Beyond the Bulwarks Page 37

  “I know.” Maricius watched Theregond board his craft then turned to Enu. “How many more of our men are we waiting on to come in from the countryside?”

  “A few,” the Tribune replied. “We’ll be at full strength in a couple days.”

  A shout drew their attention to the river. Theregond stood at the bow of his craft, facing the opposite shore with the Fist of Respect pumped into the sky. A deep roar issued from the Vhurr-held bank, followed the crash of weapons on shields and a steady, rising thunder of drums.

  Ooh-rah-crash! Ooh-rah-crash!

  “Hurry.” Maricius’ voice acquired a momentary tremble. “By the gods, Enu, hurry.”

  ***

  Anzo stood with Varya at his side on the battlements of Terminus, near the northeast tower, facing inward to the courtyard. The full garrison of the fort, plus the commanders from all the others, arrayed below in still, silent blocks. Midday sun hammered down, shimmering off armor and helms while men sweated, but did not budge, jaws clenched against the punishment, eyes on the ceremony taking place in their midst.

  A priest in white and gray, trimmed in silver, stood at the center of the courtyard, arms cast to the heavens, an ivory staff in one hand, crowned with Aeydon Lawgiver’s thunderbolt-clutching Fist. Words rose on the sultry air, most of them lost to Anzo, not that he’d pay attention anyway.

  Behind the priest, a knot of other holy folk watched and perspired: a pair of gray-haired representatives of Harrabhukka in their cloaks of sack, an elder of the Cult of the Divine Aurus resplendent in golden breastplate and bearing the Hammer of Victory, a priestess in a scandalously cut gown of velvet with the Wheel of Aya balanced in one hand, and even a hugely-muscled, shaven-headed devotee of Hexort the Strong. All had had their turns pleading for the gods’ favor at Maricius’ invitation.

  Glancing at the Legionnaires and their more shabbily-equipped Auxiliary comrades, Anzo knew that few were processing the fine words any more than he. Their minds were focused on the only two things that mattered: the incessant thunder of the Drums of the Barbaricum, pulsing through the lazy, humid breeze for the better part of a week now.

  And rain. Where was the rain?

  The Aeydon priest’s sermon finished, Maricius stepped forward from his assembled entourage and knelt before the old man, as he had done with the others, offering up a sword from the Legion arsenal, shined to blinding brilliance. These would not be rejects, either—weapons of poor manufacture or battered to uselessness that would normally be offered as token in annual festivals. No, with desperation beginning to sour the air, these would be true sacrifices, blades that might be sorely missed in the coming days, offerings genuine and potent.

  Anzo glanced at Varya. “I’m a little surprised you weren’t asked to give a blessing.”

  “My service is Thoth’s blessing, Anzo Severnus.” Her tone told him she was quite serious.

  “Would He have accepted a sword of the Legate?”

  “Thoth isn’t fond of blades,” she replied, “nor of war. But He is wise enough to know it will be part of Man’s nature until he gives up his mortal coil and joins with the Beyond.”

  Anzo grunted. “Well, I’m hoping to hold onto my mortal coil a little longer.”

  Varya touched his arm. “That goes for both of us.”

  The ceremony concluded with barked orders from Maricius and a fanfare of clarion calls. Officers and noncoms growled to the formations, kept them sweating a few moments longer before dismissing them with soft grumbles, but little of the Legion’s normal chatter. The men trudged without energy to their quarters, posts, and errands, were listening the whole time, listening to the Drums of the Barbaricum.

  “Someone has let the word out.” Varya had turned from the courtyard, was looking out over the wall.

  Below, Estpont swarmed with activity. The air clattered with hammers as men boarded up windows, doors, businesses, and homes. The docks in the little bay were empty, save a few craft too fouled to bear passengers on the deadly-shallow Lydirian. Families stood outside huts and houses, exchanging embraces, tears, and hard, earnest words as belongings were piled into carts. A train of them was already snaking out the town gates, flowing from the ramshackle suburbs, left now as empty, dust-caked husks.

  Some rode, some weighted the beds of wagons until axles bowed. Most walked, many bare-footed, bearing sacks of belongings, children scampering in the dust about their heels, a few smaller ones borne on the shoulders of men. The youthful yammer and occasional squalls of dismay were nearly lost in the pall of the adults’ grim silence.

