by Vox Day
The only proper justification for the pursuit of power, in his mind, was that enough of it allowed you to do whatever it was you wanted for the rest of your life. Let others strive for glory, God, and Amorr. Once he had done his duty and restored his family’s prestige to its proper, proconsular place, Vopiscus would happily settle for a small amount of decadence and a large amount of comfort.
A swirl of dust caught his eye and disturbed his pleasant ruminations. It marked the approach of a messenger riding quickly towards the south gate of the castra.
Lentulus Servilius, a quick-thinking young tribune who had been standing there at attention while one of his fellow tribunes droned on about the number of men from the fifth maniple of Legio XIII who were suffering from heatstroke, snapped to attention.
“Would the General like me to go and learn what news the primus pilus sends?”
Good lad. Vopiscus nodded briskly and watched the tribune run towards the gate. He wished more of his staff would follow young Servilius’s example and cease plaguing him with their constant questions. Calvinus, the senior centurion of Legio VI, was the worst of the lot, always trying to pin him down to one thing or another instead of thinking for himself and taking the necessary initiative.
Vopiscus immediately forgot the messenger and returned to the more pleasant pastime of debating which province would be most ideal for his proconsular retirement…or governorship, as some still insisted on calling it. Mindoros was very pleasant, as was Epra, but both were on the wrong side of the gulf and rather too far from the heart of civilization. That left Thursia, which, it just so happened, was sure to have a vacancy, as its current governor was reported to be in poor health after ten years of wallowing in wealth and decadence on its southern coast. Vopiscus smiled, thinking about how the days would stretch into weeks, lying in the sunshine in a palace overlooking the calm blue waters of the Amorramare, surrounded by skilled musicians and his most amiable slave girls.
He shook his head, sadly abandoning the vision of a happier future as his ears were assaulted by the unmistakable sound of centurions shouting orders behind the tent. He went to investigate and saw a large force was in the process of assembling in the forum behind his tent. And the men were in full battle armor! Where was Servilius? Damn the boy, where had he gotten off to?
“General Cassianus! Sir!”
Servilius came sprinting towards him, kicking up sand and pulling up just in time to avoid a collision.
“The scouts report a medium-sized force of armed catpeople about two leagues ahead of us. They say three or four hundred at most, all on foot. Calvinus has sent out the first, third, fourth, and fifth maniples from Legio VI to meet them, and he’s requested you to order two maniples from Legio XIII to march out and flank them while he engages.”
Calvinus did what? Curse the fool, what was he thinking? Sending out half a legion against only three hundred? This was obviously a ruse to split his forces and lure them away from the castra! Vopiscus could feel the blood pounding in his ears. He was so panicked, he thought for a moment that his heart might burst.
“Get a horse, tribune, and ride to him at once! Tell him his orders are to halt immediately and return here without delay. His request for reinforcement is denied! I will not have us stumbling into an ambush due to his carelessness!”
“An ambush? But sir, we’re in the desert! Where would they be hiding? There’s not a tree or hill in sight for twenty leagues!”
“I gave you an order, Tribune!” Vopiscus roared. “Do I need to repeat it?”
“Sir! No, sir!”
Servilius saluted and ran off in the direction of the makeshift stables.
Vopiscus sighed with relief. That was a close-run thing! Was Calvinus out of his mind? How could any Amorran officer forget the lesson of Galanas Wode, where two legions had been destroyed and their aquilae lost thanks to the carelessness of their glory-mad commander? There would be no such mistakes made under his command.
No doubt there were those among the senior staff who would mock him behind his back for his caution, but he would have the last laugh. Was it not the tortoise who won the race? By the time they returned to Amorr for his triumph, none would deny that his careful preparations had been well made indeed. Qalabicus? No, too awkward. Perhaps Felicus, yes, that was better. Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus Felicus. Felicus, now there was a name! He rather liked the sound of it.
