The Great Bear: The Adarna chronicles - Book 3 (14 page)

To the east of the Adarnan memorial lay a far larger mound. This one held the dead from Wickland. They had been buried respectfully and with honour at Martius’s order, but even he balked at the task of covering the memorial. He had left it bare instead, the compacted earth and stone open to the elements. It was now a patchwork of dandelion and weeds interspersed with patches of clear ground, standing out in stark contrast and accusation to its counterpart.
 

The legionaries, each in his own way, paid their respects at the mound of the Adarnans. Already, travellers and mourners had begun to honour the age-old tradition of leaving a stone atop the mound of the fallen. A small cairn stood next to the marker pole at the memorial's peak, and to this each soldier, beginning with a preoccupied-looking Conlan, who as legion father – tradition dictated – added the first stone. By the time the Phoenix legion’s rest break ended, the cairn stood at shoulder height.
 

Martius himself waited to the last. He climbed the mound alone, thinking as he did of what lay below. Friends, fathers, husbands… Not all good men, perhaps; but the majority were.

Again he wondered what he could have done differently, but in battle he knew that hard decisions had to be made. Men were sometimes sacrificed for the greater good; it was a necessity of war. They knew what they were letting themselves in for when they joined up, but did they know how quickly the common man, the countless thousands spread across the precincts of the vast Adarnan Empire, would forget them? Had word of the battle even reached those furthest from the centre, the woodsmen and hunters of the north? Or those manning the marches against the constant, ominous and ancient threat of the Farisians?

As they were about to restart their march south, Martius glanced at the huge and ugly mound of the Wicklanders and felt a persistent tug on his conscience. There was one, at least, amongst them who would mourn those buried beneath the weeds and bare earth.
 

“Fetch Wulf,” Martius said to Villius without removing his gaze from the mound. More than fifty thousand dead lay below, their souls screaming for recognition, for honour.

When the enormous Wicklander arrived he bore his pain, both mental and physical, for all to see. He limped slightly, favouring his right leg; his breathing was rapid, beads of sweat shone on his forehead. He was pale even for one of his fair race.
 

Wulf would be dead but for the knowledge and skill of Doctore Nessius, and his own prodigious strength. Now Metrotis stood at his side, concern for the giant plain on his face. They had developed a bond, these two, a friendship that somehow transcended the vastness of their differences. Martius found the friendship fascinating and strangely amusing in equal measure.

Martius looked at the invader whose people had caused such pain and loss in the Empire, and nevertheless felt pity. There was a greater reason the barbarians migrated north, he was sure of it. Rumours abounded in the capital even before he departed. Slaves now, many of the Wicklanders had begun to talk, but the stories they told sounded like fairy tales designed to scare children.
 

Perhaps a more powerful race invaded their lands, forcing them out. Martius did not know, and the only Wicklander at his disposal seemed strangely unwilling to share his experiences. Instead, Wulf made vague references to the ‘enemy’. It was the barbarians’ misfortune that they had come up against the iron might of the Empire on their journey north. Having witnessed the desperate ferocity of the Wicklanders, Martius could only wonder at the power of the hidden enemy that drove them from their lands. It had to be the nomads. A new khan must have arisen. It was the only plausible answer. However, the tales the Wicklanders told did not feature mounted bowmen from the steppes.

“Wulf,” Martius called. He pointed to the burial mount. “Your people lie under that hillock. We buried them with honour. We will wait if you wish to pay your respects.” There were mutters amongst the legionaries nearby. Although many had come to respect – if not like – the barbarian, many still, understandably, could not yet bring themselves to forgive.

Wulf nodded, his expression unreadable. He limped towards the mound and brusquely brushed Metrotis aside as he offered aid.
 

“You stay, Metrotis,” Wulf muttered.
 

It looked a slow and arduous walk to the base of the mound for Wulf. When he reached his destination, the grave towered above him. Martius was surprised to realise the full scale of it. Disguised as it was by the distance, it rose to several times Wulf’s great height at the centre.
 

