Empire Under Siege Read Free

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.”

CHAPTER THREE
Conlan

    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.