“Low down?”
Martius’s smile broadened. “As in, liable to flooding…” he turned towards Conlan and raised an eyebrow.
Conlan smiled for what felt like the first time in an age. Somehow, he could not help but warm to Martius. The man’s charm was infectious, although he had no doubt now that this was just another weapon in the primus general’s armoury.
“Why are we here, sir?”
Martius smiled again. “That’s really a rather difficult question to answer, Father Conlan.” He raised an eyebrow again. “I rather think it is better targeted at a priest. Although I am sure my nephew would have a few ideas he would love to share with us…”
“You know what I mean, sir.”
Martius’s eyebrow drooped back down. His expression became serious and he looked straight ahead for a long moment.
Perhaps I have been too familiar, perhaps I misjudged him. He may be no different to the others of the elite. Conlan waited anxiously for an answer.
Eventually, Martius took a deep breath. “We are here to get to know each other, and perhaps to allow me to expunge some of the guilt I feel.”
“Guilt at the decimation?” Relief flooded through Conlan. For some reason he found himself desperate not to offend the general.
“Guilt at all of it. If I had better predicted the course of the battle, the Twelfth might not have been put under such pressure and broken. Your Phoenix Third might be stronger.” Martius’s eyes were distant as he spoke, as if reliving the events of the battle.
“No one could have predicted what happened, sir.” A part of Conlan could not believe that he was forgiving the man. It screamed at him to remember Dylon and the rest of his brothers. But he knew the truth was simple. No one could have predicted the battle. The Twelfth were a mature legion at full strength; they were simply overwhelmed by the weight of barbarian numbers. “You didn’t have enough men to hold the valley. It’s a miracle we won.” It’s a miracle we had help from the heavens.
Martius blinked slowly and exhaled. “I know,” he said softly. “But you will learn as a leader that the assurance you could not have done better is no consolation for the guilt that you feel at the loss of your men. I am responsible for the death of thousands of men, Conlan… over the years; a fair share of them were our own.”
“Sir.” Conlan nodded gravely, shocked at the passion in the general’s voice, lost for any other words.
Martius was silent for some time, clearly lost again in his own thoughts. “I see in you something that is rare, Conlan,” he said eventually. “You have a spirit that is difficult to smother, a questioning mind. But you are young and that leads you to be brash… Perhaps I should start by telling you a little of life. My understanding of life, that is.”
“Your understanding of life?” Conlan’s mind reeled. Young and brash. Somehow he knew that Martius was right. Perhaps a smarter man would play a smarter game. Was Martius intending to educate him in soldiering? He did not know; but he knew that a year ago, before it all changed, he would have given anything just to talk to the living legend that now walked beside him.
Martius nodded. “Bear with me. Indulge me if you will. It has taken me many years to form my views. Years that you do not have. Age is both an advantage and a curse, Conlan. Of that I am certain. With age comes wisdom; not always, but usually.” He gave a half smile. “It is all relative, you understand. A man who is not very smart will remain so — he can only work with the lot that he has been given — there is no magical transformation for those who are not blessed with a modicum of talent or intellect.”
“So if you’re stupid you stay stupid?”
“You have a way with words, Conlan; you and some others of your generation. Perhaps it is always the way with youth. You challenge us by your very existence, and remind us that mortality has a purpose, perhaps. Maybe we need to make way for you.” Martius waved a hand dismissively as if banishing the thought. “You are right, of course. The stupid stay stupid. But you must remember that you have no right to look down upon those who are not as gifted as you are — much as you would hope that the many who are more gifted than yourself would not look down on you.”
Conlan flushed. “I didn’t mean — ”
“It’s fine. I understand. Just remember that there are always people out there who are better at some things… better at many things than you are.” Martius took a deep breath. “I never have been very good at imparting wisdom, even with my own children. To the point, Conlan. Let me tell you my thoughts on life.”
Conlan pursed his lips. Clearly the general was in a strange frame of mind, but perhaps this was his way with coping with the grief of his loss. “Yes?”
“I do not know if there are any gods, Conlan. Even with all I have recently seen. A logical man questions everything until he has proof before him. The priests tell us that every man has to do certain things in a certain way in order to get to paradise. I deny this. Instead, I have found my own simple enlightenment.”
Thinking of enlightenment, Conlan found himself looking at the sky, as if the firmament would grant him the knowledge he needed to ascend to a higher plane of consciousness, and, perhaps, match the general.
“What is your enlightenment?” he asked when the sky offered no answer.
“It does not matter if there is a judgement made on you from above. If there are no gods, then there is no afterlife. If there is no afterlife, then we are nought but dust and bones in the end and oblivion is all that awaits us.”
Conlan nodded. Oblivion is the most logical answer; more so than gods in white armour coming to Earth, in any case.
“The point is, Conlan, that it really doesn’t matter. There shouldn’t be a need to be good because you have to be. You should realise that the enlightened path is to do the best that you can and be as good as you can because you are constantly judging yourself. If you are dust in the end, then you should make an impression. A positive impression, whilst you have the time.”
They approached a statue. It was one of many in the park that had been donated over the years by various members of the Adarnan aristocracy. It depicted the God Toruss as a bull-headed man, roaring at the sky with fists clenched and held skyward.
On the plinth below the statue, someone had painted: ‘THEY HAVE COME’ in red, with the initials ‘M.T.’ underneath.
“Marek Tyll,” Conlan whispered. The mad preacher might still be at large.
“The preacher?” Martius stopped and examined the plinth. “I have heard of him. They say he is a deserter, but no one has been able to catch him so far. He has surrounded himself with so many zealots that I fear there would be riots if we attempted arrest. His movement grows.”
“I saw him once. A few weeks ago. The day before the… the decimation.” Conlan looked at the red initials. A chill ran down his spine. The paint had dripped so that it looked much like blood flowing from a wound.
A look of mild revulsion crossed Martius’s face. “And do you think that he is doing the best he can for his fellow man? Do you think that he is using his time productively?”
“I think he may be a dangerous man for the Empire.” Conlan glanced around; he had the strangest feeling that there were eyes looking upon him.
Two men stood by a tree nearby, dressed in plain brown leggings and tunics, alike to those worn by thousands of others in the capital. Their hands thrust deeply into their pockets.
“They have the look of killers,” Martius said, his tone remaining steady and conversational. “I fear they may have been following us for some time.” His eyes narrowed. “There are two more behind us, on a stone bench by the pond.”