Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (51 page)

Marcus leaned toward Barbatus and whispered into the decurion’s ear. “Slip off while we’re addressing the men and search the tent of the primus pilus. If you can’t find that wounded man or his body, search every tent of the first and second centuries.”

The decurion didn’t blink or say anything. He merely continued to look straight ahead at the men on the rostrum. But he nodded once, firmly, and Marcus he would obey.

When Marcus stepped upon the platform, Honoratus was the first to salute him, unhesitatingly thumping his fist against his chest. The rest of the primi ordines followed suit, as did Julianus and Trebonius. And if any of them wondered why he was surrounded by armored knights with their hands on their hilts, they did not ask.

Marcus merely nodded in response, knowing that a refusal to return their salutes would irritate one or two of them, but it was more important to establish his authority over them right here, right now.

“It’s good to see you alive and well, Gaius Trebonius. You too, Gnaeus Junius. Is there any word of Castorius yet?”

“I sent seven of my men to search the pubs and brothels, Tribune.” The primus pilus was a big man. He wasn’t any taller than Marcus, but he was nearly twice his girth, and very little of it was fat. His arms were especially large, and although his torso was covered with much-bemedaled armor, the easy—uninjured—way he moved made it clear that he could not have been the night assassin even if Marcus had not seen him the night before. “They have not returned as yet.”

Marcus nodded, but he was silently cursing his morning slumber. Sending men to look for Castorius was the first thing he should have done. But before he could reply, Julianus interrupted.

“I sent two riders over not long after sunrise. They came back before the horn and reported that no one saw the praefectus last night.”

“Very well.” Marcus cleared his throat. “In the absence of Sextus Castorius, it appears I am the senior officer surviving last night’s attack. Therefore, I will assume command of the legion until such time as he returns to us. I assume I can rely on the support of the senior centurions and decurions, as well as you, Tribune Trebonius?”

“Of course, sir,” Trebonius replied. Julianus too was quick to assent. The five centurions also indicated their compliance, one by one, although both Honoratus and the pilus prior of the Third Cohort had visible reservations.

“Then, gentlemen, I had better inform the men of the tragic events of last night. I would appreciate it if you would stand on my left, Gaius Trebonius. Gnaeus Junius, if you would do me the favor of standing on my right, I should appreciate your support.” As well as not stabbing me in the back, he added to himself. He could only hope that the centurion would not be so bold as to strike in front of everyone.

The primus pilus grunted his agreement, but a faint flicker of a smile touched his lips. Gaius Trebonius, on the other hand, looked as if he was about to vomit, but he was still sufficiently aware to point to Marcus and tap at his own helmet.

Ah, yes. Marcus removed the helm and tossed it to Julianus, who caught it easily. It would not do to appear as a decurion, and anyway, it might better serve his purposes to show his face and remind the men that, however young he might be, he was still a patrician and the son of a House Martial.

He took a deep breath and prayed a short silent prayer for courage. Then he stepped forward to face the legion.

Nearly five thousand men stood in front of him. He looked out over the sea of hardened, unshaved, sunburned faces, all staring up at him and waiting for him to speak. But he did not talk right away, instead he slowly scanned the crowd, wondering if this was how Corvus had felt the first time he’d addressed an entire legion.

And in that moment, his nervousness disappeared. It was as if everything he had ever done, everything he ever was, had led him here. The thought that his father’s father and his father’s father had stood in exactly this position in a camp almost identical to this one filled him with a sense of tranquility and his fear seemed to slip away. He felt almost reluctant to break the spell that held so many brave and worthy men enrapt in such solemn silence, waiting upon his words.

“Men of Legio XVII, I am Marcus Valerius, the son of Sextus Valerius Corvus, tribunus militum by the voice of the People, your sworn brother. And, as of this morning, the senior surviving officer of this legion.”

When he gave them the bad news, there came a sound like a rushing wind, as five thousand gasped as one. Except for a few involuntary cries of dismay that followed it, however, the men remained largely quiet even though he could see dismay and confusion on most of the faces of the men near the rostrum.

