Black Legion: Gates of Cilicia

by Michael G. Thomas

  “Name?”

  “Xenophon.”

  “You’re the son of Gryllus?”

  “The same, why?”

  “You can come through, this way,” said the main in an almost apologetic tone. He moved away from the checkpoint and along the path that had been laid out almost five hundred years before when the capital buildings had been rebuilt. The two walked, and it was clear the guard was trying to avoid his gaze.

  What is he worried about?

  They walked past the statue of the fallen warrior, a testament to the sacrifices made in the two victories against the invasions by the Empire nearly a century ago. Xenophon glanced at the stonework. There were markings and scratches along the torso that he hadn’t seen before.

  “What’s happened here?” he asked.

  “Uh, nothing much. A few rioters broken in last month and attacked the civic buildings. We sorted them out.”

  “Sorted them out. As in, you broke some skulls?”

  “Well, if they choose to break the laws of the occupation, then they’ll pay the price.”

  They were in front of a staircase that led up inside the debating chamber of the now defunct Boule. Xenophon placed his foot on the first step. The guard leaned in and placed his hand on Xenophon’s shoulder.

  “The word is the Thirty are revoking citizenship to the families of anybody involved in the war. Is it true?”

  Xenophon shook his head.

  “I doubt that. Surely, we’d all lose our citizenship, unless you’re one of those that didn’t vote?”

  The man stepped back, ready to move away. Xenophon called out to him.

  “Well, did you?”

  He looked up at Xenophon, but his look of arrogance from earlier had vanished. Perhaps the thought of the loss of status and security with the changes brought by the Thirty was beginning to affect him.

  “Yeah, I voted alright. I voted to finish them off once and for all.”

  Xenophon nodded, not in the slightest surprised. He turned and started to climb the steps. He managed a dozen before the guard called up to him.

  “What about you?”

  He turned back and shook his head.

  “I voted against. It seemed a bit stupid to risk it all in one battle. I guess I was in the minority.”

  He turned back to the steps and continued upwards. The path followed the contour of the large rock formation used as the heart of the civic centre in the city. Each step brought him higher and gave him a magnificent view of the old city. In the generation since the end of the war with the Empire, many new structures had been erected. There were towers, landing platforms and habitation clusters that rose half a kilometre high. He reached the final step and approached the grand entrance. There were again signs of violence with bullet holes and scorch marks at various points along the walls. Waiting outside were two more guards, but these wore the uniform of the Laconian military. The men were big, much bigger than him. As he approached them, he wondered if this was normal, or if the occupying power had chosen them simply to intimidate. They wore no armour, just their uniforms of gold and red with braid on their shoulders. Both carried pulse rifles across their chests and curved blades, much like ancient scimitars, on their belts.

  The door opened and out walked three men in suits. Two carried the braid of the Laconian military, but the third wore the markings of the Attica Alliance, specifically the Boule. As the man turned, Xenophon recognised the jaw.

  “Father?” he asked in surprise.

  “Xenophon, my boy, excellent. Let me introduce you to Archon Crixus, the leader of the Thirty.”

  The tall Laconian warrior stood erect and confident before him. He extended his arm out in front in a gesture of friendship. Xenophon paused, but only for a second and then grasped the forearm.

  Gods, his arm is like granite!

  “Your father has told us much about you. I understand you studied rhetoric under Kratez and even a little armed combat. Not really your style, is it, Gryllus?” asked the man with a laugh.

  “No, not really. My son has been working on various ancient weapon forms, including some of those I understand your ancestors used.”

  “Really? I thought we were the only Terran colony that gave the old ways even a moment’s thought,” he said to Gryllus but looking directly at Xenophon.

  What does he want? To challenge me? Xenophon wondered.

  Crixus pointed to the great hall and indicated for them to step inside. They moved out of the light breeze and into the calm serenity of the hall. It was designed to accommodate the hundreds of veteran citizens and appeared barren without them.

  “You are probably wondering why you have been summoned here?” asked Crixus.

  Here it comes. He nodded politely.

  “It is simple. Since the change of administration, some might have thought we’ve been a little, well, tough on some citizens.”

  “Tough?” laughed Xenophon’s father.

  Crixus lifted his hand in annoyance at being interrupted.

  “The fact of the matter is that we never sought war with Attica. Our allies struggled with some of yours, and that is true. We never need to fight. You have nothing we want, hence why we left you in peace with just a token security force and a council of Thirty to lead the colony through a period of transition. It is our intention to leave as soon as possible, but only when we can be certain Attica will not simply rise up and attack us again. This is the reason we have allowed honest men, such as your father, to be represented in this group. You understand?”

  Xenophon shook his head.

  “Not really. What does this have to do with me, and when did my father become one of the Thirty?”

  Crixus nodded.