  “Maricius gave the order,” Enu said, surprising the pair as he strode along the battlements to join them. “Estpont and all the riverside settlements are to be cleared, not that some of the stubborn or stupid won’t try to ride this out. Fighting-aged men were given leave to go with their families or join us. A surprising number have volunteered.”

  “There’s some spirit left in the Empire, after all,” Varya said.

  Enu nodded. “A few might be worth something in a fight. The rest will be worth having to improve our defenses or help in the infirmary.”

  Anzo shook his head. “There’s always spirit when your back is to the wall.”

  Enu and Varya gave him a worried look then turned their gazes away.

  Anzo glared across the river, which seemed to shrink, even as he watched. The haze of afternoon hid details of the opposite shore, save twists of smoke, glints of fire, and the constant writhing of motion. Dark blots of boats crowded the shore, but most were unattended. Anzo thought he saw a flash of frantic activity, decided it must be a brawl of some sort, fists flying and bodies tossing in clouds of dust, accompanied by jeers. The Bulwark foothills looked gutted and battered, trees and undergrowth ravaged, thousands of shelters splashed across their faces in muddy profusion. It disgusted Anzo in the way of seeing a mutilated corpse.

  “Do we have any word from Aurid?” he asked.

  Enu hesitated. “Nothing yet, but Maricius says it’s still too soon.”

  “Then there won’t be any.” Anzo folded his arms on the crenel and leaned over them. “We’re on our own, it seems.”

  “We’ll be enough.” Enu gestured furiously to the river. “They will have the same luck crossing they did a week ago.”

  “They’re not going to need boats,” Anzo replied sharply, angrily, hating himself for the despair and the way he saw Theregond’s damned, smirking face every time he looked across the Lydirian. “They can practically walk across now.”

  “Anzo...” Varya frowned at him.

  “It’s all right.” Enu waved her off. “The Weasel’s in a foul mood is all.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Anzo whirled on Enu with a glare.

  “Anzo.”

  “No, it really is all right, my lady.” Enu smiled at Varya then turned it on Anzo. “I do understand, my friend. A soldier always understands. You’d rather the feint, the side step, or the stratagem. But we have to stand here, in this place, whether it makes sense or we have support or not, and wait.” He thrust up a proud chin. “It’s what the Legions do.”

  Anzo made to say something sarcastic, but the Tribune’s honest smile would have made it vulgar. He snorted instead. “I would’ve made a lousy Legionnaire, you know.”

  “You probably would have.” Enu’s warm tone took the sting from the words. “But just like those volunteers from Estpont, you’ll be useful, and you’ll be welcome.”

  Varya joined them, interlocking arms with the men to form a circle. “We all will be.”

  “You know what I’d welcome?” Anzo asked.

  “Something to drink?” Enu said.

  Anzo chuckled. “He’s an officer and a mind reader!”

  “Not so. Maricius asked me to invite the two of you to supper tonight with his officers. He’s uncorked his own bottles, no small thing for a man who hordes them the way a moneylender scrounges away his coin. It’ll be a grand send-up to our Lady of Fate, Aya. And maybe, if we drink and carous
e and sing loud enough, we may yet tease a favorable turn out of the Whore’s Wheel!”

  “Well,” Anzo said, hugging Varya close, “we can hardly turn down a goddess, can we?”

  ***

  Maricius’ party was in the officers’ mess, in the squat, grim blockhouse nestled under the northeastern wall that also housed the quartermaster’s offices and the heavily-guarded pay chest of the Legion. Leaving the tower and descending the stairs from the battlements to the courtyard, Anzo and Varya could already hear the revelry billowing into the dusty stillness of night. Along the walls, torch-bearing men passed quietly from post to post, but even there Anzo caught flashes of wine jugs passed around by the light of braziers.

  The Legate, it seemed, had been generous to all this evening.

  Reaching the courtyard, Anzo offered Varya his arm in a poor approximation of gallantry. She accepted with a light chuckle. She had her hair down again and had adorned her brow with a narrow pewter band, simple, yet somehow adding charm.

  Ahead of them a wedge of light spilled from a partially open door, flanked by grinning Legionnaires who made no effort to hide the large mugs clasped in free hands. Sound grew harsh, almost a physical thing buffeting forth from the mess. Anzo paused, smiling. “I don’t know...”