“Like the crow for which my father is named, I bring you dreadful news. Many of you will have heard the rumors, and I am sorry to confirm that they are true. The legate Marcus Saturnius is dead, murdered in his tent, along with two of his guards. The tribunus laticlavius, Aulus Crescentius, is dead as well. The praefectus Sextus Castorius is missing. Lucius Volusenus and two more of my tribunal colleagues are also dead. Gaius Trebonius and I are the only senior officers to survive what appears to have been a deliberate attempt to assassinate your entire command staff.”

Anger, disbelief, and fear rose and crested on a chorus of what had to be at least three thousand voices all speaking simultaneously. He waited until the noise had died down enough to permit him to be heard, then jabbed his finger accusingly toward them.

“These foul deeds were committed by someone in this camp! Someone in this camp has your legate’s blood on his hands!”

A fury arose in response to his words. It was deafening, and it rocked the wooden platform on which he was standing. It was at once invigorating and terrifying. As the angry legionaries shouted their futile but feverish denials at him, he began to understand why the ancient demagogues tended to describe a crowd as if it was a being in its own right, with a discernible spirit that could be mastered and manipulated by the sufficiently skilled.

“I myself was attacked by the assassin who murdered my fellow tribune, Gaius Marcius, last night. Fortunately, I had been on night patrol at the command of Marcus Saturnius and was still wearing my armor. It saved me, or you would be burning me in company with my colleagues, and Gaius Trebonius would be addressing you today. But the assassin did not succeed, and so I promise you this, men of Legio XVII: Together we will find those responsible for these evil deeds, and we shall have our vengeance for our murdered brothers and for the noble Marcus Saturnius!

There were cheers and cries for revenge, but they were fewer and rather less fervent than he would have liked to hear. Perhaps it was too soon to speak of vengeance. Or more likely, the men believed it would be difficult, if not impossible, to determine who had committed the crimes, and they feared that the legion would be riven by suspicions and misgivings of the sort that are impossible to disprove or otherwise allay.

Marcus resisted the urge to glance at the primus pilus. He had no need to waste any time on a search for the killers. The man responsible was standing right beside him, and there were more urgent matters at hand. “Now I will demand that you prove yourselves worthy of your fallen general. I remind you of the oaths you swore when you joined the legion, that you are sworn to House Valerius, and that I am a true Valerian. I am telling you this because, in less than one week, we will be under attack.”

He was pleased to see that the soldiers accepted his statement calmly, with little more reaction than to exchange a few significant glances with those around them. They were accustomed to being kept in the dark, after all. The reaction of the officers beside and behind him, on the other hand, was one of pure astonishment.

Trebonius blurted out his surprise, and Junius’s head whipped around to glare at him as if he had sprouted scales and a forked tail. He could hear the shifting and muttering of the senior centurions behind his back. He imagined they were wondering if he had gone mad with fear and power.

He glanced back at the pilus priors and smiled at them. Strangely, he found the somber attitude of the legion filled him with more confidence rather than less. He was House Valerius, and this was a legion sworn not to Magnus, not to Corvus, but to the House. They were not only his men, they were his right—and they were his responsibility. He could win them over. He would win them over. It hadn’t happened yet, but it would come soon. He could feel it.

“The assassinations last night were not happenstance or some cruel trick of fate. They were a desperate and cowardly attempt to destroy the leadership of this legion. And do you know why your enemy attacked Marcus Saturnius, Aulus Crescentius, Castorius Spina, Lucius Volensus, Gaius Marcius, Gaius Trebonius, and Valerius Clericus? Because they feared to face you in honest battle under the command of such men!

“They know you defeated the Vakhuyu. They know you defeated the Chalonu. Like the Insobru—they fear to face you! They know what Marcus Saturnius told you, that the men of Legio XVII are no longer green, the men of Legio XVII are no longer mere men—the men of Legio XVII are the blooded and unbeaten soldiers of House Valerius!”

He waited for the soldiers. He had invoked the word that the late legate had imbued with such power in this newly blooded legion. The chanting began slowly, but gradually grew stronger, from century to century, cohort to cohort, until the entire mass of men was chanting. “Saturnius! Saturnius! Marcus Saturnius!”