The skies were just growing dark when Shabaka woke from his afternoon nap and made his way to the twisted tree that served as his command post. Aside from a few brief skirmishes with the Amorran army’s scouts, he had resolutely refused to give battle, choosing instead to withdraw slowly before the invading legions, remaining in constant contact while avoiding any combat that would seriously commit his forces. The Amorran commander seemed content to follow him, marching twelve or fourteen leagues every day, then stopping long before nightfall in order to construct the massive fortifications, which were simply abandoned the next morning.
It was an impressive sight, this daily assembling and dismantling of what to Khatuuli eyes looked like a city to rival Bas-Tiat, the stone city of the Neheb-kau. It was intimidating too, although Shabaka was starting to suspect that the Amorrans’ reluctance to press their huge advantage and attack might just possibly be cowardice.
If not actual cowardice, it was at the very least an extreme sense of caution, suggesting that the Amorran commander lacked faith in his troops, or, more likely, in himself. Shabaka had no reason to believe that these soldiers were any less capable than those of any other Amorran legion, whose eagle standards could boast victory after victory all across the lands of Selenoth, so he was beginning to believe that this strange reticence was indicative of weakness on the commander’s part.
But how to best exploit his caution? The huge numbers of scouts in the vanguard suggested that his counterpart was deathly afraid of being ambushed, so it would be very difficult to surprise him with an attack and false retreat. Besides which, the Qalabi provided no place to hide a sizable force. There was nothing to hide behind in the vast desert wasteland. Perhaps the river, then? The legions were less than an eight days’ march from the Neheb, and despite their commander’s caution, they were going to have to cross it eventually if they wanted to wipe out the People.
Surprise was the key, but what kind of surprise was possible? Shabaka had already come up with two ideas that he was sure would take the Amorrans off-guard, but both were minor tricks at best and unlikely to turn the odds in his favor.
He was early to the tree, and only Tjel was there already.
The slender Chiu bowed. “Kubwa Jumbe.”
“Enough, Tjel,” Shabaka waved off the formalities. “I need your help.”
“Of course. Regarding what?”
Shabaka extended his claws and scratched them thoughtfully against the tree.
“Sooner or later, we must bring the Amorran to battle. But he is cautious, and I think it will be hard to engage him in a time or a place that is not of his choosing. And we cannot run forever, or we will starve. But this caution… It seems to me that there must also be a way to use it in our favor.”
Tjel nodded.
“I have been thinking on this very problem for some days now. Normally I would say, ‘The too-wary huntress does not eat,’ but in this case, that does not apply. He is well supplied, and his trains are well guarded.”
“I agree,” Shabaka said. “They are an obvious target and he is ready for any such attack. We would lose many warriors, with little gain.”
“So again, his caution is his strength. But think on this: It is hard for us to understand such caution, such patience. Perhaps one of his mind cannot understand our boldness and speed.”
“You suggest that we attack him?”
Tjel seemed to sense Shabaka’s alarm. He smiled.
“In a manner of speaking. You mentioned the river…”
“Yes, it occurred to me that attempting to deny them the crossing might offer us our
best chance for success.”
“I imagine that has occurred to the Amorran, as well.” Tjel shook his head. “So he will be prepared for us to contest it. He has more war machines than we do, and the wood they carry with them to construct their nightly fortress will no doubt be used to build a bridge across the Neheb. We could make it costly, of course, but even if we committed our entire army, we would surely lose.”
“We could burn the wood.”
“When? During the day, the soldiers march with the poles on their backs. As soon as the march is done, they lash them together behind a ditch higher than a Simba is tall. And the palisade is guarded throughout the night; the Neheb-kau could set them alight, but the mwane have no shortage of sand to put out the flames.”
Shabaka’s heart sank. Tjel had reached the same conclusion he had. Even with the help of the great river, the Khatuuli were simply too weak and too few to stop the Amorrans. They had only four thousand unarmored fighters, plus the two hundred khifaru riders. Caution or no caution, the two legions could simply grind them down until there was nothing left. Eventually he would be forced to give battle, and then they would lose.
