‘Bloody Tiger’,
Lord Lucius Aldenus the Third,
Praetor Maximus,
Legatus ‘omnis Legionis’
King Lucius III
Old rusted blade
Part II
-See to relish it...-
Lucius sliced the lamb steak along the bone with the thin knife, but used his fingers to lift the freed bone to clean it, before he discarded it in order to focus on the piece of tender meat. Atia Severliva had insisted for the King to share a meal with her inside the Baron’s villa —with Lucius accepting in order to remain tactful, and because he was a guest in her house— which of course meant that Baron Reynard could not be present. Still, Lucius enjoyed a good conversation with her father Judicar Polus Servius about Lorian law and spoke of lighter matters with Atia herself, before they both graciously retired in order to allow the busy king to tend to the state’s affairs. Lucius had continued savoring the excellent meal as the exhausted from the journey Marcus-Antonius had overslept, the Legatus also taking full advantage of Atia’s hospitality and villa’s extra bedrooms.
“Ramirus has arrived,” Sir Valgus reported and Lucius gave a slight nod, since he had his mouth full. He swallowed and had some water to clean the palate afore asking the knight.
“Antonius?”
“He has arisen sire,” Sir Valgus replied. “Blamed the comfortable divan for the mishap and the hostess.”
“Surely not Atia?” Lucius inquired with a frown. “The woman is a true Domina of this household, which alas, reflects poorly on my cousin.”
“I opted to leave the matter vague, your grace. For fear of the truth,” Roman elucidated. “Ramirus has a letter from Sirio asking for the chance of an interview after the summer.”
“The King needs not a biographer,” Lucius replied. “His deeds must speak for themselves.” Sir Valgus nodded. “I was semi-jesting Roman,” Lucius pointed out and reached for the goblet of wine. “Why after the summer? Sirio is otherwise preoccupied?”
“His wife is expecting, sire.”
“Of course,” Lucius gave a nod of understanding as mistreating Storm Nattas’ daughter was a recipe for disaster. At this moment the palace clerk was heard.
“Legatus Merenda. The esteemed Marcus-Antonius.”
“Eh, no need for further elaborating mate. You are beating a dead horse!” Antonius was heard and then appeared at the dining hall’s door. “Only one Merenda serves as a Legatus!”
The young Legatus had a red toga on, made out of soft cloth and paired with custom leather boots. His hair tussled and still wet as if he’d dipped his head in a barrel. The curly hair not cut as short after months on campaign. Tanned and fit, Marcus-Antonius approached the still served with food plates table, only to pause and salute with great fanfare raising his fist at the sitting Lucius.
“Ave, Praetor Maximus!” the Legatus roared through his patented fierce leer, then clenched his first and thudded it on his broad chest with a grimace of pain.
“We salute the lively Legatus of the First Legion,” Lucius answered, trying to keep a grin from forming on his lips. You either despised Antonius or you loved him for his character, there was no in between. “Lively, yet somehow arriving late for his arranged meeting with the king. Did you hurt yourself just now?”
“The Lorica offers better protection than these garbs,” Marcus-Antonius admitted and sighed, casting a side glance at the sober Sir Valgus. “I shan’t offer tantalizing gossip, but in the presence of the King alone,” he finally said and Lucius dismissed the knight barely holding himself from rolling his eyes to the white.
He got up after Roman had walked outside to approach the shorter Merenda. Lucius placed both hands on the Legatus’ shoulders and stared in the man’s lighter blue eyes. “To see you whole pleases heart, my friend.”
“I strived to present myself to Lucius,” Merenda replied clasping at the King’s forearms moved. “But failed to antagonize such godly visage. How is that you stand so bronzed, your grace?”
Lucius gave the Legatus a light tap on the cheek and stood back. “You know I stayed in Luciopolis since the summer.”
“One figures the King’s presence in a worksite, doesn’t mean the king himself is laboring with the workers,” Marcus-Antonius retorted always finding a good turn of phrase.
“We did a little bit of this and a little bit of that as they say. It’s a lovely sight to behold amidst the barren landscape and the forbidding mountains. A touch of white marble, dressed in green crops and surrounded by clean water.”
“A miracle performed, yet again,” Marcus-Antonius commented and Lucius returned to his seat, with the Legatus taking the chair across from him at the other edge of the table. “The men stopped praying to Tyeus and turned to another deity the rumor mill says.”
Lucius reached for his goblet. “Mavors? Let men be how they like, Antonius.”
“Huh? They pray to Lucius,” the Legatus commented with a frown, whilst exploring the contents of the platter in front of him. “Whatever brought mention of the pagan gods?”
The matter of the men considering a mortal equal to a deity, not bothering the Legatus at all.
“My mind was on history’s teachings. Also, I spent some time with Liburnius, the younger,” Lucius replied and watched Marcus-Antonius eating the steak using the bone to hold it. “The Issirs were kind to your men then?” He asked the munching Legatus.
“Apologies,” Antonius muttered trying to swallow. “I had the misfortune of tasting Cucan’s meals for far too long, your grace.”
