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    Invasion
    Invasion
    Invasion
    Ebook457 pages8 hours

    Invasion

    By S. J. A. Turney

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    For the glory of Empire!

    At the Empire’s northern edge lies Alba: strange, savage, unconquerable. Twenty years ago this rain-sodden island defeated a huge Imperial army.

    Now the Empire returns. Disgraced generals are looking for vengeance. Their forces are accompanied by three promising Tribunes: warlike Bellacon, intelligent Convocus and the joker in the pack, Cantex.

    As the armies journey into the interior, it becomes clear all is not as it seems. Beyond the realms of the Emperor, treachery is never far away. The invasion will be harder than anyone could have imagined. Can the Tribunes triumph against the odds? Or is this the very limit of Empire?

    Explosive and unputdownable, Invasion is perfect for fans of Simon Scarrow, Conn Iggulden and George R.R. Martin.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCanelo Digital Publishing Ltd
    Release dateFeb 20, 2017
    ISBN9781911420613
    Invasion
    Author

    S. J. A. Turney

    S.J.A. Turney is an author of Roman and medieval historical fiction, gritty historical fantasy and rollicking Roman children's books. He lives with his family and extended menagerie of pets in rural North Yorkshire.

    Read more from S. J. A. Turney

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      Book preview

      Invasion - S. J. A. Turney

      Invasion by S.J.A. Turneymap of Istriamap of Albamap of Steinvic

      Prologue

      The world turns on the tip of a knife, and whatever the great men of empires and tribes might like to think, it is the wielders of those knives who hold great destinies, rather than those who command the wielders. I had been taken from my people on the misty, remote isle of Alba as a young girl by an imperial officer who saw the value in my uncanny visions. And though that great campaign failed and Gaius Volentius returned to his empire with me in tow, I had never forgotten that green, fresh land and its courageous, lively people; even when the Khan came with his armies and I first met the three soldiers I knew would be tied to the destiny of my island. Convocus – all honour and duty with a labyrinthine mind, Cantex – laughing, lucky and proud, and capable Bellacon – trailing destiny like a cloak of stars. And whatever I had seen and ever would see, those three – and particularly the last – became my world on the day the Khan’s dream failed.

      Ten years ago, at the siege of Velutio

      Titus Tythianus, commander of the imperial guard and close friend of the emperor, urged his horse forward, determined to be the first to touch land as the boarding ramp was run out. All along the shore, ships were beaching and preparing to disgorge a seemingly endless flood of men comprised of several imperial forces and their Pelasian allies, timber vessels with sails of half a dozen imperial fleets alongside the sleek black Pelasian darams. It was an impressive sight, as was made clear by the panic now evident among the enemy where they seethed across the ruined walls of Velutio and the green fields outside.

      Titus spotted wiry, red-faced Prefect Volentius on the next ship, readying his own horse for the ramp, desperate to achieve great deeds and increase his wavering reputation, that ever-present eerie witch woman in his entourage. She was watching this ship intently, though not Titus himself. Damn the pair of them.

      Volentius had been struggling through his wine-soaked life to rebuild a reputation shattered by failure a decade ago and was nothing less than a canker in the flesh of the military. And the witch woman he’d brought back from the north? Well, that woman just sent a shiver up Titus’ spine every time she looked at him. It was as if her eyes were planting poisonous seeds in his soul. At least she wasn’t looking at him now. His eyes strayed back across faces to try and see what she was peering at, but there were just men and horses, tense and waiting, a small trio of them laughing at some joke.

      The commander gripped his reins tighter, willing the descending ramp ever downwards. He was damned if he was going to let Volentius be the man to take the enemy leader’s head. Not that Titus had anything to prove, but in his opinion, any officer who put his own reputation ahead of the good of his army was a poor leader, and preventing further pomposity in Volentius was worth the push.

      The ramp smashed down onto the gravel shoreline and Titus was off, racing at the enemy, a flood of his best riders close at his heel, thunder on the boards as a tide of cavalry washed ashore, snarling and bellowing, baying for blood, their swords and lance tips flashing and glinting. While he knew he shouldn’t gloat, Titus cast a smug grin at Prefect Volentius, who was busy yelling at the sailors to hurry up and run out the damned ramp even as the witch woman in his entourage continued to stare creepily at the ship.

