The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (11 page)

To Metrotis’s surprise, Doctore Nessius was already walking towards them across the yard. The old medic paused by general Martius and put a hand on his shoulder. He whispered something in Martius’s ear. Metrotis could not hear the words they exchanged but it seemed something of importance. Martius nodded solemnly to Nessius and marched stiffly from the yard, his head held low.

What’s so important that he’s leaving?
Metrotis’s legs began to shake.
Wulf is hurt.
It might be worse than that though. The giant barbarian still had not moved.
 

“Doctore!” Conlan shouted, beckoning with a desperate hand. “This man needs help now!”

RAIN WAS THE BANE of every legionary soldier, worse than heat or snow. It had been raining incessantly for three days and Martius was heartily sick of it. He longed for the warm, dry rooms of his villa, for the security of tiles, roof timbers and walls within which to rest. For some years now he had admitted to himself, in private, that he was getting too old for life on campaign, more suited to directing the Empire’s forces from a comfortable seat in the capital. He wondered if he would eventually go the way of Turbis, working beyond his ability, desperate in the end to regain former glories. But, for now, the water soaked the very core of his being, dripping down to soak legs chafed and red from sodden trousers that clung to skin and leather saddle alike. He had no choice but to be out on campaign and it irked him greatly.

This far from the capital it was easy to remember that the future was uncertain.
The Emperor is jealous.
It had to be true; it was the only possible explanation. The Emperor was insecure at the best of times, and because of that childish insecurity, Martius had to die. It was the only answer that seemed plausible to Martius and it had occupied his mind for much of the long journey south, particularly over the last three waterlogged days of the trek. The words of Jhan Guttel in Adarna had only confirmed what he already knew. He felt a pang of regret, a painful distraction from the rain, at the thought of what he had put the thief through. The abyss had yawned before Martius that night, but he had not fallen in. He had not surrendered to the darker part of his – of any human’s – nature, the part that had screamed for revenge.

No one but the Emperor possessed the motivation to make the assassination attempt; no one else had the resources, surely, to resurrect the long dead sect of the Sender monks, disbanded by the old Emperor in Martius’s youth following rumours of foul practice – witchcraft, torture and worse.
 

The decision to leave the capital had been difficult but necessary. The zealot, Marek Tyll and the unfortunate thief, Jhan Guttel, had been the tipping point, the final drivers to run for safety. Even with Ellasand unconscious and the risk to her. ‘She may die anyway, lad, but on the road it’s more likely,’ Doctore Nessius had chided. But the pragmatist in Martius knew he had to get the rest of his family to safety; it was what Ellasand would have wanted. The move south had given him a chance to regroup and the opportunity to think about his future strategy.
 

They are safe now
, he reminded himself,
safe on the estate. Surrounded by your own veterans, all loyal to house Felix.
Martius had mustered a force that rivalled a legion in fighting strength and, old though they were, he knew their experience would make up for it. The veterans of the legions were survivors by definition, the very best.
 

Martius knew the Emperor had no grounds for open attack. But if Mucinas Ravenas did so, he would rue the day. The hill of the Deakin was easily fortified and defended – it had been designed thus – not a fort in name but nigh on as well positioned to repel attackers if they should come. It had been an ancient stronghold, dominating the plain, long before Xandar marched to glory and claimed it for his own. Turbis, whom Martius had left in command, should be able to hold it against any who dared the attack.

They are all safe
. Water dripped steadily from the tip of Martius’s nose.
And Ellasand is
awake
.
 

He still wondered if it had been a dream. Doctore Nessius had informed him in the courtyard whilst he watched the fight between the Wulf and the enigmatic Optuss. ‘She’s awake, lad,’ Nessius had said, his rheumy green eyes staring up through bushy grey brows, a bony hand gripping Martius’s shoulder with surprising strength. “Lady Ellasand is awake... Go to her then, lad,” he had said, pushing Martius’s shoulder gently as the words slowly began to register. “She wants to see you.”