“We are in confidence,” Lucius told him. “Use my name.”
“He’s a horrible cook, Lucius. But alas, too-passionate to dissuade from the task,” Marcus-Antonius explained.
“The legionnaire?” Lucius probed and the Legatus nodded. “So you’ve arrived without your wife or Robert?”
“Robert is a couple of days behind, with his wife Cristiana Struder and Sir Klaas Krebber,” Marcus-Antonius replied and seeing Lucius’ questioning brows rising, he added. “Oline Eman didn’t want to travel so fast and so soon after giving birth, but she’ll bring Antonius Niger to Luciopolis this summer. I’ll buy that villa you suggested.”
Lucius lifted the goblet to his lips examining the young Legatus’ face. “I vaguely suggested buying something to raise your son that stands more comfortable than a billet. Sabretooth Castle seemed the obvious choice, but didn’t expect you to pick something so far away from your post with the legion, whilst still selecting to buy a house in a desert.”
“White marble and green gardens,” Antonius repeated the king’s earlier praise for the still under construction town.
“I see that despite just risen you came prepared to dodge the matter. All the same, congrats on having a son and wife, Antonius,” Lucius said. “It is a big chapter in a man’s life. Family is very important.”
“It gives different perspective,” the Legatus replied and filled a goblet with wine.
“I strived not to offer critique, but you make it difficult,” Lucius rustled with a sigh. “Why Niger?”
“The boy is blacker than his mother and shaped in an unflattering manner,” Marcus-Antonius retorted and shook his head. “He screams a lot and pissed on my hands,” he continued with a grimace of despair. “Now, I can navigate all manner of difficult things, but I found myself absent a good retort when it happened. Makes me sympathize with ole Seleucid’s behavior.”
“Your father took care of your education, and leaving aside the matter of straying from his vows repeatedly, Sir Seleucid took care of all his sons,” Lucius noted. “Babies are faultless.”
“I don’t fault the boy,” Marcus-Antonius grimaced. “It was a poor attempt at a jest, to hide embarrassment for thinking the matter easier than it is.”
“Marriage?” Lucius asked. “You found Oline difficult then? I understand she’s an older woman.”
“Not difficult, and her years don’t show,” Antonius puffed out. “She just doesn’t like the army. Not everyone is so blessed in picking a Valkyrie for a wife, Lucius.”
“Monica is allergic to blades and hates travelling in any capacity or reason and as for Faye, well she isn’t exactly favoring my presence here and angering a Valkyrie can turn dangerous very fast,” Lucius replied with an austere stare. “You should bring your wife and son, so I can properly meet them,” he told his friend.
“I was… eh, was planning on doing it. But she really wants to buy a house so she can nest with the baby and all the night talk before sleeping freaked me out,” Marcus-Antonius admitted and rubbed at his nape with a hand. “I have to convince her the Legion can’t settle in a place for long. A city on the move, right?”
“It’s a known saying.”
“Exactly.”
Lucius stared at Antonius nervous face sympathetically.
“You can’t force your wife to follow you on campaign all the time, but she might do it when the boy is older,” Lucius pursed his mouth. “You got overwhelmed. The fear of losing time or straying from imagined path has clouded your mind. You can’t force these things. Who’s Caius-Metilus Plautus? I saw him appear on the roster.”
“I convinced him to enlist as an additional scribe,” Marcus-Antonius replied a little relieved by the change of topic. “A polymath, he had studied under Di Cresta in Cartagen.”
“Uhm. Yet you didn’t need more scribes,” Lucius murmured. He could see the opening to talk more of Liburnius, but decided to resist the temptation to discuss the matter with the Legatus at this point and focus on more pressing matters. “You lost Celsus and Indus’ 2nd Cohort,” the King finally said. “The first is as much a loss for Regia -the men also, as for yourself and yet these losses you replaced with captured Raoz mercenaries and a local Issir engineer.”
“Celsus had worked with William and everyone in the unit appeared to favor young Nak’s mind at the time. He’s very smart,” Marcus-Antonius explained. “Plus, I needed to make some gestures to cement their support, sir.”
“Did you? Cement their support?”
“Well, Celsus has a statue built and a port is named after me. A small port, but a port nonetheless,” Antonius replied proudly. “The First Legion left its mark on the local populace.”
“Anker won a spectacular battle and Ruud brought down Ralf’s killer,” Lucius noted, dousing the Legatus enthusiasm. “Not many discuss your escapades at the Lakes, Antonius.”
“The opportunity to plug the Khan’s options could have gone away,” the Legatus defended his actions. “I could see the Khanate’s Reserve Army break through the lakes and threatening either Riverdor or Forestfort at Mudriver. Even its mere presence there would have turned Lord Ruud around worried before the Pavilion and given Prince Radin the golden opportunity to cut off Castalor, even free Lord Putra.”
Lucius got up from his chair, then paused in deep thought whilst slowly wiping his hands with a small towel.
“Radin’s idea was risky but brilliant,” a concerned Antonius added and stood up as well at Lucius’ gesture.