      And then the commander’s world became a tableau of violence and death.

      Cavalrymen fell in beside him as he swung his long, straight blade again and again, scything through the flesh of fleeing nomads. On the very cusp of triumph, with Velutio laid bare before them, the enemy had been thwarted by the arrival of the fleet and were now in danger of complete destruction. Though Titus had been absent throughout the siege, rallying the army and their allies to sail north and save Velutio, and therefore knew little of the forces surrounding the city, it was clear where the enemy leaders were to be found.

      He angled for the great tents on the hill, cleaving his way towards them. It was a cull. A harvest. Not a battle. Clearly the battle had been fought long and fought hard by the emperor and his meagre forces, but this? This was slaughter. Few of the enemy stood their ground, most dying with a spear in their back or their head rolling free as their legs pounded for the illusory safety of their camp.

      ‘The horse-humping bastard’s mine,’ called a voice off to his left, and Titus turned, fully intending to tell the rider that the important thing was to make sure the enemy leader was captured or killed, not who did it. Yet when he turned to the rider there was something almost joyous in the youthful face, and the rider laughed light and loud as though the whole thing were some great joke.

      Idiot.

      ‘Leave it out, Cantex,’ snorted another rider. ‘You couldn’t catch a cold.’

      And while Titus expected the first rider – Cantex – to lash out angrily, he simply laughed that carefree laugh once more. ‘And you ride a horse like my grandmother, Bellacon. And she’s only got one leg.’

      ‘Will you two shut up,’ said a third rider, closing with the others. ‘You’re giving me a headache, and I want to be able to think clearly while the commander over there is congratulating me for taking the Khan myself.’

      ‘Piss off, Convocus,’ chuckled the one called Bellacon. ‘Yes,’ put in the smiling one. ‘The day you beat us to anything faster than the last slice of pie, I’ll eat my own saddle.’

      Titus lost track of the friendly banter for a moment as the cavalry hit a small knot of nomads who had managed to form into something resembling an angry mob, spears and swords out. The world once more became a blur of spinning steel, grinding hooves, warm, pink spray and the smell of opened guts and bowels.

      As the newly-arrived relief force made gradual headway into the panicked army of nomads, the going gradually became tougher, partially from the increasing number of enemy bodies, but also from the deepening conviction and strength of those men as they closed on the Khan himself and his most powerful veterans.

      Titus felt a line of fire score across his thigh and managed to roll his eyes downwards momentarily in the press to see blood leaking out through his breeches and spreading rosy across the material. Flexing his muscles confirmed it was a surface cut and no more, so he pressed on, his sword rising and falling into the neck cords of a howling nomad. Spear points lashed out at him and a blade swept through the air close enough for him to feel the draft, and then his sword was stabbing and slashing out, dealing death to the beleaguered nomads, taking an eye, a hand, a head.

      A few moments later the nomad group was scattering once more as the first wave of imperial infantry hit them like a wall of steel in the cavalry’s wake, and the two dozen riders who’d left the ship together were once more racing through scattered fleeing forms, intent on capturing the nomads’ leader. Up the slope, Titus could see a group of nomads saddling up, their… squires?, handing them bows and swords. That was more what he’d expected from the infamous horse-lords.

      The landing had taken the enemy by surprise and few had been mounted. Now that was beginning to change. They had to take the Khan before the clans could rally.

      ‘Anyway,’ shouted one of the three horsemen again, drawing Titus’ focus irritatingly away from the goal, ‘perhaps the commander wants their leader for himself. You should ask him nicely, Cantex.’

      ‘Commander,’ grinned the laughing one in his sing-song voice, ‘can I have the enemy leader? Please? It is my birthday, soon…’

      Titus shook his head in exasperation at the ability of the young to treat such momentous and potentially deadly actions as these as though they were some sort of party game.

      ‘See,’ laughed the one with the dark curly hair – Bellacon, Titus thought – ‘the commander’s shaking his head. Maybe me, commander?’ implored the rider with a grin.