The giant barbarian halted, seemingly satisfied, then lowered himself to rest on his knees in the loose packed earth.
 

Wulf slowly and deliberately gathered a handful of earth and rubbed it into his hair, then moved down to his face, shoulders and arms. His ritual completed, he dropped his head. Martius thought he might be quietly sobbing.

Silence stretched on for minutes.

Then Wulf raised his arms skyward as if in supplication and howled as a true wolf might howl at the moon. He beat his chest three times, the sound booming so loud it travelled across the valley floor, seeming to echo off the surrounding hills.
 

Wulf repeated the ritual twice more; each time his howl more plaintive and mournful.

At the end, the whole legion looked on in hushed silence, each man lost in his own thoughts or remembrances.

Finally, after a long minute of quiet, Metrotis crossed the distance to the still and silent mourning warrior. He delicately touched Wulf’s shoulder, as if he was afraid to disturb him, and beckoned him to rise. Metrotis lead the great Wicklander away, holding his arm gently at the elbow as one might an elderly relative.

After their brief stop at the memorial, the rest of the afternoon’s journey seemed overshadowed by thoughts of the two barrows on the road. The whole legion was sullen, as if mired in a fugue.

Martius attempted to engage Conlan in conversation but found him oddly reticent, as he had been since they broke camp that morning. In the end Martius gave up, comfortable to spend the afternoon’s march in silent mourning for the dead of both sides. It seemed the fitting and respectful thing to do.

That evening the legion quickly set up camp. It was the first night that they would fortify, raising earthen banks to protect the men as they slept. The legionaries seemed to be rushing, but Martius did not know to what end.
 

He had his tent, as usual, pitched next to that of Conlan, at the exact centre of the camp. The camp itself was laid out in standard legionary fashion, divided into four quarters, split by two wide avenues that formed a crossroads at the centre.
 

Martius enjoyed this aspect of soldiering. He watched the men busying themselves and bustling through the crossroads as they sought the latrine, or friends to share a story or a meal with. He surprised himself at evening parade by proclaiming – to a great cheer from the troops – that they would be allowed a ration of wine with which to toast their fallen comrades that night. The scouts reported the road ahead was clear for twenty miles at least; the men needed to relax, they needed time to mourn.
 

Especially the remnants of the Twelfth
,
they have two reasons to grieve.
It pained Martius to think about it.
The loss of their comrades and the loss of their honour.

In the early evening, an air of relaxation set in around the camp. Those not allocated to guard duty stayed up late around braziers and fires, forgetting the hardships of tomorrow, trading them for the chance to bond with brothers, to discuss tales of heroism and the daring deeds of comrades alive or dead.

The night wore on and many eventually succumbed to the exhaustion of the march, remembering tomorrow, perhaps, and the long hard march ahead.
 

Some small groups held out in defiance of common sense. One of these was outside the tent of the legion father. Conlan’s spirit seemed to have rallied, at least for the night. As Martius approached, he spotted the young leader sat before a large, low brazier, accompanied by Metrotis, Optuss and Wulf. Even Villius seemed to be joining in with the camaraderie. Usually so aloof and serious, Villius seemed, finally, to have relaxed.
 

Two others sat with the group. Martius recognised one, ever present at Conlan’s side, the cohort commander. Martius sought for a name, not finding it as easy as he once had.
Jonas.
The other, who was the youth of the gathering by some years, he did not recognise.

“May I join you?” Martius asked as he approached. He noted, as expected, that some were nervous of his presence.

“Uncle!” Martius almost winced as Metrotis jumped up. “Of course, of course, please come and sit with us!”
 

Martius forced a polite smile. His nephew was growing on him, certainly, but he still had an uncanny knack for irritation. He pulled up a canvas chair, nodding affably to all as he sat.
They are so young.
He felt the call of his bed, but sometimes morale building was more important.
There are hard times ahead.

Seeming to remember that he should be leading the proceedings, Conlan stood quickly. “Welcome, General, would you care for some wine?”

