Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (68 page)

All that was missing was the cavalry wing. But the huge quantities of Cynothii auxiliaries positioned on either flank were more than an adequate substitute, since both flanks actually outnumbered the legionaries stationed in between them. Altogether, the legion made for an awe-inspiring sight, particularly when one found oneself standing in front of it, as Marcus now found himself doing.

“It would appear we made a mistake in failing to abandon the castrum when we had the opportunity,” Trebonius remarked, as they looked out over the Severan legion and its auxiliaries from the safety of the thick walls of the legion’s fortified camp.

“I don’t recall you advising a withdrawal.” Marcus replied mildly. “What you may recall is my desire to meet them in the field, while you and Julianus advised remaining here inside the walls. Now, I admit, I may have been too optimistic about the Cynothii returning home.”

“Better to meet them behind these walls than out there, Clericus. Three hundred horse can’t be expected to counter ten thousand foot. I recall Vellius Maccius to you: Foot-soldiers, if rightly handled, can hardly be beaten except by other soldiers fighting on foot.”

“I am perfectly aware that the geometry is not in our favor!” Marcus snapped.

“Geometry? I should say simple subtraction is sufficient to illustrate the challenge.”

Marcus closed his eyes and allowed himself to indulge in a momentary fantasy of strangling his fellow tribune and second-in-command. Was it ever like this for his father and Saturnius? No, probably not, he concluded. The two of them had won almost all their battles, whereas he and Trebonius bid fair to be defeated, if not wiped out to a man, in their very first command.

What would Corvus do in this situation? That was a useless question. His father would have avoided it in the first place by retreating when he still had the time. But Saturnius was the tactician, so what would he have done if he were facing a siege by an enemy that outnumbered him nearly three to one?

Marcus had absolutely no idea. He found himself wishing he’d paid more attention to Father Aurelius when his tutor had been lecturing on the Iamblichus and the Ychaian astrologers. He did his best to imagine what Saturnius would have done. Simplify the situation. Ignore the details and see the geometry. But try as he might, all he saw before him were three very large rectangles facing one rather thinner rectangle.

“I suppose we had better see if they’re amenable to a parley,” he told Trebonius. “We are all Amorrans, after all. I’ll go talk to Buteo and the cursed Cynothi who calls himself a king. Perhaps this is all one tremendous misunderstanding, and Secundus Falconius will join us in suppressing the provincials. He can’t be so mad as to want to start a civil war. I haven’t received a single message even hinting at any conflict in the city or the Senate!”

“Maybe one of the king’s grandsons is among the hostages we’re holding.” His fellow tribune shrugged. “Well, we can hope, anyhow. Good luck, Clericus. We’ll be praying for you.”

Marcus elected to ride over to the enemy lines with only a draconarius by his side to bear the white flag of truce under which he was riding. No spear was hurled at him and no iron bolt punched through his breastplate, but the contemptuous stare of hundreds of veteran legionaries, their faces bearded and weather-beaten, drove home to him how badly he had already been beaten without a battle.

He had better learn to be a superlative tactician, he told himself, because it appeared he was already a failure as a strategist. The maneuvers before the battle were as important—no, even more important, he understood now—than the fighting that eventually followed. And as he rode through the lines that had been parted for him, he could also see that the men of Fulgetra were battle-hardened in a way that Legio XVII was not yet. He began to think that, even if by some miracle he could convince the king of the Cynothii to withdraw from the field, he and his men would likely find themselves outmatched by the experience of the Severan legion anyhow.

Fulgetra’s legate received him in a canvas tent that was set up behind the legion’s right flank, accompanied by the provincial king and four of his tribunes, each of whom appeared to be a decade older than either him or Trebonius. Buteo was a big man, who, given the way his bulk strained against his well-worn armor, looked rather like a sausage. But Marcus didn’t smile. There was nothing amusing about the man. His pyramid-shaped head and small, predatory eyes gave him an intimidatingly brutal appearance. The Severan legate didn’t bother introducing his companions. He only grunted in what appeared to be a satisfied manner.