“Walk with me to Atia’s verandah,” he told him and waited for the Legatus to approach. “I had the same worries as you,” Lucius said as they walked towards the first floor large Lorian balcony, nicely decorated with marble benches, colorful amphorae and small rectangular flower-beds now absent of buds. “You should have told me,” Lucius added when they reached the short rails and stared at the town port beyond them towards the large Lake. “I had to pretend I was aware of your actions Antonius. The younger citizens might find elation in the tales of the unruly Legatus of the First, but the older heads and nobles shift uncomfortably in their spots and voice criticism in risky endeavors or too-independent military commanders.”
“There’s no reward without risk. Had I brought it to the military council, the Old Oak would have asked Nonus Sula to reinforce us, and march the Fourth up the blasted coast, whilst Trupo would have asked in turn for another month to properly estimate the true supply requirements. I made none and the men were forced to learn to live off the land, train mind and body to austerity. I didn’t have the time to wait around and with the risk of the secret leaking out potentially, the surprise element would have slipped from grasp forever,” Marcus-Antonius stooped over the rails planting both hands on the lacquered beige marble. “And if I failed, the loss reflected on the King, who was now aware.”
“The loss would reflect the King either way,” Lucius noted. “How did the Khanate’s army fare against a shrunken field and once forced to attack fixed positions?”
Marcus-Antonius puffed out. “No different than any other armies? They have great freedom of movement tactically, but it’s not uniformed or always present. Too many different types of units, doctrine and ethnicities. In a flat field this could have been different.”
“In a flat field, you create obstacles.” Lucius said and looked in Antonius tensed face. “Using the men’s formation to nullify the terrain and shrink it. A series of moving boxes, squares placed just close enough to make the riders worry from both sides.”
“Testudo is too slow and you’ll need missile support inside the formations,” Marcus-Antonius argued. “But it wouldn’t work if you’re ambushed or caught on the move.”
“You better not be caught then in open and flat terrain, and learn to react fast,” Lucius remarked. “What went wrong?”
“Slavers and marines landed at Meertje and threatened Indus’ flank. When we rolled Dhin-Awal’s south flank and attacked his center, the Khanate’s other flank pressed on the attack on the 2nd Cohort and Moeras, instead of turning around to help the Khanate general.”
“And lose everything,” Lucius noted. “Not everyone has the wherewithal to sacrifice his leader to avoid destruction. The mark of a ruthless man.”
There might come a time though, Lucius thought. When a general must fall for the army to survive and if no one else can see this, then it’s the general’s responsibility to act without hesitation.
“Aye. It was also brilliant foresight on the general’s part in the heat of battle, sir,” Marcus-Antonius agreed sensing the King’s thoughts. “It kept an escape route open through the lake port and galvanized his men. Pourem saved a lot of soldiers that day and presented me with nasty alternative, a poison pill difficult to swallow.”
“Turn to save the 2nd Cohort and lose the battle,” Lucius spelled it out for him as Antonius had halted with a grimace of anger. “Or win the battle at the cost of the men. Now those men he saved, defend the capital.”
“I didn’t expect such flexibility and decisiveness from him,” Antonius admitted. “It is rumored he messaged Dhin-Awal ‘to do what’s right’ in the heat of battle.”
“Why was he relegated at the reserve army?”
“Pourem is from an unimportant family. While he was raised through merit, the lowly family history dragged him down. Not enough gravitas. General Birka of Dia Castle, was his benefactor at the start. Our reports say that he knows how to secure objectives and defend. The Khan liked him a lot and gave him to Radin. The Prince wished to move without a set plan, flexible objectives and with mostly mobile troops, while Pourem prefers a more thorough approach with clearly defined goals so there was disagreement. Since you can’t really disagree with a Prince and have a long life, Pourem opted to stay with Dhin-Awal as a back-up officer at Birka’s suggestion. It was pure chance that such an experienced officer was with the Reserve Army and was of course immediately given command.”
“There’s always a man across the field that can ruin your day, my friend,” Lucius told the discomforted Legatus. “I don’t think you’ve taken the decision lightly or out of indifference.”
“I had men with Prefect Memon and Damascus at Sugarcanes road to cover the 2nd but the landings delayed them. In hindsight, I should have looked to defend Meertje with more vigor.”
“Something else might have changed,” Lucius pointed reassuringly. “You opt to defend the port today and then you have no one in reserve to plug a breakout someplace else on the morrow. No plan is full proof,” the King breathed out, without mentioning that had Antonius revealed his plan, then the reserve he lacked might have been there. The Legatus knew his mistakes and on the scales he had done the best job that he could. War is not for the faint-hearted. “Elsanne tried to break inside the capital via the river’s side, but while managing to penetrate the northern walls, Pourem defended against them successfully. Duke Rik lost a lot of mercenaries and his brother’s best men are stranded across the river.”
“Did Anker attack those escaping the capital?” Marcus-Antonius asked.
“He didn’t, offered aid instead or his commanders did,” Lucius replied and rapped his fingers at the top of the marble rails. “But also won’t allow them to cross back and return to their camps.”