      ‘Concentrate on your job,’ shouted Titus, though without real rancour. Something about the playful manner of the three men was infectious and he was fighting to contain a mad grin of his own. ‘And leave the enemy commander to me.’

      The three riders laughed.

      ‘Only if you get there first, sir,’ called Cantex insolently.

      Another wave of desperate infantry surged across from somewhere, blocking their route. For a moment, Titus considered utilising the extra speed his mount granted him and simply skirting this bunch, leaving them to the others. But he could see Volentius gaining on him now, the prefect’s men clearing a way for him in his desperate rush to be the man who took the Khan’s head. Skirting wide now might very well hand the glory to Volentius, and the pompous sot didn’t deserve that. Titus would rather see the decoration for valour go to one of the three laughing riders in his wake, any day.

      Once again, Titus’ world became the charnel machine, edges and points seeking out his lifeblood, some coming dangerously close. His sword lashed out to the side, jabbing into a man’s throat, then wheeling up and back before slashing wide and taking a head with surprisingly little resistance. The smith on the ship had done an excellent job of putting a new keen edge on his blade.

      Blood sprayed, limbs whirled and the stink grew with the din until Titus felt as though he were being churned and spun in a great machine of carnage and shit.

      Moments later he burst from the rear of the knot of defenders and was suddenly in the relative open, those three laughing riders close by still, as though protecting him, or more likely vying with him for prime position. Here and there nomads among the fleeing bodies would turn and fight, and those who were not ridden down and pulverised beneath the pounding hooves were taken by sword or lance. Still Titus raced on.

      The hill was rising now, far from the ruined walls of the city, the great circular leather tents of the horse clan leaders visible at the crest where banners and standards wavered in the breeze. While the vast majority of the nomads seemed to have abandoned their leaders, preferring flight and the possibility of escape, a small knot of hard-looking men were forming up on horseback, some readying bows and nocking arrows while others levelled spears, clearly in a last effort to protect the Khan from this threat.

      ‘Watch out for those toothpicks,’ shouted Cantex.

      ‘It’s the missiles you want to watch,’ snorted his curly-haired friend, Bellacon.

      ‘Look! The enemy Khan!’ said Convocus, gesturing with his sword.

      Titus peered ahead. Sure enough, the Khan had emerged from the largest tent, arrayed in his finery, though his only concession to war gear was the curved blade in his hand. The commander was surprised to discover faint but definite feelings of envy and disappointment as he realised that the three friendly riders to his left would, for all their japes, reach the enemy leader before him. One of those three would indeed be the man to take the Khan and win glory and the highest of military decorations available in the field.

      The world changed in a heartbeat with a flurry of black-fletched arrows.

      The three men to his left had been engaged in a new, light-hearted argument and in the blink of an eye three voices became two. Titus turned his head as he urged his horse on and saw the most serious of the three, Convocus, ripped from his saddle as an arrow punched into his shoulder. His sword spun useless from his hand and his horse reared with two more arrows in its neck.

      Cantex, no longer laughing, was fighting to control his own horse from which black fletching protruded. For just a moment, Bellacon was in the clear. He could ride the Khan down and kill him or knock him out, or even snatch him up if he was agile and strong enough.

      But as Titus watched, Bellacon turned his horse, putting glory and reward behind him as he threw himself from his steed, running over to help his fallen friend.

      Titus felt a tiny twinge of guilt as he rode on, the Khan filling his gaze, the fallen riders left behind. The knot of nomad heroes were riding forward now to cut him off, but more and more cavalrymen were arriving to help him.

      The two groups of riders swept against one another like a high wave on a sea wall. There was little in the way of tactics or strategy. The imperial cavalry was forcing their way through the routed army to take the Khan as fast as possible, and the enemy was throwing desperate obstacles in the way as quickly as they could. Horses and men reared and fell, blood lingering in an almost constant pink mizzle in the air as men stabbed and hacked, lashed out with spears and even pushed, shoved and battered at one another in the press. Titus fought to maintain his control of the beast beneath him and to remain upright and alive in the desperate melee. Arrows whirred through the air, though loosed from such close range they carried little power and few did more than rattle off shields, helmets and armour.

