It must have taken two minutes for the man to die. The priests continued, unperturbed, whilst the legionaries became ever less submissive. Some backed away and shook their heads, whilst others clamped their mouths shut and refused to swallow.
As the death toll mounted, the crowd, initially silent, had begun to buzz, first as people pushed for a better view, and then as polarisation occurred.
Some seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, even calling out encouragement.
“Good riddance, you bloody cowards!” someone shouted.
“Ye spineless pricks!” another screamed at the hapless Legionaries.
Others looked appalled, and some of these pulled away. They left the square in disgust, covering their children’s faces as they did to shield them from the macabre spectacle.
In others, these emotions turned to anger. Fights erupted as arguments broke out in the crowd. The scene in the square soon regressed into chaos and the militiamen moved to quell a potential riot.
Meanwhile, the other legions stood by in shocked silence, impotent despite all their power to intervene. Shackled by nothing more than rigid discipline and loyalty.
They could have stopped it. That was the pity of it all, Conlan thought. If only they could have thrown off the mental shackles that bound them, they could have saved their brothers and taken the Empire for themselves, claiming it back from vile despots like Martius and the Emperor. Taking it for the people.
As the sun progressed through the heavens, the priests delivered their dark elixir to every member of the forlorn Twelfth Legion. In many cases, towards the end, by clamping their hands over mouths and forcing a gagging swallow.
When the pitiful mewling finally ceased, fifty-one hideously contorted bodies lay on the hard stone slabs of Empire Square.
Conlan wished he could forget the scene, erase it from his memory and from history. It had joined his other nightmares now, so that every night — as if deprived of stimulus, his mind had nothing better to do than to relive past horrors — he returned to experience it over and over again.
He sighed and allowed his body to fold slowly to the floor until he was sitting, legs crossed.
He stared at the door, as he was in the habit of doing at about this time every day. His stomach ached urgently as his thoughts drifted to food. Any minute now, it would arrive and he would force the meagre portion down. Then he would meditate; then exercise; then sleep, if that was what it could be called, returning again to the maelstrom of his subconscious. Most nights he would drift on the edge of sleep for hours, trapped between dream and reality. Often he returned to consciousness with a start, his heart thumping in his chest, cold sweat cooling his body.
Syke. She was the only relief he would get. But even the memory of her would twist and the goddess’s crimson hair would become blood. Blood that flowed to cover her white armour at the battle of Sothlind, drowning her exquisite features in gore as it coated and transformed her face so that she became something hideous and unnatural, a true creature of nightmare, more gorgon than god.
The door rattled.
Conlan shifted his weight minutely, barely able to hold his anticipation. His stomach growled now at the thought of food.
It opened wide. Shocking brilliant light surrounded the silhouette of a man in the doorway, a silhouette that slowly resolved into the form of the proctor, Danus Villius.
Villius looked down on Conlan, his expression seemingly a mixture of guilt and empathy. “Cohort Commander.” Villius’s tone, in contrast to his expression, was strictly formal, brusque even. “General Martius will see you now.”
CHAPTER THREE
The sun drifted low in the west, the sky reddening as the afternoon transitioned to evening. Martius sat on a plain veranda overlooking the ornamental pool in the central courtyard of his townhouse.
His wife, Ellasand, and his two sons, Ursus and Accipiter, sat upstairs on the balcony of the east wing. Ellasand looked to be reading, happily absorbed in her favourite pastime. The boys were fixated on a game board in front of them, no doubt playing ‘steal the king’ as usual, obsessively dedicated to besting each other, as ever.
With the exception his southern estate and villa, the courtyard of the town house in Adarna was Martius’s favourite spot on earth. So many good memories permeated the house that they blended into one long continuum of contentment and safety.
Directly in front of him, down three steps from the veranda, the ground down to the pool was split into vegetable patches and small stands of dwarf fruit trees. He was proud of this place. There was, of course, no need for a man in his position to do any gardening, but he did it for the sheer relaxation. There was something hypnotic and medicinal, he found, in getting his hands dirty and nurturing plants to bear fruit or yield sustenance. For most of his life, he had studied the arts of death but in this place he repaid the earth for his sins, often spending hours pruning tomatoes or setting seeds. It was a tranquil penance, one he longed for often when out on campaign.
The other side of the garden belonged to Ellasand. It stood awash with colour, the result of her dedication to the blooming flowers and shrubs she nurtured. Truth be told, Ellasand believed more in delegation and often enlisted the aid of servants or freedmen in completing the grand design for her half of the courtyard. A design which, Martius found, constantly morphed and refreshed. Barely a month went by in Ellasand’s garden without a major change being instigated.
Horticulture had become a form of friendly competition over the years, as if Ellasand was trying to outdo Martius’s efforts, to eclipse his garden with the beauty of her own.
Hearing footsteps approach, Martius turned to see his servant, Darcus, escorting Turbis, Villius and the troubled young officer, Conlan, towards his table.
The boy looks nervous, he noted, although at twenty-five he doubted many would call Conlan a boy. He has much to learn about life, but there is iron in him; he may have potential if he can control his recklessness.
Martius doubted that Conlan knew how close he had come to execution for his protestations during the decimation. If the Emperor — who grew keener every day on martial punishment — had been present, Conlan would probably be dead.
He recalled seeing Conlan on the battlefield for the first time. Standing, exhausted, the young officer had clutched the standard of the Third like a magical talisman. The men Conlan had fought with — the men he had led on the battlefield — reported he had shown outstanding courage and bravery, leading the group after his legion father, Yovas, had perished.
Conlan’s actions had probably delayed the Wicklanders’ attack on the rest of the army. That, along with the presence of the ‘others’ — the mysterious knights in white armour — had been enough to allow time for the cavalry to be gathered. He may have as much to do with winning the battle as you did, Martius reminded himself.
Conlan did not attempt to hide his contempt as he approached. His lips quivered, face crimson with rage. He even reached down with his right hand for a sword that was not there.
Martius chided himself for meeting this unpredictable man in his home, but it was the only place he could think of where it would be safe to speak openly. A quick survey of the area revealed several garden implements — all potential weapons — a few paces away in the vegetable garden. He had no fear for himself, but Conlan was a hardened soldier in his prime, a danger to any man. He looked up again at the balcony overlooking them. Ella caught his eye and waved lazily. He waved back in response and observed whilst he did that his boys were still engrossed in their competition, fixated on the board between them.