  Varya’s brow crinkled. “What?”

  “You might be the only woman in there.” Anzo winked. “It might not be safe.”

  She snorted. “I endured the foul stares of Vhurrian animals and cultist dogs for months. These stodgy martinets hold little fear for me.”

  Anzo laughed and led her on. The guards at the door bowed and waved them into the mess. Inside, the din of singing, squalling benches and tables, shouting, wailing horns, and a lone drummer, pummeling quite out of time to any discernible tune assaulted the senses. Legion and Auxiliary officers intermixed, crowded around barrels, bunched in corners around games of dice or egged overwrought musicians on. Scents of sweat, spiced smoke whirling from pipes, slightly singed meat, and spilt wine flavored the heavy air. The nose numbed, the ears rang, the eyes watered, and Anzo’s face already ached from smiling.

  Enu, wobbling with drink, spied them and launched onto a tabletop, holding a sloshing pitcher aloft. “Severnus!” The chamber rocked with cheers. “And the Lady Varya of Thoth!” Roared approval easily drowned out the previous accolades.

  “I’ll try not to take that personally,” Anzo quipped to Varya.

  Maricius sidled through the mob, a fine bottle in one hand, goblets balanced between the fingers of the other, his motions controlled, but with the looseness of excess. He bowed a bit too deeply, set some wine to spattering the littered floor, and offered the pair the glasses. “We’re normally a bit more formal than this,” he slurred and pointed around the room. “But with guests, we’ve forgone the usual rituals.”

  Anzo noticed then the priests from the day’s ceremonies sprinkled through the room. The Harrabhukkan matrons were dicing with a determined-looking group of officers—men who, if Anzo knew the wiles of the Harvest Mother correctly, would be absent pay by night’s end. The devotee of Hextor was arm-wrestling with a massive, Kharzulan-dark Legionnaire to jeers and frantically-shifting wagers. The leader of the Aurus cult was trying to start up a booming song and even the dour-faced priest of Aeydon seemed to expect the Lawgiver to look the other way as he drank himself well into a pitcher.

  “And you said there’d be no women.” Varya elbowed Anzo and pointed to the priestess of Aya. The garishly-painted, scantily-clad woman sat in one officer’s lap while whispering in another’s ear. Murderous glances passed between the rivals and other men huddled near.

  “Yeah, I’d stay away from that.” Anzo shook his head. “Aya doesn’t concern herself with morality. There’ll be a fight over her before the night’s out, I’d wager.” He didn’t add that those men, as scared of their situation as they were lonely, might be seeking the fickle goddess of Fate’s favor in addition to carnal bliss.

  Varya sipped her wine. Maricius put a finger under the mug to tip it back. Grimacing, Varya downed the contents in a messy rush. “Don’t worry, my lady,” Maricius rumbled, taking the mug and refilling it. “That’s not the good stuff, just slop out of Hadron.”

  “Then why waste our time with it, my lord?” Anzo nudged the Legate playfully.

  “Of course!” Maricius wobbled a little. “Where are my manners? Just wait here.” He whirled and trudged through the crowd, officers hastily parting to be out of their inebriated commander’s way.

  Anzo chortled, found his mirth joined by Enu as the Kharzulan plowed through the mob to join them. “Oh, you’ve gone and done it now. He’ll be back with a bottle of one of his favorites to impress you. You’ll be required to listen to the wine’s finer qualities for the next hour.”

  “He’s had quite a bit.” Anzo looked over the rim of his mug as he drank. “You all have.”

  Enu sputtered dismissively. “I wouldn’t have figured you for a prude, Severnus.”

  “It’s not that.” Anzo shrugged. “The Vhurrs could be readying another night attack, is all.”

  “And we’ll have plenty of warning.” Enu shook his head. “There’s nothing in the Legion code that forbids drinking, or even drunkenness, only being unfit to carry out your duties.”

  Relenting, Anzo lifted his mug to the Tribune. “Well, I’ll drink to that!”

  Vaya excused herself to go speak with the priestesses of Harrabhukka, who’d apparently finished fleecing their victims. Anzo couldn’t imagine what the women, devoted to different deities, might have to say to each other. But then again, he couldn’t imagine what he’d have to say to religion of any sort. “I thought this was just a party for the Mistress of Fates?”

