4 Master of a Thousand Souls

Commodus sunk into his creaking chair and took a deep breath of stale air. His mind is preoccupied with the stench of unwashed men, sweat, and beer. He stares blankly across the hall at messengers hurling themselves across the narrow doors and hallways, pushing past each other with their urgent news and dire tidings.

He only half-heartedly listens to their conversations, picking out a few keywords like the irritant hum of flies.

The eastern wall has been retaken, that much was expected from Aetius' men. The western wall was in dire need of reinforcements, he'd already sent Balagard there. The main gates were still firmly held, he knew Cornelius well enough to have planned its defence around him.

The rest of the details he filled in himself, taking in and throwing away words in mid-air and remaking the hurried sentences until they made sense to him.

It has been nearly three hours since he started arranging the defence of the ancient city, he is inconsolably bored.

Nearly fifteen years of his life spent in this same position, twenty-nine times he had cheated death. Twenty-three times he had played his hand well enough to win. Commodus is combing through every one of these memories, to remember all the battles he's taken part in throughout his career. Every miracle, every quick thought that snatched victory from defeat, every fortuitous event that salvaged his plans, and of course every ounce of cunning he'd ever thought up of. Not enough.

He parses through a different set of memories. The siege of Tor Vahron, the Catalaunian fields, the battle of Thymbrie bridge, the Milvian bridge, and of course, the defence of Arvendale. Every famous battle he had heard as a child, every desperate defence that had saved the empire in centuries past. The siege of Amon Dol, the battle of the Cimbrii pass, the siege of Cirion gorge, and of course, the last stand of Arvendale. He pauses his thought and returns to sulking in his chair, actively ignoring the cacophony around him and sinking deeper into boredom. Not enough.

He sighs.

"If I am to die today," Commodus thought. "How many things would I regret leaving unfinished?". After a short count in his head, surprisingly little.

He regretted never having met his father. Rather, he regrets not having the chance to humiliate the philanderer. He regrets being late to Inhelbeld's wedding, and not spending more time with their family before this campaign.

He would also regret leaving the Empire with no able generals left, counting amongst the other twenty-one legions only fools and cowards. He'll keep this thought to himself when he goes to the ferryman.

He cracks a wry smile and thinks: "Is this what it feels like to have lived a fulfilling life?"

"Lord Aurelianus, Lord Aurelianus," Quivered an unsteady voice. "What do you say?"

Disoriented, he looks around the room. Some twenty pairs of eyes are fixed on him like those of hungry dogs begging for scraps. He sits upright and strikes a pensive pose.

"To make sure I've heard right," He says sombrely. "Could you please repeat it, adjutant?"

From behind bellows a burst of deep laughter. A pair of doors swing open and in strides a giant on heavy footsteps as if one of the stone statues of the ancient citadel has sprung to life to its defence.

"You were asleep Commodus, admit it!" He gawks. Commodus smiles, and the hall breaks into strained laughter. It dies as quickly as it started, all eyes turn to the armoured titan.

He is covered in a battered suit of steel plates and chainmail. And he wears a helmet with a deep mask in the shape of a lion. His shoulders adorned with the faces of gorgons and lidless eyes, and from his chest-plate dangles a bronze mirror, no doubt a gift from the resident shaman. He strides down the stone corridor and seats himself at the head of the table. One of the adjutants shirks at the blatant act of disrespect but could say nothing.

The giant sees him from behind his mask. He props up one leg on the great table and dangles one arm from the chair. He raises the other lazily and points to the adjutant, who has turned away from him in fear.

"You there!" He calls out, gesturing wildly, "Squire, fetch us a good horn of wine, and a chop of choice beef. This knight needs to feast before giving mine self to the ardours of battle."

He laughs, and the hall joins him.

"Out with it Inhelbeld," Hollers one of the captains at the table. "You're late because you've drunk our last barrel of wine empty, haven't you?"

"Not quite my good man Marcian." Inhelbeld says lazily, "I've been uh, taste testing?"

The pair laughs harder.

"Poison testing! There! Wouldn't want all our captains to succumb to Arvendi poisons, would we?"

"You haven't come to only make a circus act of yourself, have you?" Commodus snorts, "Now get off the general's chair before he wakes up from your din."

"Well, lieutenant-general Marcus Commodus Aurelianus," Inhelbeld says half-heartedly, "Why is our venerable general Belisarius asleep when there are mongrels at our doors?"

"He has taken ill from the early winter," An adjutant whimpers quietly, "He was bed-ridden this morning and the nurses had been unable to rouse him from his fevers."

