The horde hit the line like a storm. Snarling, spitting, pounding. A roar rose up from their ranks as they sensed victory.
FELIX MARTIUS’S KNUCKLES WHITENED, his hands tightening around his horse’s reins.
Ten legions,
he thought,
thirty thousand fighting men, against an army of what?
Scouts had estimated a million.
How many in reality? One hundred thousand? Two hundred?
Reports suggested the legions did not face an army, but an entire nation on the move.
Looking down on the seething horde below, Martius did not doubt it. He wondered if it would have been wiser to hold back from a pitched battle, harrying the invaders instead – cutting off their food supply, starving them into submission. The barbarians were too close to the heart of the Empire. One precinct had already been overrun. They could not be allowed access to the heartlands. Too many cities to the north had no real defences, no walls or ditches. Who, after all, could challenge the power of the Empire? If the enemy got through, Martius knew, there would be slaughter.
Nine legions spread out below in a line, blocking the valley of Sothlind. Martius held another, freshly raised and untested, in reserve. There was no other passage for the horde through the Dardane Mountains, no other route into the Empire. Martius’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the front line, satisfied that the plan was sound.
There is no alternative
.
“Villius?” said Martius, turning to the young officer at his side.
“Yes, General?”
“The first cohorts appear to be advancing. That is not the plan.”
“No, sir, it is not.”
Martius considered Villius a good proctor, but the man seemed to lack emotion, and he was not sure what to make of the trait. “Send word to the legion fathers. Hold the line. They will mire in their own mud if they are not careful.”
“At once, sir,” Villius replied.
Seconds later, ten riders galloped towards the battle. Martius heard flags flapping in the wind behind him, as soldiers frenetically raised and lowered them. “I don’t trust those bloody flags, Villius. Who in the heat of battle pays attention to flags?”
“Of course, sir.” Villius fixed his attention on the front lines.
“It’s that damned Metrotis with his ridiculous inventions. Boy thinks he knows everything, Villius.”
“Of course, sir,” Villius shifted awkwardly in his saddle “He’s your nephew, sir?”
Martius smiled wryly. “That he is, Villius, that he is. Takes after my sister… in many ways”
“Yes, sir; of course, sir.”
Banishing thoughts of his nephew, Martius turned his attention back to the battle. The line still held fast. “There are a lot of them, but they lack discipline!” He raised his voice so that all around would hear. “They fight as individuals, for individual glory; and that will be their downfall, just like the hill tribes thirty years ago.”
“Meat for the grinder,” said Turbis, a staunch soldier and veteran of many battles. Turbis was legendary amongst the legions for rising through the ranks over forty years of service. Once, he had been commander-in-chief of the armies of the Empire, the
primus
general. Now in retirement, he was Martius’s most trusted advisor.
Martius nodded. “Meat for the grinder.” He wondered if his old friend was truly confident or simply playing the game as well.
“The emperor wants them all dead, Martius. Their insubordination cannot be allowed to go unpunished.”
Martius flashed an icy look at the speaker. “They will not go unpunished, Praetorus Kourtes. I believe the punishment has already begun.” He wondered at how detached Kourtes was from reality. “An entire precinct has been overrun, untold thousands of our citizens are dead, cities and towns put to the torch. Insubordination is perhaps an understatement.”
Kourtes sniffed disdainfully. “Dead, Martius. All of them. You have your orders.”
Martius turned in his saddle. “Yes, Praetorus
.
I would remind you that I take my orders directly from the emperor. As I said, they will be punished.” He fought to control the rising contempt in his voice. “And that is what will happen.” Politicians were always distasteful creatures in Martius’s experience. Kourtes, dressed in the high fashion of the year, his body wrapped in patterned silks from beyond Farisia, looked the very epitome of the species.
“General,” Turbis’s gravelly tones cut through the air. “Right flank pressure. The line is curving. Looks like they’re throwing most of their weight at the Third and the Twelfth.”