“Robert believes an outright assault would be too costly and the Queen doesn’t have the army to pull it off unless Charles brings reinforcements, but he also believes the city would fall eventually, if the supply is fully cut off.”
“Elsanne should have attacked Eagleport, secured it fully and then moved against the bridges,” Lucius said. “Force Pourem to fight outside the walls to assist his allies. He showed her where his concern lays and from where help might arrive for him.”
“Can we move against the capital? The army would support it.”
“Yes, but we are a kingdom and not an orphan army. Regia’s citizens might not understand starting a war in order to help Elsanne, or even Anker. Not to mention we might find ourselves against one of them after the Khan’s army leaves, without any home support and absent any diplomatic capital.”
“What about Robert?” Marcus-Antonius asked.
“Robert’s claim offers opportunity, but it is also a trap,” Lucius continued. “I’ll speak with him to fully grasp the situation, but keeping a friendly window open with Charles is also to our interests. Charles effectively controls a mini kingdom on the northwestern corner of Canlita Sea between the Duchy, Badum and Tollor.”
“Pascor might not object to another crack at it, another bid to control the northern shores of Canlita.”
“How do you side with Pascor?” Lucius wondered aloud. “Then again, you want them pacified, which is what Duke Holt wants also. Had the Van Calcar stopped near a real sea, they would have become pirates.” The King paused to breathe out. “Or devolved to their previous state and practice full-blown piracy, this was perhaps the better term.”
“Not all Issirs are like the Lakelords,” Antonius noted.
“They are not. Different peoples, forced to move in search of a better life all-together,” Lucius said thinking again of his talk with Liburnius. “Their core differences splitting them apart. This division not formed organically, but because it had always been there. The place they had come from.”
Different peoples, close enough, but not exactly. Units formed from different provinces.
“You speak of Lesia?” Antonius probed curious.
He was.
“Would a Legion retreat or splinter due to hardship, losing sight of its objectives?” Lucius asked Merenda and the young Legatus turned furrowing his brows, not understanding fully what the king was speaking about.
Stolen novel; please report.
“An army has objectives, always. Plans may change, but you tinker constantly and probe until you find a weak spot.”
“What if there was no plan?” Lucius asked and Marcus-Antonius stood back confused. “What if an army got stranded absent help or knowledge of terrain? Without the possibility to redeploy to a known location and completely cut off from even basic supplies? If a whole capital falls in time, what will happen to this army?”
Even if it was a perfectly organized unit, Lucius was forced to admit.
“I don’t understand. How much time?” Antonius asked.
Lucius thought of the ancient gladius and the pile of rusted weaponry they had unearthed. When an officer falls another takes its place. The ranks shift and reorganize. What if an engineer was killed though and you lacked a replacement? A smith’s apprentice, or even a knowledgeable scribe. What if the campaign never ends for lack of an objective? Wouldn’t the army fashion one out of thin air? It would.
Lucius stared in Marcus-Antonius concerned face and smiled reassuringly, reaching to grasp his shoulder.
But then different opinions start to weigh more against this unofficial order. Influential officers might promote another idea, a different plan or course of action. Youth argues with older heads. And time passes, more and more technicians’ age or perish during the long march. Not as easy to replace. The army pulls itself apart trying to fight in all directions, still basically aimless, because no single direction is the correct one. Is this even possible?
If it is, then the army can’t settle although it should. It must settle, else it’ll disintegrate. But settling is to give up hope of a return and this creates even more division within the ranks. Perhaps attempts are made but fail, plans formulated to tackle both eventualities.
The scribes that keep the records do their everyday job until they succumb as well and another younger apprentice takes their place. He learned on the job and knows of army matters well, but nothing else, for he never went to a real academy for his letters. These new guys preserve what is important and passed down the chain of command. The roster and supplies, animals and weapons. The use of tools, even if said tools are not easy to make as good as afore. So they use what they have available or the same metals those around them use and when this earlier knowledge or skill is left unused for too-long, it fades into Lethe’s embrace. Lost but for the few still preserving the relics or have records about the location where their ‘treasures’ are buried. Passed down to each officer taking charge until even this little bit of tradition fades.
Even the gods of their forefathers now stand distant, gradually blending with the gods of this unfamiliar realm they have found themselves in. Those gods easier to recognize endure through the ages. For a soldier’s life revolves around the army, until the army is no more and the soldier reverts to being a simple man, stranded in a desolate place or amidst strangers, without his unit and without a homeland.
What actions then this former soldier take?
What will this man do, generations removed from his ancestor?
The tales of the unit too distant and alien now in this new more familiar environment, an outline of what once was. A myth, palatable to the ear, difficult to believe, but in his heart of hearts and in his dreams.
What does he do?
He fashions a nation… um, aye. He creates a country in his own likeness.
Or as close as he could make it.