      The nomads had done what they could to protect the Khan, but it was hopeless. Their strength lay in speed and intensity, sweeping in and loosing arrows, taking the periphery of a force first without putting themselves in too much danger. Once they met in a headlong charge, it was the heavily armoured imperial forces who were fighting on their own terms.

      A gap opened up, and Titus swept his sword down, the blade pink and watery with blood as it cleaved the top span from a bow and then took the archer’s forearm. Then he was out in the relative open once more, his companion cavalry still close and hammering at the defenders in the press.

      Leaving the nomads to his men, Titus ploughed on towards the enemy leader, who was readying his sword to meet the charging commander. For a single moment, Titus glanced back and had a brief image of the two cavalrymen, Cantex and Bellacon, standing back to back above the fallen figure of their friend, fighting off the running nomads who were taking every opportunity to try and kill a few stray dismounted imperial soldiers in their flight.

      The Khan’s great curved blade was brought back to the side, and Titus saw the coming moments in his mind’s eye. Even as that gleaming steel, impossibly thin and sharp, scythed through the air and the front legs of the commander’s horse as though they were naught but butter, Titus was already out of the saddle, jumping to safety.

      He landed hard, rolling, his sword out safely to the side, and came to his feet swiftly, dancing back towards the Khan who was already readying his weapon again. Titus prepared to meet the Khan warrior to warrior, duelling as leaders of men had done since the dawn of time.

      His rage was almost incandescent as Prefect Volentius appeared from somewhere and struck the Khan on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword, knocking the man out. As the nomad leader fell, his eyes rolling up into their sockets, Titus let out an angry roar and stomped across the turf, grasping Volentius by his wrist and pulling the man bodily from his horse. The smug smile vanished from the prefect’s face as he hit the grass, winded.

      ‘If you think I’ll recommend you for honours for that, Prefect, then you’re sadly mistaken.’

      Leaving Volentius spluttering in outrage and floundering on the grass, Titus gripped his sword and stalked out away from the command tent, hacking at any nomad who was foolish enough to get close to him. He registered for a moment the eyes of that barbarian witch who was never far from the prefect’s side. Her gaze was on him, then flicked across the field of battle.

      Titus found himself following the path of her eyes.

      The battle, such as it was, was over. There would still be hard fighting in the streets and ruins of Velutio for a while, but the nomad camp had fallen and the bulk of their survivors were running for their lives, heading east as fast as their legs or steeds could carry them. The northern rebel lords were already decamped and running north, trying to escape the fight before it reached them properly.

      But that was not the subject of the witch woman’s gaze.

      Among the various small fights still raging across the field, he could see the young cavalrymen. The one with the arrow wound, Convocus, was resting against his dead horse, lashing out with his sword whenever an enemy came within reach. The one called Bellacon had now also been wounded, but had positioned himself so that he covered his friend’s blind side, similarly flailing at the enemy and keeping stray blows away. Cantex remained unwounded, standing behind the pair, keeping them safe as he fought off three men at once.

      Titus was impressed. Even as he watched, one of those three assailants died in a welter of blood. The two on the floor worked together to bring down another nomad, and even had the presence of mind to shout a warning to another random dismounted cavalryman nearby. That soldier turned just in time to block a blow that would have cleaved his head, and shouted his thanks, though he could not reach them to help, engaged as he was with other nomads.

      The commander, his recent anger all but forgotten, stormed across the grass, pausing only to push a struggling pair out of the way, and hacked the arm from one of the nomads attacking the three friends. With the aid of the commander, the three pushed back at the opportunistic nomads attacking them and, realising their easy targets had just become much more troublesome, the easterners fled. Titus cut one last enemy warrior down as he ran, then turned and joined Cantex in helping the other two to their feet. Both groaned at the pain coursing through them.

      ‘Damn,’ grumbled Bellacon with feeling, hissing as he twisted.

      ‘Bad?’ enquired Titus.

      ‘Terrible. You got the Khan, sir.’