Inhelbeld quickly reached for towards his sword and the adjutant stepped towards the door. Inhelbeld stood and marched towards him. Then he produced a leather pouch and removed its lid.

"Drink," He commanded and led him out of the hall, "Drink, be merry, and let us wake him from his fever-dreams. Death comes for us, but we will deny him."

Fifteen minutes later the adjutant would return empty-handed. The nurses at Belisarius' bedside says he had come in and out of nightmares and was unfit to lead the battle.

Between Inhelbeld's coming and going like a storm, Commodus had been broken from his spell of inertia and returned to the planning. He took a better grasp of the situation from the adjutants and was forcibly returned from his dreamlike boredom to the despair of reality.

Like he had estimated the fortress was surrounded by a force of ten thousand, but unlike his best guess, his own forces were far thinner than he had liked. Some two hundred men had taken ill last night or had their conditions worsened by the cold spell so much that they languished in the makeshift hospital deep in the citadel and could not give battle. Two thousand seven hundred men of the nearly eight thousand that set out in spring remained in fighting shape.

His stomach sunk at the thought that he needed to snatch victory from such odds. The only reprieve is found in the fact that his enemy was as worn out as himself, having likely marched through the winter night and barely in fighting shape. That, and the fact that their morale had been badly blunted during their first assault on the walls of Arvendale. Still, this left him few options. They are still surrounded with no plausible route of escape.

After some heated debate the captains present agreed that only three courses of action remained possible; none of them favourable.

First, to send the remaining one thousand men in reserve to the curtain walls and hope that they would hold against the onslaught.

Second, to hold the men in the keep for the last stand, and condemn those on the walls to certain death.

Third, to order the survivors on the walls to retreat to the keep, risking that the foe would exploit this opportunity to scale the walls and run down his soldiers in the chaos. He could send some fresh forces to cover their retreat. But in the narrow streets of Arvendale, raised hastily centuries ago behind walls a millennium old, there was little space to manoeuvre. It could only add to the chaos.

Yet he is pressed for time. The Arvendi line had sounded retreat for the third time this morning. Yet each time they had returned.

They are desperate, Commodus knows this well. Old man Belisarius likes to gamble. He had marched this crippled army out of the lands of the Anumani kings on the gambit that by taking this crossroad city they could, at last, put an end to decades of war.

The black walls of Arvendale overlook the long road between the roots of the mountains, the great river, and the sea. The Arvendi had used it as their stockpile for much of their campaigns and raiding along the north following its fall nearly twenty years ago. Though they have roamed this hinterland uncontested, their armies in the South, the dagger at the heart of the Empire had been crushed one by one in gruelling battle after battle. Belisarius wanted to drive the hated invader out of the north, forcing them to the negotiating table under favourable terms to the Empire. And by extension, himself.

They had taken the fortress by surprise in late autumn, denying their foe of the produce of a bleak harvest. They had thought that they've grasped the head of the snake, all it could do was either surrender and scurry away or struggle and be struck down. Belisarius had threatened to starve to death the Arvendi armies in this frozen wasteland.

It appears their foes also like to gamble.

As the captains pushed their arguments back and forth a deep horn sounded beyond the limits of the city wall. They rushed outside to the battlements. Their defences on the outer walls were faltering as the Arvendi renewed their assault. Sections of the wall left undermanned or undefended were quickly taken and for the first time in the battle, the blue pennant of the Holy See flew over the black walls of Arvendale. Elsewhere was a desperate struggle as the defenders were slowly pushed back. First, off the walls and then spilling onto the streets. But the line was held. For fifteen minutes the captains in the citadel held their breath until another low horn was sounded, and the Arvendi fell back again. But the walls had fallen, and the three gates of the city-fortress swung open to the invader.

"Inhelbeld, where is Inhelbeld?" Commodus called out amidst the ensuing panic.

"There!" Cried out an adjutant, "The first company is heading down the main street, that must be the captain at their head."

Commodus looked at the stream of legionaries pouring out of the citadel gates. The six hundred men of the first company marched out to battle. Their heralds flew the captain's banner, a silver ring against black, and they shimmered in the snow like the scales of a sea-fish. Ahead of them all was Inhelbeld, from here he seemed like a walking tree with his limber arms and painted armour. The orderly stamp of feet had drowned out their drummers. It grew fainter and fainter as the legionaries marched on ahead, to battle, to slaughter, to an end to this war.

But if Commodus does nothing, they will be marching to their deaths.

avataravatar
Next chapter