by Vox Day
That was the difference between Patronus and Magnus, Aulan thought. They were both brilliant, accomplished, powerful men but Patronus had drawn men to him through a complex web of carefully constructed dependencies. Magnus achieved much the same results through sheer force of personality. Men owed Patronus, whereas they followed Magnus.
He wished he’d had the same opportunity to get to know his father that he’d had with Magnus over the last few months. But he’d been too young when his father was still commanding legions rather than Senate factions, and besides, it was easier in some ways for men to make demands of young men who were not their sons. Aulan rather doubted Magnus would so blithely have used any of his own sons as assassins, although to be fair, he couldn’t be entirely certain of that.
And then, Magnus hadn’t actually told him to accompany Lucarus to kill the old Cernobian, that had been his choice. He smiled at the memory of the arrogant elder’s outraged face when he’d realized that the man he thought to betray had betrayed him instead. But the old man had courage, Aulan allowed, and didn’t embarrass himself by begging for mercy, either for himself or his family.
Somehow, he doubted Regulus would die half as well under similar circumstances. That in itself was reason enough to ensure he was talked round; the thought of Titus Severus weeping and pleading for his life, shaming both his House and their father’s memory, sent a chill down Aulan’s spine.
If you have to do it, you’d better not let him see it coming, he told himself.
“Do you know which way?” Lucarus called to him. They were approaching a fork in the road; one way led to Amorr and the other to the huge permanent castra that Aulan assumed was presently housing both Severan legions as well as the remnants of the Civic Legion.
“Keep straight on,” he told the decurion. “With any luck, we’ll be riding that one within ten days.”
The men were in good spirits, considering that half of them had been with him when he’d been delivering Magnus’s messages to Herius Obsidius, the head of the Marruvian League. Obsidius had enjoyed some early success against Longinus, his father’s murderer, but had been reluctant to follow it up and thereby squandered his initial advantage. Magnus wasn’t overbothered by this, for as Aulan had been charged with explaining, his primary concern was for the Marruvian armies to keep the Amorran legions in the north and east of the empire occupied and away from his flanks when he moved on Amorr.
“Think your brother will be glad to see you?” Lucarus had been unusually dour of late. Aulan put it down to his favorite having been made the camp wife of one of the centurions and subsequently taking herself out of commission.
“He will if we play along with his pretensions.”
“How do you expect to do that if Magnus wants him to set aside his crown?”
“Magnus didn’t say we had to lead with that.” In truth, Aulan hadn’t decided yet upon what approach he should take with Regulus. No one knew better than he did how quick his older brother could be to anger when crossed, or worse, defied.
He had been six or seven the first time he’d realized how dangerous Regulus’s temper could be. They’d been arguing about something, probably a toy, when he swung at Regulus and hit him in the shoulder. Regulus had promptly hit him back, punching him hard in the stomach. That had hurt, but it was fair enough. What was much more frightening, in retrospect, was the way that Regulus stopped and stared at him while he was doubled over, then deliberately punched him in the face, knocking him down.
They’d only come to blows five or six times after that, and each time, Aulan had been careful not to strike the first blow. Regulus had beaten him, but he’d never again shown the cold, merciless fury of that earlier fight.
He’d have to be patient, he decided, and let his brother show his hand. Marching in and proclaiming Magnus’s demands would likely be counterproductive, and Regulus was not the sort to differentiate between message and messenger.
“What about Buteo?”
“What about him?” Aulan had not given the Falconian legate a moment’s thought since reaching Amorr last winter.
“Well, we’re with Fulgetra, right? So, he’s your senior officer, and you didn’t have no orders to go riding off with Magnus, if I recall aright.”
Aulan frowned. It hadn’t occurred to him that Buteo might take exception to the absence of him and his men over the winter. Fulgetra was a Severan legion, after all, and ultimately answered to the head of House Severus. It shouldn’t be a problem, since they had been following his father’s orders, but Patronus was no longer around to verify them.
“Buteo isn’t going to give us any trouble.”
“He’s not going to give you any trouble,” the decurion muttered. “We’ll be lucky to get away with a flogging.”
“Don’t be a worrywart. If anything, he’ll be happy to have twenty more horse at his disposal than he did yesterday.” Not that Magnus or Regulus were likely to leave them at the Falconian’s disposal for long. “Just keep your mouth shut if they ask you about Magnus’s intentions, and make sure none of the others do much talking either. I don’t know what he’s really up to and neither do any of you. If anyone starts asking questions, just start talking about the Battle of the Three Legions. That should distract them.”
“Aye, I suppose it will at that.” Lucarus snorted. “Most of the boys think we was lucky to get away for the winter. Except Titus Junius, of course.”
“Granted.” A pilum had been driven through Junius’s left leg during their charge that had broken the two Valerian legions, the wound had festered, and despite a belated amputation, Junius died three weeks later. But he’d been the only knight lost to Aulan since they’d parted company with Fulgetra, which was better than some considerably less adventurous winters Aulan had spent in the past.