      The soldier started to laugh, but then had to stop as the pain contorted him with a hiss.

      Titus chuckled. ‘If it’s any consolation, Prefect Volentius took my glorious moment and wiped shit all over it.’

      ‘Is that why he’s lying on the floor rubbing his head and with an expression like he’s been sucking a cat’s arse, sir?’ grinned Cantex.

      ‘It certainly is.’

      Two more prefects appeared through the throng which now seemed to consist almost entirely of imperial soldiers, both officers dismounting and handing their reins to soldiers as they crossed to the commander.

      ‘The army is in full retreat, sir. We’ve got units harrying them but they’ve got orders to go only as far as the river. Can’t afford to let them lose all cohesion, and without the Khan to bind them, it seems likely they will splinter and disband again anyway.’

      Titus nodded as he staggered across to the command tent with the wounded Bellacon leaning on him. ‘Agreed. Well done, lads. The Khan is unconscious. Have him bound tight and delivered to the emperor with a very heavy escort as soon as the streets are cleared. I’ll be along shortly after for a debrief, once everything’s under control here.’

      The prefect he was addressing bowed his head. ‘Yes, commander.’

      ‘And take note of these three men’s names. Bellacon, Convocus and Cantex. All three are from one of the First Army’s cavalry units, but they’re wasted in skirmishing duty. Have them all promoted to fill whatever junior officer ranks are available once the fight’s over.’

      As the prefect nodded his understanding, and Titus turned to help Bellacon to an upturned seat that one of the soldiers was setting straight, the three men were blinking at him, their faces plastered with astonishment as well as mud and blood. Titus smiled.

      ‘Soldiers who look to their own men’s wellbeing and find the time to try and save lives at the expense of their own glory are natural leaders and officers in the making. Well done, the three of you. I shall be watching you closely, expecting big things.’

      And as he strode across to the tent’s porch canopy, beneath which half a dozen soldiers were binding the wrists and ankles of the unconscious Khan, Titus was aware of the gaze of that witch on him, her expression inscrutable and yet oddly comforting.

      The imperial audience chamber at Velutio, nine years later

      The emperor Quintillian frowned and gestured to his empress. ‘Are you sure you want to sit through this in your condition?’

      Jala shifted her swollen, pregnant belly with difficulty. ‘Husband, however dull politics can get, it cannot possibly be boring enough to make me want to stand and carry this around the palace any more than I have to.’

      Quintillian grinned and scanned the imperial council, a collection of eight senior senators promoted to such a position of supposed influence not so much through talent as through wealth and noble lineage. Beyond them, the council’s chief clerk was busy scratching notes on his tablet.

      ‘What’s next?’

      ‘Plaintiffs from the north, Majesty,’ the clerk said, tapping his tablet with his stylus.

      ‘Ah, the lords who arrived yesterday. Have them shown in.’

      As the clerk scurried out to call the next piece of business to order, Quintillian glanced once more with a contented smile at his wife, then tried to run over what he knew of these lords. Ten years had passed since the dreadful events that had almost brought the empire to its knees. The city of Velutio had simply picked itself up amid the rubble and gone on with the business of life as the world was rebuilt around it. The ramifications across the wider territories were more profound.

      Where previously the empire’s borders had been expanded by the inclusion of barbarian kings and chiefs who had been considered to be imperial lords, allowing them to form their own limitanei – border units of barbarians paid to defend against other barbarians – the rebellion of Lord Aldegund had proved this to be an unwise policy.

      Quintillian had subsequently adopted something of a ‘carrot and stick’ approach in its place. The northern lords had been given their carrot – greater political position within the governing of the empire including a place in the senate and the ability to directly affect the making of the land’s laws. But the stick was also applied to their military capabilities. The warriors of their tribes were no longer formed into local forces, but were now removed from their lands along with their wives and children, trained as imperial auxiliaries and posted elsewhere in the empire.

      Thus while those northern lords’ warriors might find themselves occupying a border fort in the southern deserts or one of the new string of defences along the boundary of the horse clan lands, the northern provinces were well defended, but by units drawn from elsewhere in the empire, removing both temptation and the ability to effectively raise a military revolt.

