The Deal (3)
Knock knock.
“Come in.”
I found the room of the 2nd Battalion Commander at the far right end of the third floor.
The 2nd Battalion Commander was one of the five senior officers staying in Sian alongside the Legion Commander, responsible for overseeing the fan-shaped array of Border Fortresses stretching southeast from Sian.
His name was Magnus.
A peasant-born legend who had risen through the ranks time and again to claim a battalion command—a living myth among the rank-and-file soldiers.
Sure, even a man like that had his reasons for brushing off and burying the complaints from below, but that was none of my concern.
“Seventh Centurion Ain reporting, sir.”
I raised and lowered my hand in the crisp imperial salute.
“Yes, I was just about to have a word with you anyway. What’s with all these letters you’ve been sending—one to every governor? I wanted to ask.”
“It’s because the situation on the ground is that dire, sir. Our sector is vast; we can’t operate shorthanded. And yet soon enough, we’ll be down to half strength. Why wouldn’t I be desperate?”
“I’m not blind to your plight. But every unit’s hurting for men these days. Yours is at least quiet compared to, say, the Fifth Centuria—barbarians attacked there, killed the sentries, burned the watchtower. You don’t expect me to pull men from outfits like that to patch your holes, do you?”
“If that happened to us, sir, we wouldn’t just lose a watchtower. We’d be wiped out.”
“Pessimistic.”
“Just stating facts, sir.”
“Even so, I won’t strip other centuries in the battalion to fill your ranks.”
“Then permit me to raise the manpower issue at the legion staff meeting, sir.”
“The legion staff meeting?”
“Yes, sir.”
For a mere centurion to table an agenda item at the legion staff meeting would normally be an outrageous overstep.
But in a crisis this severe, such things were tolerated to a degree.
Magnus cupped his chin and pondered for a moment before nodding.
“Very well. Have it your way.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I mouthed the obligatory courtesy. As if I owed him anything—he hadn’t lifted a finger. I saluted, left the room, and scowled the instant the door shut behind me.
I’d at least hoped for a handful of bodies.
Now the legion staff meeting was my only hope.
Those meetings convened weekly under the Legion Commander’s chairmanship, mandatory for all centurions and higher stationed in Sian. Of course, officers away on detached duty were excused by circumstance.
I resolved to handle the manpower shortage there, then headed off to discuss the new barbarian issue with the quartermaster.
“A new barbarian tribe has proposed a deal?”
Morsis asked over his tea, clearly intrigued by the prospect of fresh trading partners.
Not a wrong instinct. Still, as a soldier, I wished he’d worry more about the heightened security threat.
“Yes, sir. The Black Wolf Tribe. Ever heard of them?”
“New name to me. Rookies.”
The quartermaster said. In his parlance, “rookies” meant unvetted newcomers without intel.
Partners like that were risky—hard to control, unpredictable in a trade. Not that safe options abounded in the empire these days.
“Do these newcomers even have goods worth trading?”
“Plenty if we take it from them. Gold, silver, slaves—whatever.”
The quartermaster stated it like plain fact.
“Sounds dangerous.”
“That’s why we woo them hard. I’ll send Philip over soon.”
“Understood, sir.”
Not without unease, but we had no alternatives. Living cheek-by-jowl with uncontacted wolves was like stacking tinder next to a torch.
“Oh, and we have five men up for discharge in my unit.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. All want their deposits in cash.”
“You know the custom?”
“Of course, sir.”
By custom, the quartermaster skimmed 15 percent of any payout as “fees.” Rates varied by legion, naturally.
“I’ll calculate their pay stubs when you send word.”
“Yes, sir. Appreciate it.”
I bowed to the corrupt quartermaster.
I wasn’t one to grovel for my own advancement, but bending the knee for my men—who actually had my back—was no hardship.
He’d frowned slightly at my emphasized “appreciate,” then smoothed his expression. Without that, he’d have gouged deeper, no doubt.
Business with the quartermaster done, I felt lighter and detoured to the baths.
Sian boasted a massive bathhouse built by the imperial government for the legionnaires.
Its pools held two hundred at a time, with separate hot and cold sections—though these days, the distinction meant little.
No funds for firewood to heat the hot baths.
Or rather, the supply officers had pocketed the budget.
I settled into the cold pool.
An hour in, a man with flame-red hair evoking a rooster appeared.
His weathered bronze skin belonged to someone barely past thirty, yet crisscrossed with stark white scars.
Even I, veteran of my share of hells, wouldn’t trade cards with him. He scanned the room, muttering praises.
Spotting me, he slid into the spot beside.
Ice water, and he’s half-lidded against the wall like it’s bliss—what gives? Built like a born brawler, but his bumpkin manners said otherwise. His awe seemed aimed at the bathhouse itself.
Not legion stock, by the look.
Squinting sidelong, I tossed out a casual probe.
“You an eagle serving in the legions?”
“No, sir. Imperial auxiliary.”
He answered amiably. Auxiliaries—barbarians, then.
A barbarian enamored with the imperial army in this age? Intriguing. I pressed further.