Martius glanced down the line of battle. He was loath to admit that his eyesight was not what it had been, but the pressure on the right was obvious. Martius had seen legions defeated, but never broken. That said, he had never seen them face an enemy as numerous as the horde. “Villius, signal the centre to begin to withdraw - nice and slow. Let’s pull them in, should relieve the pressure on the right.”
Turbis snorted. “Just like we planned, lambs to the slaughter.”
“Never let the enemy dictate the battle, my friend,” Martius allowed himself a smile, knowing it would bolster the men’s confidence. The bulge on the right of the line continued to grow. “Villius, have five cohorts of reserves support the right.”
“Sir.”
A gust of wind blew from the West causing Martius’s horse to shy. “Easy boy.” He reached down and patted its neck. “Easy.”
“Did you hear that, sir?” Villius’s head tilted gently to one side “Sounded like somebody screamed something? Sounded close.”
“Noise travels strangely over a battlefield. Something spooked my horse, though.” Martius was loath to admit that his hearing was also not what it had been.
“Didn’t hear a thing, boy,” said Turbis, clearly not troubled at admitting a weakness. His eyes glittered as he fixed the young soldier with a glare. “Must be Toruss, the god of war, shouting for joy.”
Villius looked down, his face gently reddening in a rare show of emotion.
Martius smiled.
What must it feel like to speak to a legend
, he thought. An entire lecture at the academy was dedicated to Turbis’s battle with the sandmen in the west; his twenty-day lightning march through the desert was fabled throughout the Empire. Turbis had lost a thousand men to the heat, but arriving exhausted, still defeated an army twice his number at the battle of Hadraniss; thus assuring his place in history.
Turning his attention to Turbis, Martius acknowledged his old friend was not the man he had once been. A huge tub belly was obscured by an ornate silver breastplate. A mythical sand gorgon embossed in the metal couldn’t disguise Turbis’s growing softness. His cheeks were mottled and red, his thinning hair white.
The eyes have never changed though. They’re as hard as they always were
.
All down the line the cohorts began rotation. Martius always marvelled at the proficiency of the manoeuvre, but would admit to few that it made him nervous. Military academics had demonstrated many times that refreshing the front line won battles and saved lives, but the move carried significant risk. Martius glanced expectantly down the line, left to right, as the rotation began.
His gaze alighted on the Twelfth legion as it started to break. A subtle shift in the front line, like rippling water; then blue cloaks started to detach from formation, the rear appearing to fray as men streamed north like so many raindrops. The reinforcements that Martius had ordered in to support, already taking up position, faltered. The pendulum had swung away from the Empire.
Martius’s heart skipped a beat; the battle could be lost in moments. “Villius, all reserves to the right. Now. They are to charge. Wedge formation.”
“Sir.” Villius, having regained his composure, betrayed no emotion.
“Praetorus Kourtes.” Martius turned in his saddle to face the nobleman. “Please retire with your retinue… slowly.” Martius prayed the foppish fool would follow his instruction; it would lower morale if the army saw anyone fleeing the command post.
Kourtes reddened and lifted a hand, brushing it through his thinning blond hair, betraying a fine tremor as he did so. “But I am to stay and watch the victory, General.”
Martius shook his head. “You will ride at leisure until out of sight. Then get to Sissia as fast as you can. The Fourteenth legion is due to arrive within a day. Seek the legion father, Maran Kultis. If you hear no word from us, he will know what needs to be done.”
Kourtes glanced nervously at the battle, his head twitching absurdly to one side. “Very well, General. You will provide an escort, surely?”
“I cannot spare a man.” Martius felt his patience fraying. “Go now while you still can. We stand and fight or die this day.”
BACK, EVER BACK. CONLAN was exhausted; the line could not hold. Blood trickled slowly from the wound on his head, his right shoulder screamed in agony every time he raised his sword.
No hope of relief, he stuck to the drill: block, stab, bash, using his shield as a weapon as much as his sword. Hold formation, close the ranks, protect your legion brothers.
Pushed back again, Conlan narrowly avoided tangling in the dead and dying as the line bowed under the sheer weight of the enemy’s numbers. No matter how many he dispatched, more jostled to the fore to take their place.
