old road a day later. The border forts they passed were deserted and had clearly been that way for some time. It had felt good to be back on soil they considered the Conquord's own and Nunan had called for calm.

  He was glad for continuing warm weather but even so, he and every citizen who followed him craved hot meat and drink. As it was, all they had was dried and cured meat and the crushed herbal drinks they'd invented during their long period in hiding on the Tarit Plain. The dark camps enforced on them to avoid detection were becoming tiresome.

  The camp was quiet and Nunan sat with Kell on a fallen log in the woodland that had presented itself as the perfect hiding place for the night. The horses were picketed close by and he could hear their gentle nickering as they settled to sleep.

  'We're going to have to cross the river near Gull's Ford or we'll be forced too far north. The Tsardon and Atreskan rebels will fight their way to Neratharn's south coast border. It's the only realistic point to cross such a force and the place where the Conquord will mass to repel them.'

  In the light of a bright moon, and with their eyes adjusted to the gloom, Kell was scratching lines in the sandy soil with a stick.


  'If Gesteris is still alive, you think he'll head there?' asked Nunan.

  'I can't think of anywhere else. He'll know the situation in Atreska inside out by now and I can't imagine him mounting any form of guerrilla defence. It's not his way. He and whoever's with him will get somewhere they can stage a pitched battle and halt the enemy. Neratharn has to be it. We've all read the stories about how hard it was for us to get into Atreska that way. Let's hope it's the same on the way back, eh?'

  Nunan smiled. 'Then perhaps they'll use the sea, much as we did.'

  'Fortunately the Atreskan navy isn't of sufficient size and the Tsardon have no ships in the Tirronean at all. Besides, the Ocetanas will already be on station.'

  'Could get interesting there,' said Nunan.

  'Very.'

  Their conversation was interrupted by a brief commotion and some angry whispered words. There was a scuffling of feet and a man in a light cloak, tunic and sandals was thrust into their circle.

  Around them, heads rose from bedrolls to look at the new arrival. A pair of scouts stood behind him, blades in hand.

  'How dare you treat me like this,' spat the man. He had a wild look in his eyes, fervent and driven. 'This is my country. You have no right.'

  Nunan put a finger to his lips. 'A moment,' he said. He addressed himself to the scouts. 'What's this all about?'

  'We found him striding up the trail back there, heading to the border by the looks. He said he was going to find his wife and son in Tsard.'

  'On your own?' said Kell. 'It's a dangerous place for an unarmed man. And if you don't mind me saying, you don't have the footwear for dusas.'

  The four Conquord soldiers chuckled. In front of Nunan, the man dusted himself down.

  'Don't laugh at me. I don't deserve it. Not from you. Not from the Conquord.'

  Nunan gazed at him with the genesis of interest. 'Where are you from? Not far, by your clothing.'