  “Yes, a good point. Attica and Laconia have much in common but not governance. Your people have a desire, to the level of zealotry, with regards to an idea of democracy. I know of the desires such a system brings out, but it breeds contempt and mob rule. How many stable democracies exists in the Terran worlds? Your citizens demand a vote, and in hours you have made the decision. What about your experienced citizens, like your father?”

  Xenophon said nothing, but deep down he had to admit he couldn’t disagree with the man.

  “You’re still not telling me why you wanted me here.”

  The man stood and looked at Xenophon for a few seconds, saying nothing but looking for something. As he stood there, a few items of note caught Xenophon’s eye. First was a series of dots, almost like puncture wounds along the man’s neck, and the second was a gently covered up scar just below the man’s ear.

  “Come and look at this,” he said, the long pause finally interrupted.

  He walked to a table upon which stood a projected three-dimensional model of the city. The detail was impressive and evidently Alliance technology. He waved his hands and pointed at the equipment.

  “Few would argue the advances made in the Alliance with equipment such as this. Even now though, your own people plot to bring down the Thirty and aim to restore democracy. What are your thoughts on this?”

  Xenophon said nothing at first. The Thirty were not known as the Thirty Tyrants for nothing. Since the unconditional surrender of the Alliance, they had replaced all democratic functions. Each of them made life or death decisions that affected every single person on the planet. Some had been placed in charge of important positions of the state, while others just kept their position to debate and vote on matters of the day. It was a major humiliation for Alliance democrats, but incredibly, the state was performing more efficiently and in many ways better than before.

  “Well, democracy is one of the founding principles of the Alliance. The Thirty will only ever be seen as a temporary stopgap until the full restoration.”

  “Really?” answered Crixus.

  Xenophon caught the glance of his father who seemed to be trying to encourage him to change subjects. At the very least, he looked sweaty and uncomfortable. He knew his father would have nothing in common with d
ictators, so they must have made major concessions to get him involved.

  “Your father told me that both of you would do whatever was necessary to keep Attica safe and secure. Is that true?”

  “Of course,” he replied in a calm tone.

  What is he after, an informant?

  “Good,” answered Crixus with a slight smile forming at his lips.

  “We do not intend on staying here forever, just long enough to ensure we will not be turned on by vendetta and revenge. What we need is new blood, people that can take the place of the Thirty as a transitional stage.”

  “I...don’t quite understand you, sir. You want me to find people?”

  “No, no,” laughed Crixus.

  He pointed out to the skyline of the city.

  “I don’t want just anybody. Attica needs people who are conservative, those that understand stability and security, as well as growth and prosperity. The proletariat don’t know their own arses from their elbows, as I’m sure you know.”

  Xenophon shrugged in agreement. It was hard to argue against it.

  “Look, your father has already agreed, and I would like you to join him in replacing two of my compatriots in the Thirty.”

  Me, one of the Thirty? Is he mad?

  “Yes. I will stay as the senior member, but the two of you would take the place of the two youngest in my group. You will help liaise between the Attican bureaucracy and also vote amongst us.”

  “But why?”

  “You have seen the damage being inflicted by various underground groups here, I’m sure. They want us out, and I can understand that. The harder they push though, the harder we have to be. We will leave when it is right for all of us. If you can help keep the population under control and hold back these groups, I think you’ll find the Thirty will be gone in, well, perhaps less than a year.”

  “You hear that, son? A year, and we could be back to normal.”

  Xenophon looked at them both carefully. The idea sounded all well and good, but he seriously doubted it could change that quickly. The thought of being one of those that almost every citizen hated was something he hardly relished.

  “Thank you, but no. I have no real interest in politics. I am happy to try and help get us through this difficult period, but I really will not become one of the Thirty.”

  “You disregard us that much?” asked Crixus with mock surprise.

  “Not you, but my countrymen will never forgive those that collaborate.”

  Crixus looked disappointed but didn’t push it.

  “I understand, and I expected as much. Perhaps we could offer you a compromise instead. One that would help steer this conflicted state away from war, and at the same time, help keep order in the city.”

  Xenophon looked a little confused.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?” he asked.

  “If you will not serve with us, then you might take one of the more ceremonial roles. A public position, one that will show members of the old established order are moving back into control. It will allow us to give ground slowly until we will finally leave you and your city. The position of deputy Praefectus urbi is still vacant. It would be a powerful symbol to put an Attican citizen in charge of the historical centre of the capital.”

  Xenophon thought about it for a moment. It was an odd choice, and he was deeply suspicious of the offer of free power in the city. What did they have to gain by putting him there?

  “Of course, by becoming deputy Prefect, you would assume the responsibility of the safety of the civic centre and most of the inner wards of the city.”

  “Deputy, how exactly would that be a position of authority?”

  Crixus smiled, clearly enjoying the little game.