Winter was always a difficult time for the legionaries, and especially the knights, who, being accustomed to the greater liberty due their social rank, tended to go more than a little stir-crazy when trapped in a winter castra far from civilization and its amenities. Particularly amenities of the female variety.
“What about our backpay?”
“Backpay? You all got paid twice! First by my father, then by Patronus.”
“The boys figured they was bonuses. You know, for the trouble. Besides, if we’re still on the legion’s roster, our wages is owed.”
Aulan sighed. Lucarus might be a stubborn old cur, but he knew his rights. “I’ll see what I can do. Say, is that a patrol up there?”
The decurion squinted. “Riders, anyhow. Two of them. Could be. Did you make up your mind yet?”
Aulan wasn’t sure that he had. He had little stomach for facing his older brother today, and his obligation to report to Fulgetra’s legate was a perfectly adequate excuse for putting it off if he wanted one. Regulus was more likely to be reasonable if he didn’t show up with two squadrons of knights behind him; the last thing he wanted was to give Regulus the idea that he was after Regulus’s ridiculous crown.
But now, it seemed the decision might have been made for him. The riders in the distance had turned around abruptly and were rapidly disappearing. “Dammit!” he swore.
“Should we go after them?”
“And do what?” Aulan shook his head, irritated. Their horses weren’t blown, but they were weary after riding across four provinces, whereas the patrol’s would be fresh. They weren’t about to catch the other knights, nor did they know what to do with them if they did. Lucarus’s reaction was nothing more than simple instinct, a predator responding to the sight of possible prey running away. “They’ll be back with a century behind them before long.”
He was correct, and the speed with which they returned proved to Aulan that they were closer to the castra than he’d imagined. The sun was still high in the sky when they saw the column of infantry marching over the crest of a small hill ahead, flanked by a squadron of cavalry on either side. As the tromp-tromp-tromp of their caligae against the brick became audible, it soon be
came clear that Buteo had seen fit to send out two centuries against the unknown interlopers.
“Keep your swords in your scabbards and your hands on your reins,” Aulan called out loudly behind him. “I don’t want any pissing matches today!”
Ahead of them, the two squadrons broke away from the infantry, abandoning the road to ride in a pair of semicircles that would permit a double-envelopment and hold Aulan and his twenty knights in place for the foot soldiers. It was a standard mixed-force tactic and no sooner did the men recognize it than they began heaping derision on the other knights.
“Shut your damn mouths,” barked Lucarus, silencing them quickly. Like Aulan, he was tense. They both knew that the encounter wasn’t necessarily a safe one.
The squadrons kept their distance until the infantry column transformed into a three-deep line and Aulan could spot the transverse crests on the helmets of the two centurions. He couldn’t make out who they were, not with their cheek-plates obscuring their faces, and he doubted he could name more than two-thirds of Fulgetra’s officers on sight anyhow.
But as tribune, they would surely know his face. He reached back and untied his tribune’s helm from his saddle, then rose in his stirrups and held the helmet aloft. “I am Aulus Severus Aulan, Tribune of Legio III, commonly called Fulgetra!”
Then he smiled as he saw the lead centurion stop and put up his hand, followed a moment later by a pair of optios bawling and the legionary line coming to a halt.
“Aulus Severus, is that really you?” The centurion took off his helmet and Aulan recognized Nemonius Strabo, from the Second Cohort. “The prodigal finally returneth!”
Aulan grinned and winked at Lucarus. “You see,” he said archly. “There was never any cause for concern.” But what Strabo told him next abruptly wiped the smile from his lips.
“I’m glad to see you, Aulus Severus, but you and your men will need to drop your weapons. I’m sorry, but I have orders to arrest you.”
He heard more than a few obscenities and vulgarities being uttered behind him, though Lucarus only chuckled bitterly. It was with some difficulty that Aulan managed to maintain a steady voice and shout back at the centurion.
“Orders from whom?”
“The legatus, Appius Mallicus.”
The legatus? That made no sense! Mallicus was the laticlavius, the legion’s senior tribune, not its commander. Had Falconius Buteo shown himself false? Or had he taken ill and died over the winter. Suddenly Aulan realized that the situation here in Salventum might be much different, and much more difficult, than either he or Magnus had anticipated.
And so he watched, with no little irritation, as Strabo waved his hand to indicate that the two squadrons on their flanks should move in and take them into custody. It was with more anger than fear that he unbelted his sword and scabbard and let them slide down to clatter on the dusty bricks of the road.
Marcus
“They killed the front two lines with nothing but a pile of sand?” Proculus said incredulously. The big centurion was sitting on the other side of the fire from the old Savondese mercenary captain who was regaling the Amorrans with his stories of past battles against the orc. Fortunately, the captain had roved far to the south in his youth, and although his Utruccan accent was heavy, they were able to understand most of his account.
Believing it, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.
“Stupid they are not, Sièculaire.” The old mercenary threw back the last dregs of the wine in his goblet and grimaced. “Too sweet, you drink it much too young! The orc is crude, but he is cunning. Like an animal cunning, but an evil animal, perfide! The belette, you understand, not the reynard.”