Martius was only vaguely aware of Conlan shouting for Nessius as he left the yard in search of his beloved wife.
Awake.
The word had burned through his mind, blanking all other thoughts. He had run then, tears beginning to flow as he cast open the door to her chambers. The servants hurriedly stood back, their heads bowed in respect as he strode towards the bed.
 

Ellasand was propped up on thick pillows, her long hair pulled back in a loose bun.
 

So thin
, he thought,
Gods above, so thin
. Her skin had taken on a greyish hue during her long sleep. The huge black patches that sat below her eyes seemed to accuse Martius.
You were not strong enough,
they said.
You could not protect me
.
 

“Ella,” he choked, tears rolling freely to splash on her chest as he stroked her face, bringing his forehead to touch hers, staring into the eyes he knew and loved, searching for some sign of her soul, her indomitable spirit. “Ella, I…”

She had raised a feeble arm then, shaking with the effort to touch his cheek. “I am fine,” she croaked quietly, voice raspy and dry. “So tired.”

Martius had swept into Nessius’s chambers the next day, determined to reward the doctore for his work. The old man simply smiled wanly, a distant look in his eyes. “I looked after you when you were a boy, and your father before that. I do my job, lad, as best I can. I made sure she got fluid into her stomach and had her rolled, massaged, and her limbs flexed every few hours to stop the sores coming; simple medicine, that’s all. The Lady Ellasand did the rest herself, strong spirit in that one.” His words rang with approval. “She just needs time now, you make sure she gets it, lad.”

Ella had gained strength rapidly. Struggling at first, she thrived under Nessius’s tender ministrations. Nevertheless, it broke Martius’s heart every time he saw her struggle to rise. He was glad when she ordered him out of the room the first time she tried, and failed, to walk again. Nessius insisted that she continue daily exercise, often pushing her until she was shaking and bathed in sweat, unable to do more. The old physician assured Martius this was necessary and Martius believed him, his own faith in the man’s ability now unshakable.

Martius’s mother, Patricius, had taken to ministering to her daughter-in-law when the doctore was not in attendance. Patricius’s daily routine included a trip to the temple at the bottom of the hill. Ellasand was carried in a cart behind her as Patricius led a growing daily procession to pray in thanks to the gods for her daughter-in-law’s miraculous recovery.

Ellasand did not seem to mind. She admitted to Martius that her brush with death had ignited a long slumbering piety within her. Martius did not know if he believed or not anymore; Optuss and the events at Sothlind had changed everything. But he thanked the gods nonetheless, in case they truly
were
listening.

The sound of hooves splashing through thin and watery mud disturbed Martius’s reminiscences. He turned in his saddle. Proctor Villius approached at a slow canter, utterly soaked and caked in mud, returning from his command of the cavalry scout group that roamed ahead; Martius was taking no chances this far south – the enemy could be anywhere.

Villius drew his horse to a sliding halt. “Sir,” he said, holding firmly to the reins.

“Proctor Villius.” Martius nodded approvingly. He was almost certain that Villius had finally left behind the events in the house of Jhan Guttel, and it relieved him greatly to think that he had the proctor’s complete loyalty and support once more. “Report.”

“Sir, we reached Sissia at noon. Father Kultis sends his regards.” Villius flashed a rare smile. “Sir, the Fourteenth garrison the city. The south does not lie undefended.”

Not undefended
,
but woefully undermanned
. “Three thousand men to protect the whole precinct?” Martius shook his head. “Just enough to hold Sissia for a while.” Water droplets sprayed to the ground. It beggared belief that the Emperor could be so stupid.
Stupid or mislead.
“An army, if large enough,” and the Wicklander army was big enough, even battered and reduced, “could invest the city and move on. Neutralise them and be free to attack the Empire. Is there anything else, Proctor?”

Villius paused. “Sir, Father Kultis welcomes us but asks that we make camp outside the city.”