Thus, even some of the past’s crazier stories begin to make sense. Because those that knew better, the higher-ups, remained a sufficiently close-knit cadre of people, and trained or birthed their replacements or successors in the same manner for far longer than the common soldiers. So when one of them returns to a location the army had been in the distant past, other than him and perhaps a few of his confidants, aye… no one around this more knowledgeable person -we can call Manius in this instance, truly comprehends what their young Lord is really doing by the lake.
The cadre of lost relics Manius so craved, had long been sunk beyond his reach.
It’s cyclical this event. These epochs, Reynard had told him earlier that day. They come and go.
And what once was lost, now stands revealed.
“Two thousand years,” Lucius finally replied and the Legatus smacked his lips befuddled at the reply, until Lucius signed for the young man to join him back inside at their table.
Director of LID, Vibius Ramirus, escorted the King out of the city walls the next day and to the 3rd Cohort’s Castrum. The latter utilized part of 3rd Legion’s old bigger fortified campsite left behind after the Lorian Plains campaign, which the nearby city had used in the interim period as safe stables, to house livestock and warehouses for trade goods.
“Any news?” Lucius asked letting Nightsilver control the pace, the nervous warhorse alternating between trotting nervously ahead to scatter the merchant animals using the main road and strolling leisurely when their path was cleared.
“A sack of missives for Praetor Maximus,” Ramirus replied, riding alongside the king with Sir Valgus and the sleepy Merenda, with the two ‘praetorians’ following behind them. Both legionnaires standing proudly on the saddle as they considered their ‘roles’ now fully validated. “Reports from Nonus Sula, Proconsul Macrinus, the First Consul, Governor Gladius Tutor, several from Cartagen.”
“Read the more important first,” Lucius ordered, returning the salute from a young boy who had escaped his mother’s hold to brave the street as they passed them by, and raised his arm to the King’s entourage, hailing ‘Ave Caesar!’. The commoners living near this older part of Regia used the archaic word instead of King, just as much as the army preferred Lucius’ last official rank whilst riding with them on campaign. Legatus Augustus omnis Legionis or Praetor Maximus. It was a gesture of endearment for they felt the King close to them and Lucius appreciated that.
“That would be two letters from the Queens,” Ramirus replied and reached inside his overcoat for the scrolls.
Lucius took the scrolls from the officer and noticed the wax seal was broken in both. “Can you as a friend, allow me to read my wives mail first, Vibius?” He asked the Director of Intelligence.
“Vibius can, Praetor. But the Director can’t.”
“See to convince him,” Lucius retorted, as the matter annoyed him. He quickly read Monica’s lengthy request, the still ailing Queen —mostly psychologically— wanted her king husband to intervene against her father’s wishes, who had requested a visit from ‘Princess Vacia and his queen daughter’ in a previous letter. “Monica doesn’t want to travel to Asturia. This is how I know she’s still afflicted by grief,” Lucius told the dosing off Merenda, and the still tired from his journey Legatus gasped awake.
Marcus-Antonius blinked, his eyes hurting from the strong sun, and then cleared his throat with a shiver. “The sun stands strong above head, yet Canlita’s alluring touch pierces skin with steel teeth!”
“You had too-much to drink last night,” Lucius reminded him.
“I don’t remember that, which means I probably did,” Merenda yielded with Cucan chuckling at his response coming up behind them.
“I asked query of personal concern,” Lucius grunted and Antonius nodded eagerly.
“Have the old Duke make the journey instead,” the Legatus offered with a confident grin.
“Lord Holt is bedridden for a couple of months now,” Ramirus informed the Legatus.
“Eh. I’m afraid the queen must make sacrifice then,” Antonius said.
“She has sacrificed enough!” Lucius barked and Marcus-Antonius snapped fully awake.
“Apologies. Another solution doesn’t come to mind,” he insisted, then added with a grimace of pain. “I now stand witness to the King’s conundrum.”
“It is, alas. I could sent Vacia to fulfil the old Shield’s request,” Lucius murmured, but that wouldn’t please Monica also, who wanted to keep the girl with her, which is why she had stopped Faye from taking her along to Luciopolis. Roderick and Vacia had grown very close after Alistair’s murder, with the older half-brother looking to protect the suddenly left alone half-sister. “A conundrum indeed.”
“Praetor Maximus, if I can offer—” Vegetius, the other ‘praetorian’ was heard from behind them, but Merenda stopped him with a sharp order.
“Hold that tongue Vegetius!” The Legatus roared. “Or have it ripped from mouth!”
“Aye, Legatus.” Vegetius responded immediately and bowed his head.
“The man might have solution,” Lucius pointed, turning on the saddle a little amused at the scene.
“Trust me sir, Vegetius never has.” Merenda replied firmly, with Cucan attempting to defend his friend’s history, but stopped by a slap on the chest by Vegetius.
“Ah,” Lucius sighed and opened Faye’s scroll. Basically one line of text was scribbled on the papyrus.
“The Valkyrie’s letters have improved,” Marcus-Antonius noted, stooping near the King as they rode side by side to read the text. “Yet remains ever parsimonious in written volume.”
“She had another write it,” Lucius replied with a nervous grimace. “Her writing is very difficult to read when she’s angry.”