“Secundus Falconius,” Marcus nodded to him as if they’d encountered each other in the Forum. “How good it is to see a fellow countryman so far from home.”

Buteo wrinkled his lip in what could have been a sneer or a failed smile. “You should have run home to your daddy after Saturnius got himself killed, Valerian whelp.”

“That does sound like good advice at the moment. Are you going to let me?”

“Not now. You should have run when you had the chance. You’re too late.”

“Pity,” Marcus sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to kill you all, then.”

“Spare us the brave words, puppy. There’s naught to discuss. Surrender, and your men will live. Fight, and many of them will die. Either way, the XVIIth comes under my control. But if you surrender, I won’t kill you and I’ll even keep you out of Severan hands too.”

Marcus ignored Buteo’s offer and turned toward the newly crowned king of Cynothicum, a spare, balding man who looked more like a priest than a rebel king. “What is your interest in this internecine squabble, Your Royal Kingliness? Or am I to address you as ‘Your Majesty’?”

“Don’t answer the boy,” Buteo interrupted, and the Cynothi obediently closed his mouth. “You should thank me, Valerian. I’ve got no wish to kill you or your men. All you have to do is keep your nose out of affairs that are none of your concern and turn your legion over to me. If you don’t trust me to keep you safe, why then, you can just run along to Amorr. Or Vallyrium, if you prefer, it makes no difference to me. I’ll even give you a scroll with my stamp on it to make sure that arrogant Severan pup doesn’t kill you on the road if he finds you.”

“You are most generous, Secundus Falconius.” Marcus didn’t mean for that to come out quite as sarcastically as it sounded. Buteo’s offer was a fine one, and no doubt he had no more desire to risk his soldier’s lives against a trained Amorran legion than Marcus did. Buteo would win, to be sure, though he would pay a heavy price in blood. “But if you don’t mind, before I answer, please allow me to pose one question to your provincial friend here. You won’t find it objectionable.”

Buteo shrugged.

“Your Majesty,” Marcus said to the little king, “are you aware that I hold inside those walls ten young men of noble rank who are your loyal subjects? I mean them no harm, of course, but you will understand that I cannot guarantee their safety if an attack is made against the camp.”

“The captain you captured a few days ago told me as much.” The king’s accent was thick, but he spoke clearly and was perfectly intelligible. “He also said you pledged not to harm them if I did not withdraw with him.”

Marcus mentally kicked himself for promising the Cynothi captain that he would not use his hostages in an attempt to compel the king’s acquiescence. But before he could point out that accidents were known to happen even with the best-intentioned gaolers, especially in the midst of a siege, the king continued.

“However, you may kill them if you like, General. As it happens, if you would cut their throats as soon as you return to your army, you would be doing me a service.”

Marcus blinked. He had not really expected the king to slink away in fear for the hostages, but the Cynothi’s cold-blooded willingness to see the young men dead took him by surprise.

Buteo laughed, seeing Marcus’s unsettlement. “What else would you expect, puppy? His throne is newly established. He’s the first of his line, and he was only crowned king six months ago. Killing a few young nobles, half of whom are potential claimants to his crown, is less a threat than a favor. I recommend you make him an offer before you surrender. I daresay you’ll profit nicely from it.”

Marcus looked from the Amorran legate to the Cynothi king. They were powerful men. Dangerous, even. But both were men without honor. Was this what he would have to become if he wished to survive and prosper in a fallen world?

“Just to be sure I understand you correctly, Secundus Falconius: You are advising that I first enrich myself by murdering the young men under my protection, then betray my House, my country, and my men by turning over Legio XVII to you.”

“They said you was a quick-witted puppy, Valerian.” Buteo rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know about that, but you ain’t as stupid as I thought, getting yourself caught so easy. I see you understand the situation. The question is, do you have the sense to take the only deal you’re going to get?”