  Enu shrugged. “Maricius decided not to play favorites.” His gaze went to where the Legate was arguing with an aide over wine bottles. A smile warmed his expression.

  “The two of you are close?” Anzo asked.

  The Tribune offered a hesitant nod. “We are. He has no family. I...ah...I think he sees me as a surrogate of sorts. I came with him from Kharzul, as part of his staff. I owe him my command.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “The best.” Enu met Anzo’s eyes. “I wanted to apologize about...well...it bothered you when I called you Weasel. I didn’t know it had baggage for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a name that I somehow acquired.” He smiled darkly. “The problem is bad names seem to have a habit of following you around.”

  Enu nodded. “I see. Well, perhaps you’ll make a new name for yourself.”

  Anzo shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, no.” Enu’s grin returned as Maricius approached with a bottle. “You’re in for it.”

  “Here, now, Master Severnus.” The Legate offered the lip of a new bottle of mysteriously green-tinged glass. He poured. “This shouldn’t offend your palate.”

  Anzo took a drink, savored a mouthful of the rich, almost smoky flavor. “That’s amazing.”

  “That is Cerulian vintage, from the Southern Empire, the vineyards of the Festirius River basin.” Maricius beamed. “You can practically taste the sun, can’t you?”

  Enu groaned.

  Maricius mock scowled at his protégé. “Enu’s barbarian tongue precludes his appreciation of the finer things.” He poured himself a drink. “I get bottles from all over, Severnus. It reminds me of what we’re fighting for.”

  Anzo frowned. “Wine, my Lord?”

  “The Empire...” The Legate shook some of the bleariness from his wine-drenched gaze. “You misunderstand me. Let me explain.”

  Enu groaned again.

  “Every part of my collection is a different taste of our world,” the Legate went on. “Taken together—well, one at a time, of course—they blend until the whole is greater than the parts.” He raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Just like the Legion!” Disorganized affirmation answered him. “We are pieces and parts mixed and matched from all a
round the Great World Sea.”

  “Some would say parts conquered and subjugated,” Anzo noted.

  “Oh, yes, and there’d be truth to that.” Maricius nodded to Anzo, but his voice remained elevated to the crowd, who were stilling, faces attentive of their commander. “And it’s often a messy business, isn’t it lads?” Good-natured growls at that. “But once that’s behind, the Empire doesn’t care where you come from, whose blood is in your veins—not the Empire I serve, anyway.”

  “There are plenty, those fools in Trebactunum, who’d disagree with you, Maricius,” Enu pointed out.

  “And they are just that: fools.” Cheers answered Maricius’ words. “But they don’t matter. They won’t be the ones making any difference. We will!”

  The cheering swelled, Legionnaires and Auxiliaries swaying together, holding up mugs and pitchers and clenched fists, a few men vaulting onto tabletops to applause.

  “No, you see, the Empire is a vision, my friend,” Maricius continued. “I try to tell these doubting pups. The Empire is what Man can be—not feuding tribes, racing each other to the bottom, to barbarism and the Long Dark. No! Aurridium is everyone!”

  The roar of the crowd left Anzo’s ears ringing for several seconds.

  “And that’s why we’re going to crush these Vhurrian devils!”

  Anzo joined the cheering now. Varya was at his side again, in his arms, her voice joining his. In that moment, he believed, however fleetingly, that the Legate was right.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Battle of the Salient

  The drums stopped before dawn. Haze clenched the opposite side of the Lydirian, hid all but a few sullen sparks of dying fires. Silence like the moment before an avalanche gave the dark an oppressive weight. As the sky grayed and the mist-wreathed peaks of the Bulwarks bunched on the horizon, foggy tendrils unraveled from the river to give a glimpse of its feeble, shriveled currents.

  Atop the walls of Terminus, Anzo ached to the bone in air gone damp. Overcast draped low from the sky, carried with it the taste of rain. He put a hand to the battlements to steady himself as a headache blossomed behind his eyes. The drinking had been one thing; the strain of the stillness from the other side of the river and what it meant was another. Sweat burned against skin already raw under a mail corselet. His other hand went to the pommel of his scimitar.