“How is this simple request, showing anger?” Antonius asked with a frown, “I believe she writes, return afore summer arrives.”
“Antonius you are new to marriage,” Lucius elucidated. “And unaware of your favorite queen’s character. There are words missing from this text.”
“Uhm,” Marcus-Antonius murmured and straighten up on the saddle.
“Speaking of marriage bonds, Atia is estranged but still legally married,” Lucius said in a lower but firm voice. “As are you, Legatus.”
“It was a late-night invite to share drinks by gracious hostess,” Marcus-Antonius replied with a grimace of discomfort. “Nothing happened, sir.”
“In order to assure that it doesn’t in the future,” Lucius continued, trusting neither the scorned wife nor the libidinous officer to behave under the influence, “you had your quarters moved to the legion’s barracks.”
“Can I at least bring the spare divan?” Merenda protested mildly. “Atia agreed to gift me the furniture.”
“You can’t,” Lucius retorted austerely. “See not to bring the matter up again. You have enough coin now to buy yourself a new one.”
“Legatus Augustus adest!” The Centurion of the 2nd Century barked, his unit tasked with guarding the Castrum, the beefy Nord officer wearing a summer tunic under his armour, the chin straps of his helm cutting into the skin. The different units using different honorifics to address the King, trying to outdo one another. A friendly rivalry Lucius enjoyed and allowed, since the 3rd Cohort hadn’t had the chance to travel with him on campaign so much. With Prefect Placus Lepidus’ promotion into the general’s staff, the Cohort that had Placus surname as another moniker wanted to look at their best around the King.
Lucius returned the salute and jumped from his horse to approach the Centurion, he personally remembered since he had previously served with the 1st Cohort.
“Centurion Donlon,” Lucius addressed the slightly taller than him officer. “The Lake’s chill doesn’t bother you.”
“Not at all, sir,” Donlon replied. “I favor it, more than the desert.”
“You could ask for a leave of absence as a veteran,” Lucius reminded him. “I understand you have family at Gudgurth Fort. Take a ship across the lake, I’ll pay for it. You could see the North again.”
“Eh. I have a couple of cousins there, sir. They all rather serve with the 3rd than Macrinus’ boys and the North ain’t much of a place to vacation,” Donlon argued. “So, I reckon this is the right side of the pond to spend my time and the right outfit. Wouldn’t mind briefly visiting the city though.”
“Aldenfort?”
“I was thinking of Asturia,” Donlon admitted in his booming voice. “No offense to yer cousin.”
“None taken,” Lucius replied with a smile and offered the Northman his arm. Donlon grabbed his forearm and held it for a moment, before stepping back. “The King doesn’t forget those who stood by his side Donlon,” Lucius told him and the Centurion nodded.
“We know, sir.”
“Sir Robert is waiting inside?” Lucius asked and pointed at the headquarters building.
“He is. But his wife has left to visit the market,” Donlon replied.
“Whose idea was it?” Lucius queried, with a glance at Marcus-Antonius showing some of the legionnaires his ‘magic boots’. Apparently they had used the same merchant at different times. Lucius had bought a pair of gloves for Monica and Antonius those adventurer’s boots he had on.
“It was Robert’s, Legatus. He insisted, until Lady Cristiana agreed,” Donlon answered and with a head nod Lucius walked to the three steps, and climbed them fast. He paused to remove his own helm and then walked through the open door.
Robert had a white beard covering his tired face, short-cut hair and looked older than his age, which was around the same as Lucius. They both were in their thirty-fifth named year, with Robert perhaps a couple of months older.
The Issir noble stood up from the lit fireplace, his cuirass, while well-maintained and of high-quality, showing signs of repairs and heavy usage. The famous lobster carved on the chest now worn-out and barely visible. As for the patched-up chainmail shirt Robert had covering his arms, it did not befit a man of his station.
Whether it was a ploy to elicit sympathy from Lucius or genuine, the King was shocked at the nobleman’s appearance.
“I have a better armour, but had to travel incognito of sorts and this is an armour I’ve worn for many years. So, it feels comfortable,” Robert revealed seeing Lucius stare and then bowed his white Issir head. “I offer my respects, to the King of Greater Regia. May he reigns for far longer than his father afore him and have Luthos guide his step in any pending troubles.”
“Fair enough. I’ll exchange some time for good fortune, and offer similar prayers,” Lucius jested, returning the greeting. The last time he’d seen Robert they were both knights and heirs to their still living fathers. “It is gratifying, you have survived Eplas, Robert. Forgive my surprise,” Lucius added and signed for the Issir knight and nobleman to join him at the table. “I’ll take it, we’ll speak alone?”
“The King left his men at the door,” Robert noted and sat across from him. There was a platter with food and even a bottle of local wine in front of him, but Robert hadn’t touched anything.
And you sent your wife away.
“Let us have a glass,” Lucius offered per tradition and Robert stood up to fill their goblets without a word. Then he returned to his seat after leaving the goblet near Lucius. The King brought it to his mouth and took a tiny sip, then put it down. Robert had done the same across from him.