“Which auxiliary outfit?”
There were two kinds: tribal allies serving as levies, who might hold a spear backwards; and individual enlistees chasing citizenship, drilled to legion standards.
“Enlistee, sir. Eleventh Cavalry.”
“Got it. I’m Centurion Ain.”
“Lis, sir. Buddies call me ‘Cool Rooster.’”
“Not bad. They dubbed me ‘Stumpy Ain’ back in the day.”
“Still, centurion’s a solid rise, right?”
“Fair point. How long you in?”
“Two years this year.”
“Body says twenty.”
“Tribal punishment, sir. Killed a man.”
“Army’s about killing men. That’s the job, no?”
I consoled the suddenly somber Lis; he grinned and nodded.
“Well said, sir.”
“Cavalry treating you right?”
“Better than tribal life, but the fights never stop—wears you down.”
“Most’d quit. What keeps you hanging on?”
“Truth? Dream of citizenship, seeing the capital. I’d have bailed otherwise.”
Lis aimed to earn citizenship through auxiliary service, just to glimpse the capital.
“The capital, huh.”
For one man to fixate on it as his goal... but yeah, it warranted the hype.
Beyond being the millennium-old heart of a great empire, it symbolized the world’s center.
If even our frontier outposts got such grandeur, what must the core look like?
I was a touch curious myself.
Lis told me:
“I’ll see it someday.”
“You will. Good luck with that dream.”
I wished him well, left the pool. A barbarian auxiliary yearning for an empire that looked hopeless even to me.
If the auxiliaries brimmed with such men... The thought struck me.
“What nonsense is this? Shorthanded, so let auxiliaries into the regular legions?”
The elite-born senior officers erupted the moment I raised the item.
To mainland scions or their ilk, the idea of uncitizened barbarian scum infiltrating the imperial legions was an outrage.
They tolerated frontier provincials enlisting for pragmatic reasons, but beasts in legion ranks? Never.
“Enough.”
As voices rose, Cassius raised a hand. The officers fell silent at the Legion Commander’s check, though their eyes still devoured me.
“Centurion Ain. The imperial legions are an army of tradition and honor. Has our might and glory waned so far we must recruit rank barbarians?”
Even Cassius reprimanded me, anger flaring.
But I hadn’t raised it lightly.
“Sir, then give me fresh recruits. Pureblood imperials, or failing that, provincial dregs.”
“We’re discussing it with the governor.”
“I need men now, sir. Yesterday, if possible.”
A few attending centurions nodded.
They wouldn’t back me openly, but they felt the manpower pinch too.
Cassius’s fist slammed the table.
Bang.
“Suppose we let barbarians in as a last resort. How do we test their loyalty? What if they turn traitor? The legions crumble from within. Is that the madness you want?”
I’d waited for that.
“Loyalty? Auxiliaries have plenty—more than empire citizens too scared of death to enlist.”
“Insulting imperial citizens, are you?”
“My apologies, sir.”
I yielded just enough.
As Cassius bit his lip, a battalion commander spoke up.
“Ain’s not entirely wrong, sir. Auxiliaries are vetted for loyalty at least. Not total unknowns.”
“So we induct them into the legion?”
“Without special measures, his proposal warrants review.”
“No review. No action till we consult the governor. That’s an order from your Legion Commander.”
With that from the top, debate died.
I clamped my mouth shut and nodded like the rest.
Afterward, Rubiot sought me out.
“Ain. You pushed too hard today. That was the Legion Commander.”
“That’s how choked I feel. One slip, and barbarians take my head—who cares about rank then?”
“Hah. You’ve got balls. Drink?”
“Love to, but gotta ride sober to make it back.”
“Stiff as ever. Fine, a non-alcoholic then?”
“Sure.”
I took Rubiot up on it and headed to the mess hall. It bustled with soldiers grabbing chow.
We claimed a corner table and called a server.
Even in an army-run hall, the staff were civilians—a fixture in this soldier town short on other jobs for women.
A fresh-faced girl approached, hands clasped.
“What’ll it be?”
“Cata.”
I ordered; Rubiot matched. Cata was legion-issue—a sweet grape-and-herb brew.
Floated with stored winter ice for chill, it was popular enough. Downside: pricey.
While waiting, we chewed over barbarians.
Endless topic, given the stakes.
Rubiot drummed the table.
“Barbarians aren’t what they used to be. You feel it?”
“Definitely stronger than five, ten years back. Better organized, armed. Yesterday to today’s a shift; tomorrow another.”
“End times. Soon we’ll lose even on numbers. Then it’s over.”
“Here’s hoping we retire first.”
I grimaced wryly.
“Damn it. Wonder if we’ll even get our pensions straight.”
“You’ve saved decently, no?”
“A bit. Enough for a small farmstead? Near-border only; inland’s a pipe dream.”
“Guess we’ll fret barbarians till we croak.”
Mid-gloom on the empire’s future, our cata arrived.
On parting after drinks, Rubiot said:
“See you next year if luck holds.”
“All limbs intact.”
We shook on tomorrow.
(To be continued)