“It is clear that we cannot attack their weaknesses,” Tjel told him. “Therefore, we must attack with our strengths.”
Shabaka frowned at him.
“What is the difference? Our strength is insufficient! Our numbers are too few!”
Tjel growled, but in a harmless, submissive manner.
“Kubwa Jumbe, you have two important advantages over the Amorran commander. The first is that his troops do not see well at night. Mwane prefer to do their marching and fighting during the daylight. That is why they build their fortress every afternoon, because they fear to fight when darkness falls and they cannot see.”
Shabaka was puzzled. Surely Tjel could not be thinking of a night attack on the huge camp!
“I don’t understand. We talked about this before, when we first saw them digging their trenches on that first day. Even if we manage to break through their palisade in two or three places at once, they have enough guards to hold the breaches until they can bring their numbers to bear. We would be the foolish rock cat hurling itself against the mighty ndovu!”
Tjel shook his head and smiled.
“I am not suggesting that we attack their walls. I am only reminding you that there are ways of surprising even the most cautious prey, especially if that prey is blind!”
“Very well,” Shabaka nodded. “And our second advantage is the Neheb-Kau, I suppose, since the Amorrans will not dirty their paws with magic. But how are we to convert the mchawi to our cause? I have begged and pleaded, but still they will not lend their aid. They hate me, and they will not serve me, not even to save the People. And I cannot serve them, for they are fools.”
“Indeed,” Tjel agreed wholeheartedly. “They are. Even more so than you think, Kubwa Jumbe. For the eight great ones of the Neheb-Kau have agreed to meet with me in secret, at dawn two days hence, on the river’s edge. They think to turn me against you, but it is my thought that, should you happen to interrupt this meeting, you may find some more compelling means of persuasion.”
Tjel smiled meaningfully, and he raised one paw, extending his claws slowly.
“They suspect nothing?” Shabaka asked, scarcely daring to believe his good fortune. Tjel had served him well indeed! The mchawi were cowards, he had learned, and once within his claws, he would easily break their will.
The cunning Chiu exposed his canines, indicating disdain.
“I have sworn my intentions on the honor of my tail. But what is that to one who serves Shabaka la-Mkia?”
Shabaka was deeply touched. Tjel was a proud and honorable warrior, and Shabaka knew that the jumbe of the Mahali-Chiu had no intention of failing to keep his word. He reached out and placed his paw on his lieutenant’s shoulder. Many sacrifices had been made already, and more would be needed before this war was over. But the one Tjel proposed to make was perhaps the greatest. Death came to all in time, but to be without a tail was to be without honor, as Shabaka knew better than anyone. He hoped only that Tjel’s sacrifice would be repaid many times over in mwane blood.
Vopiscus rose at dawn and wordlessly accepted the cool skin of water from his body slave. He regarded the sweatless sheen of the man’s dark skin with envy, as the hellish heat never seemed to bother him, even at noonday. Of course, the slave was born for this sort of climate, having been captured as a boy in the second campaign of Numidicus.
“Sir, permission to enter,” someone with a deep voice shouted from outside his tent.
It was Calvinus, curse him. Vopiscus closed his eyes, wishing, not for the first time, that he was back in his palatial apartments in Amorr, where the only decision he’d be required to make at this forsaken time of day would be whether to roll over or not.
“Yes, yes, what is it, Calvinus?”
Despite the fact that the sun had barely risen, the senior centurion was already fully armed and armored. He brought his fist to his breastplate in a firm and clangorous salute.
“General, the catpeople took up positions on the far side of the river during the night. It doesn’t look like they’re going to dispute the crossing, since they’re not attacking the troops building the bridges, but the men will have to be ready to form their lines as soon as they cross over.”
Vopiscus felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his left side. This was the moment he’d been dreading for months. Here, at last, was the moment of truth.