A smile had appeared on the Issir’s mouth. “Greater Regia?” He queried and Lucius pushed back on his chair, then he remembered Robert was nothing like his friend Gust De Weer or the other Van Durren. The first man a gloomy or depressed, frequently angry knight, and Robert’s kin almost insufferable in their arrogance, but for young Charles, who was quiet as a mouse. It was not a surprise Marcus-Antonius had liked Robert so much immediately.
“The name came organically,” Lucius replied, trying to navigate the meeting, without forgetting he wasn’t that young man on vacation or at the tourneys anymore, but the King of Regia. “Because this isn’t the Regia of my father’s or my ancestors.”
Robert raised his brows. “Mark thought you’ll start a war against the High King the moment you assumed the throne, but you went to Fetya instead.”
Sir Mark Est Ravn had been Lord Anker’s firstborn.
“Mark is long dead, but the news of his passing had saddened me,” Lucius replied evenly. “Life chose the road for me, Robert. It took me far away and tried to have me killed, but I stood my ground, then made the road bend. I carved a new path and came back.” The Issir nobleman nodded in agreement. “Your own story is not that different.”
“You honor me, your grace,” Robert replied and breathed out, as if relieved. “But my exploits pale in front of yours and frankly I’m not sure if the men I brought back are willing to fight against their own. More so, whether I’m keen on asking them or even justified.”
“No man wants to fight against their own kin,” Lucius rustled and pursed his mouth. “But your claim is just, Robert,” he added after a small pause. “Which is why I’m willing to listen and prepared to offer a solution.”
-
While Duke Rik desperately tried to keep the route open against Osahar’s boats blocking the Chinos River, the soldiers retreated from the capital and attempted to make it back to their own lines. The flooded river resisted their efforts and heavy mist, snowfall and bitter cold, confused the navigators sending half of the Duke’s transports across to the north banks until they got stuck in the muddy shores. Those disembarking first got bogged down in a meter thick mire and almost didn’t make it to sturdier ground. Despite several of the Desert Crows under Lode De Jagger being very experienced scouts with a pathfinder’s background and knowledge of the area —even from this side of Chinos River— the landscape they’ve encountered appeared to be alien.
Big portions of the vegetation and trees had been burned, blown away or just vanished across the north shores from East Grove and all the way west towards Rita’s Hospice and monastery. The latter of course was no more. Gel De Moss and Flip Zalme, both out of Rusted, thus got stranded across the river.
The Cofol mercenary sergeant Lu Duc-Re led his Dogs to the beach and the boats as well, engaged in a fighting retreat after taking then abandoning the docks, about an hour after they left. With the help of Mads Struder’s mercenaries out of Castalor –serving with the Desert Crows- Lu defeated the pursuing him North Gates guards late in the afternoon of the second day, in a vicious scrap just meters from their last transport boats. The Old Spears retreated towards him finding the way open as Pourem had ordered most of his disengaged units to help save the burning Silos or defend against the Viscount’s foray towards the Main Gates. With Gel De Moss’ boats already gone, the Cofol Lu Duc-Re took control of the force and surprisingly navigated the heavy mist and currents to return everyone safely to Duke Rik De Weer’s side of the river and lines.
When asked how he had found the way when the local Issirs hadn’t, the shattered after forty-six hours of struggle, born in Greenwhale Peninsula short-statured Lu —hailing from the ridiculously distant Puzihu Fort that guarded Mercy Gulf across Fu De-Gar’s harbor— had replied with a Garian’s thick accent ‘the small river is much easier to navigate than the big desert.’
De Moss and his tired men, after losing thirty of their comrades, managed to get out of the black mire pouring inside the river —mostly loose soil released from the desolate landscape— with the ‘help of the crows’ and almost killed one of Clauberg’s patrols guarding a work crew repairing the disintegrating coastal road. Calmer heads spotted the Issir armours and Hydras on Clauberg’s troops and stopped the scrap before it turned ugly. Clauberg was notified of the landings back in the camps and sounded the alarm, but Wasser who had been briefed about Duke Rik’s attempt earlier in the day reading the Black Duke’s intelligence reports before signing them off, intervened and Anker’s forces guarding the river stood down.
De Moss asked for a day’s supplies and promised to depart immediately, but Clauberg had already messaged Lord Anker in the meantime, so he refused to allow the Desert Crows to leave on the grounds that ‘the decision was above him.’
It was, but also it is doubtful De Moss could have used his stuck or even sunk in the mud boats again, and after discussing the matter with Flip Zalme, he decided to stand down as well. When he asked the Midlanor officers ‘what manner of calamity had befallen upon the destroyed lands hugging Chinos’ north banks’ Clauberg had paused briefly to consider what to say, and then offered a short curt reply.
‘That accursed Alchemist.’