“My life, a little gold, and the chance for my men to die in battle fighting whom, goblins? Orcs? Or the other Valerian legions? With all due respect, I must decline your generous offer. If it profiteth not a man to gain the whole world at the cost of his soul, I can’t see that a single legion is worth the price.”

The Cynothi’s eyes narrowed.

But Buteo only laughed. It was a harsh, triumphant sound, and the man wasn’t feigning his amusement either. He was genuinely amused.

“You don’t know a damn thing, Valerian. You’re still a cleric, not a soldier. The men don’t give a damn about their own souls, much less yourn. I’ll have your head within the week, and it’ll be your men who will give it to me. They didn’t kiss the eagle this spring thinking they’d face a bloody Amorran legion and an army that whipped the consul of the legions. They thought they’d be slaughtering farm boys and raping their way through a provincial city or two. I’ll give them the same offer I gave you: Surrender or die. And if you stand in the way of their surrender, why, I’ll just have to remind them that all they have to do is get you out of the way.”

“I fear you sell the men short,” Marcus said bravely, but he was thinking absolutely nothing of the kind. He had no doubt whatsoever that the centurions who had seen one legionary commander dead and burned wouldn’t hesitate to kill a second one themselves, not if their lives hung in the balance. They probably wouldn’t even see it as surrender per se, more of a change in command, and arguably, a sensible one. The youngest of Buteo’s four tribunes had at least a decade on him, and any one of them would have more experience and a stronger claim on commanding a legion as well. “Perhaps you will find that the men of Legio XVII are more loyal and honorable than your own, Secundus Falconius.”

“More likely I’ll find your head lying on the ground after they throw it over the walls.” Buteo made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You’re a brave little boy, Valerian, I’ll give you that. I’ll be disappointed if I hear you died crying and begging and pissing yourself. Now, go back to your men and try to explain to them that you’re expecting them to fight an army three times their number and ten times their experience.”

“Yours is a tender heart, Falconian. Never fear: I shall endeavor to face my fate in such a manner as to spare you any distress. Legate, tribunes, Your Majesty.”

Marcus was careful to show a fearless face to Buteo and the others as he turned around smartly, walked toward his horse, whose reins were being held by his draconius, and mounted it as casually as if he was on his family’s estates. He neither looked back nor so much as glanced at any of the legionaries through whose lines he was riding as he returned to the castrum.

A single thought weighed heavily upon his mind as he rode half a horse’s length in front of the subdued companion. How did Secundus Falconius, or the man who appeared to be pulling his strings, Severus Patronus, merit such deference and obedience from a half-barbarian rebel like the king of the Cynothii?

“How did it go?” Trebonius asked him as he helped Marcus shed his heavy leather-and-steel armor. “Does he intend to besiege us?”

“Buteo appears to be about as imaginative as my father once told me Marcus Saturnius was.” He held up a hand to forestall what appeared to be an immediate protest from his friend, who had greatly admired Saturnius. “Corvus meant it as a compliment. He thought that the best tacticians saw the battlefield more clearly because they lacked imagination.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Anyhow, if that’s the case, I fear Buteo must be tactical genius. He obviously expected me to surrender. I believe his intention is to publicly demand our surrender tomorrow, in a manner that all the men can hear. When I refuse, he’ll call for them to mutiny, kill me and any officers who support me, and then accept him as stragister militum and one of his tribunes as legatus. It’s a perfectly reasonable approach. It won’t cost him a single man, and he can always try storming the walls if the men don’t prove amenable.”

Trebonius frowned at Marcus’s relaxed tone. “That doesn’t bother you at all? It’s not like you to be this fatalistic, Marcus. I don’t know if you’re going to be able to keep the men in line. Half the centurions have told me their men started grumbling as soon as the Severans showed up with the Cynothii in tow. I have to tell you, Marcus, they may turn on you, Valerius or no. They’re willing to follow you to a point, but I don’t think that extends to taking on another Amorran legion. Especially not one that outnumbers us so badly.”