“What?” Kultis was a good soldier, a reliable and honest man. Martius had served with him during the hill campaigns, when they were both legion fathers, after old Father Huwius of the Twelfth had died in Martius’s arms, drowning in his own blood – a hill-man arrow lodged in his throat. “What possible reason could he have? I am the senior officer in the army! Has he lost his
mind
?” His tone echoed petulantly in his ears. Military protocol dictated that Father Kultis accept his commands; common discipline demanded it.

Villius dropped his eyes. Rain dripped from his helmet brim. “Sir, Father Kultis apologises, but he says that he has his orders from the Emperor himself.”

“From the Emperor himself?” Martius raised an eyebrow. He fought to hold back his rising temper.
It is not the boy you should be angry with
, he reminded himself.

“From the Emperor’s newly appointed minister for war, sir.”

The title meant nothing to Martius. There
was
no minister for war. “So who is this ‘minister for war’? What makes him think he can give orders to the Primus General?”
Why is it that the majority of our forces have been moved north when the threat is clearly south?
 

“It is the praetorus, sir, Kourtes.”

Martius clenched his fists hard, the tough leather of the reins biting into his palms through his riding gloves. “Well, Villius…” Martius’s mind raced. The image of Kourtes’s face as he watched the decimation of the Twelfth flashed through his mind.
The man is a snake.
Kourtes had no military experience either. “It seems we will have to march on Sissia and remind Father Kultis that he is a legionary and will obey the highest ranking officer in his presence –”

“But that’s it sir,” Villius said plaintively, “Praetorus Kourtes is
in
Sissia.”

The trip to Sissia took longer than expected; a swollen river had broken its banks and washed away the only bridge for ten miles in either direction. The Phoenix had to negotiate an arduous and extensive detour because of it.
 

Martius – impatient to deal with the recalcitrant Maran Kultis – made the decision to ride ahead with a small contingent of cavalry.

It was not long before he stood at the doors of the city hall in Sissia. The hall was a grand building, built from fresh hewn granite almost a century ago to commemorate the coronation of the current emperor’s great grandfather. The rock was so hard it had barely weathered at all, looking to all as if it had been freshly quarried.
 

Due to its immense size, the city hall building now doubled as one of many makeshift barracks in the city – all commandeered by Maran Kultis, father of the Fourteenth legion.
 

Villius shifted constantly from foot to foot beside Martius, distracting him from his thoughts.
 

Martius reasoned he might as well utilise the time to instruct the young officer. “What are your feelings on the garrisoning of the city, Villius?” He owed the man much.
One day you will make an excellent legion father.
Villius might even make general – he certainly had the correct pedigree to be accepted.

Villius ceased all movement. His eyes searched from side to side for some time, perhaps fearing a test. “I do not know, sir. I believe it was necessary when we thought the Wicklanders might breech Sothlind… But I must admit I would not choose it as a bastion to defend.”

Martius snorted. “You have it right, Villius. This city is virtually indefensible. We are in the lowlands; the river Sander embraces us lightly on the east side, that is true, but what other defences are there?”

Villius shrugged. “I do not know, sir.”

“None, Villius.” Martius shook his head at the stupidity of it. The city was a trap. “If Sissia is attacked in force from the south or west it will last two weeks at most… even with a legion to defend it.” His chaffed thighs burned from the long ride, doing nothing to lighten his mood. “This city is no Xandsa, that much is certain.”

Villius shrugged. “Xandsa is probably the most defensible city in the Empire, sir.” He replied. “I have never been there myself but I hear it’s a sight to behold.”

“That is an understatement. It is a thing of beauty, Villius, a thing of beauty.” Being forced to wait outside in the rain like a common soldier grated on Martius’s nerves.
They are making you wait to anger you.
Do not submit to emotion, it is weakness.
But Martius had spent years having his every whim catered to, and a part of him railed against the delay, wanted to kick the door down and get his way.

 
They waited then in silence. Villius resumed his subtle jig from foot to foot.

After another minute, Martius’s patience snapped. But just as he reached for the handle, the door slowly creaked open.

An ancient, petrified-looking slave stood inside holding the door handle. The poor man was not to blame for making them wait, he might have been whipped or worse for disobedience, and he seemed to fear exactly that.