  “Fair enough. Look, I have placed a Laconian officer, one of my trusted lieutenants, in this position. As a deputy, you would be the public face for the office. If all goes well, when we leave, you will take his place. To all intents and purposes, you would be the prefect. If you don’t do this, then I will simply not appoint a deputy. Since we took over, the armed forces have been disbanded, and we need police and security forces. I could bring in Laconian troops, but in my experience that just creates more trouble. If you helped in this area, it would help us, and it would help the city. You would have full authority over police and paramilitary forces within the prefecture of the inner city wards.”

  Xenophon looked over to his father and looked at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. The idea of working for a faction he had been so recently fighting irked him, but was that a reason to simply walk away? Seeing nothing on his father’s face, he looked back to the leader of the Thirty.

  “If I did this, I would be a turncoat working for the regime. They’d execute me for treason.”

  “Who would? Would you rather a Laconian administration? I offer you a free hand in controlling the prefecture of the city, without interference by my forces.”

  Xenophon looked back to the glass windows and the view of the city. His heart told him to turn and run, but where could he go. In theory, he would be doing this to help his own friends and citizens, but would they see it that way? He looked back to Crixus who waited patiently.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Put your Laconian officer and his voices under my command, and I’ll do it. The public will see right through this unless an Attican citizen is in control. It will make no difference to how things are run.”

  Crixus waved to a group of Laconians and a similar number of Attican officials. One of them was a woman, a well-known city politician called Erika Montoya. Xenophon had already seen her pubic addresses on behalf of the occupying power. She had been the first Alliance member to join the body, and rumour had it that her family was actually of Laconian ancestry.

  “This is the man you were telling me about,” explained Crixus.

  “Ah, you must be Xenophon, our resident war hero,” she said with a hint of bitterness in her voice.

  “No hero, just one of the few that survived the insanity of going to war with Laconia.”

  Crixus looked at them both, then placed his hands on each of their shoulders.

  “Very well. It was not my intention, but I accept. From today, Xenophon, son of Gryllus, will become the Prefect of the Inner Wards. You will report directly to me.”

  The woman glared at Xenophon, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he was in a more prestigious position, or because Crixus had made the decision without giving her a chance to give her approval.

  * * *

  Xenophon approached the barricades with caution. Behind him moved a force of security troops picked from the few ex-military that had joined the new government’s forces. Part of the debris mixed in with the barricade had been burning for hours, and it sent columns of smoke up into the sky.

  “Who goes there!” called out a man from the shadows of the structure.

  Xenophon stopped and examined the temporary wall. It was almost five metres tall and manned by nearly forty people. Behind it were hundreds more, as well as press and a mixture of citizens.

  “Prefect Xenophon of the Inner Wards. I want to speak with your leader.”

  “What?” shouted the man.

  “You heard me. Now bring me your commander!”

  There was a mixture of sounds as people moved about behind and inside the barricade. As he waited, he looked back at his guards. Each wore the uniform of the Attican Militia rather than Alliance and were all armed with Laconian weapons. He just hoped this wouldn’t turn to violence. A shape appeared along the wall and looked down at him.

  “Xenophon?” called the man. His voice was familiar.

  “Yes, who is that?”

  “Glaucon, you idiot. What the hell are you doing? Tell me you’re not working for them?”

  Xenophon strained his eyes against the bright sky to see the figure of his old friend. In the months since the surrender, he must have fallen on hard times. He wore ragged clothes and carried a bandolier across his shoulde
r.

  “I’ve been helping with the transitional party, and we’re working on re-establishing democracy as soon as possible.”

  “What? How exactly?”

  Another man appeared on the barricade and moved towards Glaucon. He carried a rifle in a sling.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” he called out to him.

  “You know Xenophon. He says he is helping with the transitional party.”

  “They’re all traitors,” snapped the man. “You’ve seen what they do to our own people. We have dozens in police cells because of people like him.”

  “No, that isn’t true. Let me up to talk,” called out Xenophon.

  A dozen more people appeared on the top of the wall, some pointing firearms, others simply waving sharpened metal poles. His own guards spread out and pointed their rifles at the silhouetted targets. Xenophon turned to them and lifted his hands.

  “No, lower your weapons. I am in charge here.”

  The men all wore visors on their helmets, each fearful of what the crowds would do if they found they were working for the transitional authority in the city. Three lowered their rifles, but the others stayed exactly as they had been, afraid to give up the safety their weapons offered.

  “Xenophon!” called Glaucon. “I know you think you’re helping, but it isn’t going to work. The Thirty are tyrants, nothing more. Until they are forced out, we will never have peace here. Go back and tell them we will not go until they have. If your guards come back here again, we’ll shoot on sight. You got that?”

  Xenophon shook his head.

  “You know they won’t just leave like that. We started the fighting, and we lost. Either we work to get them to leave peacefully, or we start a violent uprising. You know how that will end. The Laconians will make us suffer like you cannot believe.”