The Rotten Apple (1)
The moment we left Sian, we launched into a grueling forced march. We'd sleep while walking and walk while sleeping, covering 60 kilometers a day. Even on paved roads, that pace was nearly impossible for infantry.
But to survive Heigirt, we had no choice. The moment they realized the city was empty, they'd scour the sewers. No time for rest.
Two days into the mad dash, we were utterly spent.
Thanks to the forced march, though, we made it to Aren, the rear supply city for the 12th Legion.
Aren.
A planned city built by Emperor Ulpianus, the ninth of the Empire. It housed thousands of discharged veterans at once, its grid-like streets reflecting the legionaries' obsession with straight lines and right angles—measured to perfection.
Only upon entering the city did I finally exhale in relief. I'd been on edge, dreading a clash with barbarians in the open wilds. The walls offered protection like nothing else, even if the garrison was short-handed. The walls alone eased my mind. The soldiers showed visible relief at the sight, too.
Fortunately, Heigirt made no move even after we entered. Maybe it was to be expected.
He'd cornered us in a rat hole and set a trap to boot. Letting us slip must have blindsided him—it was unthinkable. But I couldn't be sure.
Releasing us might have been part of his plan. If he'd wanted, his cavalry could've shadowed us, exploiting their mobility.
I decided to think positively. The barbarian king Heigirt had taken a hit from me. Believing that would bolster my confidence.
While the men rested before the garrison barracks, Rikius went to city hall demanding bread. Fleeing like rats, we hadn't brought proper rations.
The city officials' response was ice-cold.
Rikius stormed back, face twisted in disbelief.
"Commander. They'll give us bread, but the city guard's short, so no freebies. Cash up front, or no baking."
"Those bastards. We're the ones holding the frontier for the Empire, and that's how they treat us?"
Rubiot exploded.
I reined them in.
"No trouble here. It's another legion's turf, and we have no claim to demand anything. Hand over what cash we have."
"Ain, those scum lived an extra week without war worries thanks to us. And this is our reward?"
"Hold it. We're soldiers. Keep our honor. No need to stoop to their level."
Rubiot barely swallowed his rage.
I called Riti the centurion to check our funds. In the hasty escape, we'd grabbed just 200 solitus. Big money for troops, but peanuts for running a legion.
I sent him to request wine and bread for 20 solitus. The officials took the coin and handed over cheap swill and rancid black bread. Moldy, even.
I stared blankly at the loaf in my hand, then asked the quartermaster who'd hauled it from the cart.
"This is definitely from the city?"
"Yes, sir."
He replied like there was no issue.
What the hell? I couldn't hide my incredulity.
Twenty solitus could've bought soft wheat bread, soup, and decent wine for every man.
And they give us this?
I hurled the bread and grabbed his collar.
"Ain, easy."
Rubiot, who'd been fuming earlier, now held me back—for my dignity's sake.
But I couldn't stomach it. These were my brothers-in-arms, precious as blood kin, and they'd tampered with their food.
How do you swallow that? I'd paid as demanded; they owed us proper treatment. Failing that, they were scum.
I snarled at the quartermaster.
"You dog-shit bastard."
"Th-that's too much."
"Too much? We bled for the Empire. Never asked you citizens for sacrifice. Paid fair for bread.
And you fuck with it? Want me to shove it down your throat?"
"I-I'll complain to the legion commander."
"I'm acting legion commander. Complain away. If it doesn't convince, you'll get the lash."
He froze. My rank exceeded his expectations. Nominal or not, I spoke for the legion. Flogging him for rotten bread? Child's play.
I raised a fist to the dog-worse-than quartermaster.
"One hour. Bring proper value. Dog food again, we march on city hall. Whips first, not words. Want your back shredded like rags? Same goes. I'll wait."
Crack.
My knuckles ground.
Gulp.
He nodded frantically.
Rotten, moldy bureaucrats like him.
The Empire rots from self-serving officials and colluding merchants ignoring principles. I wasn't spotless myself, but they were beyond the pale.
I released his collar; he fled trembling.
I ordered the men to dump the filthy bread. They spat on it as it hit the dirt.
These unbreakable frontier survivors, fed dog slop? My fists shook again.
Soon, a merchant sent by the quartermaster arrived with fresh bread and wine. Clean-baked loaves, passable vintage. Not full value, but edible. No need for round two—I distributed it to the troops.
As the men ate heartily, garrison officers visited. City officials had "complained."
"So what? Want an apology?"
They forced awkward smiles. Bribed by the quartermaster or his merchant cronies—fellow soldiers doing their dirty work.
Unbelievable. No such scum up front. Rear echelon bellies bloated the ranks with rotten apples.
We traded with barbarians too, but never stabbed brothers. Except scum like Quartermaster Morsis.
Rikius approached after overhearing; the officers glimpsed his bulk and glare, muttered, and left. No satisfaction.
I pitied the army harboring such trash as Imperial soldiers.
I'd thought the front weak and corrupt. It was the Empire's sturdiest bastion.
I shook my head.
By evening, the city quartermaster and mayor arrived. Rumors from our men had the city in uproar; they came to verify. They knew of the northern rout—Heigirt leading rebels—eavesdroppers gonna eavesdrop.
But they figured even victory wouldn't bring him to wealthy eastern Libitus. Hearing he'd sacked Sian and might push south? Guts dropped.
I confirmed it.
"All true. You'd have known sooner if you'd asked on arrival."
The mayor's face crumpled in despair. For him, with status, honor, roots here, war's shadow meant world-ending dread. Quartermaster same.
Seeing their rotting mugs lifted my spirits. Now they grasped our worth to the Empire—and city.
Knowing that, treat us right. Full support, cooperation.
We were the only regular Imperial force against Heigirt hereabouts.
They whispered ashen-faced, then sheepishly asked for defense aid.
Yeah. Should've led with that.
No refusal anyway. We'd defend regardless—soldier's duty, legion's mission. The rook and comrades would've too.
I promised the civilians full effort. But Heigirt's horde was mighty; no guarantees on holding. Demanded supplies, manpower, garrison coordination.
The mayor agonized, then pledged consideration.
Bastards.
Moments ago, death's door; now, weighing flight with riches and kin. Hated yielding his. Such a mayor. Bitter smile.
I sent them off, summoned the centurions and 11th Cavalry commander.
"All well-fed?"
"Stuffed your share in my gut too."
Rubiot grinned.
"Pig. Anyway, called you on city defense—talked with the mayor. Laughable pricks, but we're soldiers upholding our oxidized comrades' honor.
Rally the men for smooth cooperation."
They nodded.
As talk wrapped, Cogol centurion requested word.
"Speak."
"Meant to stay quiet, but... In Sian, our allied tribes betrayed us, right?"
"Yes."
"Who pushed hardest to accept them?"
Centurions darkened.
"Old Garin, wasn't it?"
Rubiot said.
"Right. Garin centurion pushed extreme terms. When barbarians yielded in talks, Chief Centurion Robert jumped—remember?
Not demanding his pledged neck. But his shady moves stink. When cornered, he was outside Sian.
Who knows if he went east to Libitus. Traitor? We owe him for our dead brothers' blood."
"Understood. On return, suspend and probe Garin centurion."
Cogol approved.
Dispersing, heaviness lingered. Hating to doubt a back-to-back comrade. Garin. Real traitor?
Circumstances screamed suspicion.
I half-resented Cogol for raising it.
(To be continued)