The legion took fewer losses now; only the strongest survived, but still with every four or five barbarians dispatched to meet the dark God, a legionary fell. There seemed no end to the enemy.
A huge, red-bearded savage - axe in hand - roared as he aimed a blow over Conlan’s tower shield. The blade caught the top of the shield, nearly ripping it from Conlan’s arm. Forced off balance, he almost fell, but the legionary behind used his spear overhand to stab the beast in the face, tearing his left cheek and exposing the skull beneath. Conlan whipped his sword forward over his shield, as much by instinct as intention, slicing it across the barbarian’s neck. Blood gushed forth, the barbarian’s eyes glazing as he went down. His countrymen trampled over him as they surged forward, eager for death.
Finally, after what seemed an age, Conlan heard the whistles blowing to signal rotation. He felt the familiar proximity of the man behind him moving into position. Conlan bashed his shield forward with all his might and turned quickly to retreat. A little too slow, something crunched against his back plate - shoving him forward - and then he was through to the rear. The shield wall, miraculously, still held.
Conlan surveyed the carnage. The whole line had turned to face the enemy on a new front just as he had intended, but it could not conceivably hold. It was only a matter of time before the legions were flanked again as the barbarians worked their way North.
A hand clapped on Conlan’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie.
“You alright?” asked Jonas, looking implausibly relaxed. There was not a single dent on his armour. The only sign of battle was his sword arm, caked in gore to the elbow, and a tiny spot of blood sitting incongruously below his right eye.
Conlan nodded dumbly, fighting to catch his breath.
“They’re gonna turn us again, boss; that or break through. It’s only a matter of time. The Twelfth have broken. I saw their standard fall. If these bastards were proper soldiers we’d be standing before the dark god already.” Jonas’s eyes were searching; his stare was strangely intense.
Conlan nodded again. “I know.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Where’s Commander Gyren? We need to form square, then we might hold. Maybe the reserves…” His mouth felt parchment dry, his tongue a choking husk.
Jonas sighed, releasing his grip on Conlan’s shoulder, “Gyren’s dead, Conlan.”
A knot formed in Conlan’s stomach. John Gyren, his mentor for the last nine years, dead. A horn sounded before Conlan could come to terms with the news. It was a long and plaintive note - the father’s horn, a signal for all disengaged men to muster to legion command, to be lead by and to protect the legion father and the standard. Conlan knew that the battle must be lost. A retreat to the legion father would destabilise the front line. Abandoned, the fighting men would lose morale and retreat towards command, seeking protection. The legionaries would be squeezed together, unable to fight cohesively.
The horn was a last resort.
What is Father Yovas doing?
Conlan thought, feeling the weight of exhaustion bearing down on him and letting his head droop.
There is no hope
. The words echoed through his mind… Whoever uttered them was a harbinger of doom.
“Conlan,” said Jonas, seemingly unperturbed, an island of serenity. “We can mourn Gyren later. No time now. Conlan, let’s go. You need to give the order. You need to lead. We have to retreat.”
Conlan felt the burden of leadership, a huge weight crushing his will, clouding his thoughts. He could feel death close by, and in a moment of cathartic comprehension, he understood his ultimate fate was to fade unnoticed from the world. No glory, no honour – just another bloated carcass on the battlefield.
“No.” Conlan heard the word as if another had spoken it.
A flicker of confusion ran across Jonas’s face, “What do y –“
“No.” Conlan looked up to meet his friend’s gaze. He was already dead, and the dead had nothing to fear. Looking around, he spotted Dylon nearby with what was left of the Eighth cohort, rallying men to follow the father’s order.
Then, perhaps fifty yards north, he saw a tightly packed group of legionaries advancing in formation. Perhaps thirty cavalrymen cantering at their side. Realisation dawned: Yovas, the legion father, was not retreating for a last stand; he was on the attack - taking the initiative. Conlan wondered if, perhaps, the old soldier could see something from horseback that the rest of his men could not. Whatever the case, the father had not had time to gather many troops. The Standard-bearer of the legion at his side, Father Yovas raised his right arm, lance in hand, and charged.