“More weasel than fox,” Girart de Forbonnais clarified. He was there to translate for them, but for the most part his services were proving to be unnecessary. Marcus would have liked to send the supercilious nobleman away, but he had no reasonable excuse. And while de Forbonnais had not managed to produce one of the famous Michelards, he found Capitaine Renier in a tavern in one of the towns through which they had marched, and the mercenary was proving to be a useful font of information about orc-fighting.
The mercenary was there recruiting to add to his small company, the Compagnie du Saint Léopold, but had found himself instead conscripted by the nobleman due to his experience with some of the historical orc incursions into Estmarcher. Much to Marcus’s surprise, the capitaine’s information was turning out to be a veritable gold mine, particularly as it related to the way in which the orc shamans utilized magic on the battlefield.
“Was there nothing to be done?” he asked the grizzled old man, whose grey hair hung in long and stringy locks that were streaked with white.
“The sand stripped the skin from their bones, garçon. They was militia. They had no shields, no metal armors. What was to be done?”
Marcus ignored the minor insult, assessing that it was not intended as such. “They could have been ordered to lie down. When the grit was hurled, was it in a horizontal plane? It would be wasteful to project it en masse. And at what height was it hurled? How thick an area did the projectiles cover?”
Proculus laughed. “Militia? They’d be scratching their bums and looking about for their blankets until they found themselves scoured clean by the sand, General. I suspect their horse would be no better.”
“How do you protect your cavalry against such attacks?” Julianus wondered. “Surely the caparisons you utilize do not cover them from head to hoof!
De Forbonnais stared at his Amorran counterpart for a moment, and the shadows from the dancing flames made the pitying look he gave the decurion a cruel, almost inhuman edge. “We find it is the rare orc shaman that is inclined to test its martial aptitude within range of our battlemages,” he said dryly. “Any who are so inclined do not survive the experience.”
“Yes, yes, of course, I’d forgotten,” Julianus said hurriedly.
Marcus winced. All of their reactions, all of their martial instincts, were out of balance here. They were unsuitable. In two days, three at most, they would be meeting a large quantity of orcs in combat for the first time, and every tactical decision he or his subordinate officers would be called to make on the battlefield were almost certain to be based on incorrect assumptions and irrelevant experiences. Which meant they were almost guaranteed to be wrong.
It wasn’t only the orcs. The way the Savonners—Savondese, he corrected himself—were structured militarily was, to the extent that he understood it, entirely insane. Untrained, unarmored, almost unarmed infantry that was only available for two months out of the year was combined with heavy cavalry that was similarly indisposable, although less predictably, since each noble’s commitment to his commander varied from one man to the next. Apparently the basic idea was for the infantry to engage the enemy and tie it up long enough to give the cavalry a static target to smash. A sound enough concept, and not entirely dissimilar to the way Fortex had used the Second Knights, but an extraordinarily limited variant.
Especially when, to fill in the many gaps that presented themselves, the Savondese resorted to mercenary companies whose term of service was unlimited, and who provided a heavier, more capable infantry than the peasant levies, but whose commitment only went as far as their employer’s coin. Or rather, their ability to spend that coin. It was sheer madness!
He sighed and stared at the fire as if it might contain answers to make sense of the situation. But it was nothing more than superheated wood, glowing red and yellow and white against the night. It burned brightly for a moment and then it was gone. For some reason, it made him think of his father and of Marcus Saturnius. The strategist and the master tactician. Both much better suited to lead the legion into battle than him. And both now gone. Then a thought struck him. He could not count upon his tactics or his allies. That much was clear. So what did that leave? Strategy. That was the only thing that remained, beyond the discipline and courage of his men. If only he could get the strategy sufficiently right, then
perhaps he could render the subsequent tactics irrelevant!
“Capitaine Renier, every example you’ve given us is indicative of set-piece battles. But is a marauding force of the sort we’re up against, even such a sizable one, likely to be given to such tactics? Would they even be equipped with proper magiciens?”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t use glass instead of sand anyhow,” Proculus said dismissively.
“Orcs don’t blow no glass, Sièculaire. And you, you talk like a damned Michelard, garçon. But it’s true, these déchets are pillards, they have no pigs, no materials, and their shamans will be few.”
“Pillards?” Marcus glanced at de Forbonnais.
“Raiders.” The young noble smiled faintly. “Déchets is merely a derogatory term.”
“Sounds like a good name for the little shits,” Proculus declared as he tossed an empty skin of wine aside and reached for a fresh reinforcement. “Dayshits or peelarses, General, everything we’ve learned says they’re nothing but light foot buttressed by a light cavalry auxiliary. They’ve got numbers, but nothing else, and you saw at Gorignia that numbers don’t signify nothing without weight. If their shamans throw some magic at us, it will meet an iron wall. Fire won’t burn a tetsudo and sand won’t crush it. Once they show themselves, Cassabus and his boys will drop rocks on their heads like a thunderstorm. We should meet them head-on. Ten-to-one or twenty-to-one don’t matter. We stand, we kill them, and then they run.”