A month later, less than that in reality, Lucius finally met Merenda in Aldenfort and Robert Van Durren. The latter meeting is disputed as if it did happen, then it was without someone else present and what was discussed never surfaced, given how the events turned out for those involved. Legatus Merenda and Plautus in his writings don’t mention Robert’s presence and the 3rd Cohort’s records are difficult to access these days. Both or at least the Legatus were theoretically present and Marcus-Antonius, a friend to both the King and Sir Robert, left this event very vague. Perhaps the Legatus’ known affair with Atia Severliva —Baron Reynard’s estranged wife— played a role for Merenda’s overall bad memory of that month, considering the grief this silly exploit was to cause him in the future.
After staying about two weeks in Aldenfort, Lucius returned to Luciopolis where Queen Faye Alden was staying with Prince Roderick, leaving the Legatus behind to wait for the arrival of his own wife and son. The whereabouts of Robert during those months of 196 NC are unknown or heavily disputed.
-
“You’ll make room for Robert’s men. Expand the Castrum,” Lucius told Merenda, who puffed his cheeks out and then scratched at his forehead with two fingers troubled.
“Scylla would want to know what is going on. Questions lead to gossip. The word might get out.”
“You have Issir recruits, make it happen and I’ll talk to Scylla,” Lucius replied reading the scrolls Ramirus kept open for him.
“You’ll head to Sabretooth Castle?”
“I’ll summon Scylla to Cartagen,” Lucius replied with a frown. “That shall paralyze him for half a year and give me the time to discuss with Charles.”
“Right,” Merenda murmured. Lucius raised his eyes to stare at the officer.
“You can do it Antonius. Just stay put for a little while this time,” he then turned to the skeptical Ramirus. “Tutor wants soldiers? For what reason?”
“He has trained some locals,” Ramirus explained. “Needs their wages entered in the Legion’s books.”
“No. We have a Legion in the North already and can’t afford another. We can’t have each governor built his own army. Tutor should pay for the extra men himself. He controls the biggest iron mines in the whole continent. He’s not to make war on anyone,” Lucius said and dropped the scroll on the table. “Zofia is probably selling the extra iron ingots for profit, if that is what concerns him.”
“I believe she does for certain. To Lord Anker,” Ramirus insisted. “Tutor fears she might seek an alliance.”
Lucius pushed back on his chair, but kept his gaze on the LID officer. “The Duchess can make profit out of the market inside her domain. To restrict her, is to invite bitterness and even trouble down the line. Either from her or her eventual successor. Midlanor is her biggest border, the richest and her way out of the North Sea and into the Shallow Sea trade routes. If she wants to stay in Anker’s good graces so be it.”
“What if we don’t?” Ramirus queried and Lucius’ stare hardened.
“Zofia knows who to support, Ramirus. But she must be given the freedom to breathe else her mind might turn to rebellion. Each peoples need a different approach, inform Tutor to be as accommodating to her as he is to Macrinus' requests, within reason. Having said that, Tutor is allowed to follow the market’s demands, given Zofia’s naughty behavior.”
“Hah,” Merenda chuckled and Ramirus pursed his thin lips tightly.
“I need this explained, Praetor, so I can set it up. I have men near the Capital and they can be notified to travel to Midlanor.”
“You’ll do nothing. If Zofia sells the cheap iron we sent her to Midlanor for profit,” Lucius explained and reached to take Macrinus’ report and read it. “Then Tutor is allowed to raise our prices as well. It’s not a covert operation or scheme, just the laws of the market working as intended and our ambitious Duchess knows them well, because she started as a merchant herself. She’ll complain, fiercely barter and eventually pay the new agreed price, because it’ll still make her profit.”
Lucius grimaced and then stood up. He glanced at Governor Macrinus lengthy report and then folded it carefully. “I’ll read this en route. Gentlemen, I must depart.”
“Can I come along and see Queen Faye?” Antonius queried.
“Not without your wife,” Lucius replied and smiled at his hurt expression. “It’s a joy to be able to have your family around, see to relish it, Legatus.”
The moment a sullen Merenda departed, making a show of it, Lucius turned to Ramirus and asked casually.
“The Fishfolk half-breed,” the King queried. “Is she still at Luciopolis?”
“She is, sir.”
“What is she doing?” Lucius asked, inserting the small rolled scroll inside his vambrace.
“She made a flower garden, your grace,” Ramirus replied, “around the basin’s foot paths.”
“Where did she get the seeds?” Lucius grunted. “I’ve ordered the grain fields built first.”
“Ah, they had a crop already,” Ramirus reported, a nervous tick appearing on his face, when the King turned to stare his way perturbed.
“Are you serious?”
“They bloomed overnight, the wheat stood over a meter tall, thick and healthy, then kept growing like naught anyone had seen afore, as if the plant thought it was the summer. Just the one field we’ve irrigated, but still, it made people pretty happy.”
Lucius wetted his lips in contemplating silence.
“Who is the half-breed sire?” Ramirus asked, who had found the King’s request to keep someone near her at all times very bizarre.
“You have someone to leave here in your stead?” Lucius inquired, to which Ramirus responded with a nod. “Perfect. Then you shall accompany me, and I shall tell you a tale about the night my son was murdered.”
And a Zilan female named Galadriel reluctantly saved my wife and daughter.