“Assemble the pilus priors at once,” he ordered hastily. “Why are the bridges being built already?”
The grizzled centurion stared at him in contemptuous silence for a long and uncomfortable moment.
“Last night, when we discussed the crossing, you ordered us to begin constructing them at dawn,” he finally said.
Ah, so he had. Vopiscus tried to recover his dignity.
“Yes, yes, of course. Well, we can count it a blessing that they’re too primitive to realize what we’re about, I suppose. How long before the bridges are completed?”
“Four bells,” Calvinus said dubiously, as if he already anticipated the inevitable response.
“Make it three!” Vopiscus demanded. “We must seize the day! By nightfall their army will be shattered and the desert will be ours. But we must hurry!”
The centurion sighed, but he bowed obediently enough and saluted again.
“I will convey your orders. The senior officers will be arriving here before the next bell to receive your instructions concerning the line of battle.”
“Excellent!” Vopiscus returned the salute and forced himself to smile. Confidence, that was what men needed to see from their commander before going into battle. “We shall break our fast together. And this evening, we shall dine from the, erm, well, I suppose I don’t actually know. ‘The tents of the enemy,’ was what I was thinking. But then, these barbarians don’t have tents, now do they? And I can’t even imagine what they must eat!”
“With God’s grace, we shall find out soon enough, General,” Calvinus answered sourly.
“So we shall,” Vopiscus chose to overlook the centurion’s reprehensible lack of spirit. “Very well, then, Centurion. Strength and honor!”
“Strength and honor, sir.”
From the back of his white stallion, Vopiscus surveyed the battle taking place on the far side of the river. He tried to keep a stoic face, mindful of the noble writings of the philosopher-king, Antonius. But he failed utterly. How could anyone possibly pretend that defeat and victory were the same? What a ridiculous notion! They were winning. His men were crushing the enemy on the field of battle before his very eyes, and the day was his! It belonged to him, Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus, soon to be Felicus! He grinned broadly and raised a fist to the sky.
“Glory in Heaven to the Untarnished God! Glory on Earth to Amorr!”
“Glory!” the officers of his headquarters staff shouted, their voices full of genuine enthusiasm for the f
irst time in this cursed campaign.
One young tribune was even so carried away as to call for a triumph.
“Hail Vopiscus, victor! Hail Felicus!”
“Hail, Vopiscus!” echoed the rest of his staff.
Vopiscus was pleased by their salute but secretly disappointed that the other officers hadn’t acknowledged his new title. But it would come in time, of this he was sure. The catpeople were beginning to break and flee, unable to hold their lines before the constant pressure of the legions, and their rear ranks were running away at a speed that would have made it hard for his cavalry to catch them, even if he had any. But not all of them were running. It appeared that seven or eight had fallen for every Amorran, and it was clear that, for all their size, sharp teeth, and daggerish claws, the demonspawn were not only outnumbered by his legionaries, they were badly outclassed.
A messenger approached on foot, running hard. He was helmetless, and he had obviously been in the midst of the action, for there was blood staining the front of his breastplate.
“General, the day is ours! I come from the primus pilus, who bids me tell you that our losses are light, while the enemy has suffered heavily. It is too soon to know as yet, but the centurion says that he would be surprised if we have lost even four hundred men today!”
A great victory. Truly, a great victory, this. For a moment, Vopiscus felt humbled. Was this how the great ones had felt at their moment of glory? How few could know exactly how Laevinus had felt after his defeat of the terrible orc hordes, or imagine what thoughts had gone through the brilliant mind of Severus the Elfslayer as he stood upon the shattered walls of Glaislael. And to think that now, he, Cassianus Vopiscus, had been raised to the stature of Amorr's greatest generals, that he would be forever numbered in their midst. Tears streamed down his face as he raised his eyes to the afternoon skies and thanked his Maker for the glory of this surpassingly wonderful day.