Marcus nodded, well-satisfied now. In time, if all went well, perhaps the Saturnius they were chanting would one day be Valerius. But not today. A general had to earn the respect of his men before he could hope to win their love. But their chanting of the legate’s name was a significant step. It was more than a just a reverential dirge for their fallen leader—it was the soldiers’ way of announcing that they would accept Marcus Valerius in his stead. And only now, emboldened by that acceptance, did he dare to tell them of his plans.

“This morning, the first and second centuries of the tenth cohort will inform all the residents of Camp Meretrix that they must relocate to Gallidromum immediately for their own safety. All those who have not departed by tomorrow morning will be lashed, and all goods not removed from the camp will be confiscated or burned. Legionaries with camp wives or children may request three hours’ leave this afternoon from their century’s tessarius to go and aid them with their preparations.

“Centurions, your centuries are to be made ready for combat by this evening. I will be requiring status reports after nightfall. Decurions, prepare your squadrons for extended patrol duty, including night patrols. I am promoting the decurion Julianus to praefect equitatus, since we are presently short several tribunes in the cavalry. See him for the patrol schedule. For the same reason, Tribune Trebonius is hereby promoted to tribunus laticlavius. The primus pilus, Gnaeus Junius Honoratus, will act as our praefectus in the absence of Sextus Castorius. And the optio, Titus Cassabus, is promoted to praefect ballisterius.”

After an initial wave of groans in response to hearing of the eviction of the camp followers, the men cheered the news of the four promotions. Marcus very much hoped his elevation would lull the primus pilus to sleep, or at least to prevent him from striking again today. He had to admit, as Honoratus stoically accepted the loud homage of the legion as if it were nothing but his well-merited due, wearing enough gold and silver medals to comprise a second layer of armor, he had never seen a man who looked less likely to betray his eagle.

“Men of the legion, more than one battle lies ahead of you. More than one test of your courage and your honor awaits you. And you will pass those tests, just as you passed the test of battle when you defeated the Insobru, the Vakhuyu, and the Chalonu. Remember this. In seven centuries, House Valerius has never surrendered to an enemy. And it has never once abandoned its loyal soldiers. I am Marcus Valerius Clericus of House Valerius. Will you follow me as you followed my father, and as your fathers followed my grandfather?”

“Ave, Valerius!” the legion roared back. Marcus slammed his fist against his chest and hurled out his right hand in a salute so crisp he hoped it looked like a slashing sword. The sound of five thousand men returning his salute thundered like a force of nature, a deep metallic crashing so loud it seemed to shake the sky.

Expressionless, but triumphant inside, Marcus turned on his heel and marched down the steps at the back of the rostrum. The four pilus priors followed him instinctively.

Junius Honoratus bellowed the end of the assembly with a voice like an angry bull. “Legion dismissed!”

One of Barbatus’s men was waiting near the base of the steps. When Marcus looked quizzically at him, he nodded and stepped forward. “Sir, the decurion sent me to tell you that he will meet you at the legate…uh, at the legionary commander’s residence.”

“Tell him I will meet him there in the company of the senior centurions.” Marcus assumed Barbatus would understand that he intended to arrive with the man guilty of ordering the murder of Marcus Saturnius and the tribunes. But with that man right at his shoulder, he did not dare to be any more clear.

“Well done, Tribune,” Tertius told him.

Marcus was particularly pleased to hear it from him, since the chief of the third cohort had been the other skeptic to greet his unexpected ascension to what could still be a temporary command. But Castorius must be dead or else he would have already been found by now.

A thought struck Marcus: What if Honoratus wasn’t the brains of the murders, but merely the brawn? What if it was the missing praefectus who was behind the attacks? Castorius was a quiet, hard-working man who oversaw most of the practical details required to keep the daily operations of the legion moving smoothly, and he was certainly clever enough to stash a wounded man in a place that would mislead the hunt for the murderer or murderers. There was only one means of finding out. But before he could thank the centurion for the compliment, he discovered to his dismay that he had failed to grasp Tertius’s sarcastic tone.