“That is very kind of you, Father Conlan, but I fear it would disturb my sleep. Best I keep a clear head.”
 

Martius looked at the youngest man in the group, who flushed red and refused to meet his gaze, his eyes sliding, as if seeking reassurance, towards Jonas who sat at his side.
 

“I do not believe we have met, young man?” Martius recalled the first time he had met a general.
Stressful indeed.

The boy appeared sheepish, embarrassed. “My name is Lucus, sir. I serve with Commander Jonas in his cohort, sir.”

“And he served with us all at Sothlind,” Jonas added, patting Lucus affectionately on the shoulder. “Proper hero this one.”

Lucus shrugged, his face reddened further.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet one of the many heroes of this legion,” Martius replied with an easy smile. “You can relax, boys, we are all soldiers here tonight.”
It will do them good to see their general is just a man like them.

They did not relax immediately, but this was to be expected in the presence of a general.
The primus general at that.
Sometimes Martius forgot his position; the heights he had attained always struck him as absurd.
You were born lucky, that is all.

After some time, the conversation began to flow more easily and the men’s discomfort seemed to ease.
 

Even Wulf chipped in occasionally in roughly accented Adarnan. He appeared to have recovered much of his strength, as if the rite of mourning at the burial mound of his people had purged his injuries. The barbarian’s face and hair looked cleaner than usual; Martius suspected that Metrotis had educated him in the pleasures of cleanliness.
 

Optuss simply sat, apparently oblivious to the world around him, but for an occasional dull-eyed glance at the fire. Metrotis had spoken of the man’s ‘progress’, convinced that he was making headway, certain that he was starting to tap into the strange creature’s hidden consciousness.
 

Conlan was quiet but attentive, rarely commenting but clearly enjoying the company, recovered from whatever ailment had plagued him through the day.
Perhaps you mourn your brothers,
Martius wondered.

A strange group, he reflected, a strange group in strange circumstances, but good men all – except, perhaps, for Optuss. Optuss had helped to save Martius’s family but then almost killed Wulf at the villa, not that Wulf, who had recovered at astonishing speed, seemed to mind in the least. The Wicklander did not appear to hold a grudge, but then he had provoked Optuss.
Optuss is an unknown,
Martius reminded himself.
It would be foolish to trust him.

The evening passed in polite conversation, more familiar – as was ever the case – as the wine began to flow more freely. Martius relaxed and whiled away the time reminiscing over his days in the front line during the war with the hill tribes.

“They were formidable foes, the hill-men,” Martius said at the last, turning to Conlan. “Your cousins caused some consternation in the Empire. They almost had us at Vindum.”

Conlan smiled wanly. “Strange. I never really thought about it that way. My father fought at Vindum, but his father was a northern hill-man.” He shook his head and eyed the fire. “One generation later and the son fought his father’s distant kin. It’s a strange world we live in, General.”
 

He is a deep thinker this one, but seems prone to melancholy.
“Strange indeed,” Martius agreed. It was amazing how quickly the concept of empire, the concept of state; of belonging, could change someone’s perception and their underlying loyalties.
Perhaps a nation is an artificial construct. Perhaps it creates differences that do not actually exist.
Human nature led men to abhor those who were different, unfamiliar.
When it comes down to it, we are all the same.

“What’s that noise?” Lucus abruptly asked. His face bore a distant look, as if concentrating hard. He tilted his head to one side, then opened and closed his mouth. Finally, he put his fingers in his ears and wiggled them.

“Uh oh, looks like the lad’s had too much, better stop him drinkin’ now,” Jonas teased, his own words slurring slightly, to the amusement of the rest.

“No, no, can’t you hear it?” Lucus protested. “Gods it’s annoying, never heard nothing like it.” He scrunched his face up. “What is that? S’like a bloody mosquito or somethin’.”

Martius viewed Lucus carefully. He did not appear drunk, at least no more than any other, and they had not had much wine between them to begin with.
Some men just cannot hold their drink,
he concluded.
 

The young soldier shook his head repeatedly, as if trying to dislodge something from his ears.