      The system seemed to be working. The military was stronger than ever, and the value of that dangling carrot had drawn in more and more northern lords, so that territory in that region had expanded all the way to the cold northern coast in the succeeding decade.

      Of course, with the expansion of the lands had come different challenges. A new sea to patrol meant either a new navy or dividing existing forces, the latter having been the chosen path given the cost of raising ships and sailors and the need to preserve funds in the aftermath of such a destructive war. And the increase in senators had changed Velutio’s political life forever, as well as creating an atmosphere of disgruntlement among the old traditional senators.

      Still, all seemed to be progressing well, and these new peripheral lords had proved to be far more reasonable and pliable than other northern natives.

      The doors opened and the deputation flowed into the hall.

      The four lords who had come from their cold northern territories with their entourages and their favoured courtiers were easy to pick out, each one dressed in the most expensive silks bought in bazaars from traders all the way from the Jin Empire. Some of those tunics alone cost more than a full suit of armour. And the jewelled shoes, the coronets, the linen cloaks with their gold edging, the jewelled sword belts and all the glittering finery they wore could not hide their northern origins, especially since they were still unwilling to relinquish the torcs around their necks or the warrior’s arm-rings on their biceps. Each one wore more adornment and regalia than any senator of the imperial council. It was a symptom of being new nobility that a man seemed to need to show off his rank as much as possible.

      In addition to the nobles and their people, all unarmed in the imperial presence as was required by law, three high-ranking military officers played escort, each with their senior men and one with his ever-present witch woman. Three northern generals – Volentius, Crito and Quietus.

      ‘Greetings, my lords,’ the emperor addressed the three men dripping in jewels and gold. ‘Welcome to Velutio. If I am not mistaken this is your first visit to the capital since your investiture as imperial lords some years past. I have made arrangements for a feast this evening and for my chamberlain to accompany you and show you around the palace and the city should you require it. But before we are able to make you welcome, let us get the bothersome business of state out of the way…’

      Inanities. He had no desire to socialise with these men, but people who felt such need to wear their rank so openly, clearly put much stock in court life and propriety. Making them feel welcome might ease whatever strain had brought them a thousand miles just to see him. He noted one of the northern courtiers translating for the lords as they nodded.

      ‘Majesty,’ said one of the officers – General Crito, a sour old fart who had never quite managed to suppress the taint that came with being of part-barbarian blood himself. ‘Majesty, these lords, whose command of the imperial tongue is still in its infancy, have come to court to seek the support of the council and the emperor in their ongoing struggle with pirates.’

      Pirates? That was new.

      ‘The shores of their lands,’ Crito went on, ‘which constitute now the northern boundary of the empire itself, are prey to the increasing threat of pirates crossing the waters from the island of Alba.’

      Quintillian closed his eyes and turned slightly so that his expression of irritation was harder to see.

      ‘Go on,’ he prompted, though within he already felt he knew what was happening. Back in the early days of his brother’s reign, some twenty years ago now, there had been a grand push to conquer the island of Alba, a great, reeking swampy place across the northern sea. It had been little more than a disaster.

      The general responsible for the campaign had never quite recovered his reputation, though his lineage and wealth had guaranteed him an easy court life. That man – Anicius Rufus – one of the senators of the council, currently sat three seats to the left of Jala. But the generals who had escorted the lords south were, unsurprisingly, three of the officers who had taken part in that doomed campaign. It was hard to imagine that they had come here merely to support the lords. More likely the lords were their excuse. General Volentius in particular made a habit every few years of advocating a return to Alba.

      And now here he was with two of his companions from that doomed expedition two decades ago and four northern lords, complaining of Alban pirates.

      Quintillian sighed.

      ‘Let me guess. I am being lobbied to take military action against the pirates of Alba.’

      There was a brief consultation while the northern lords discussed matters in their own dialect and with the officers, and then, a consensus having apparently been reached, General Crito continued.

      ‘Pirate activity has increased to such an extent, Majesty, that whole towns are burned and looted.’

      ‘Presumably not in that order.’

      Crito tried not to look put out at the sarcastic interruption. He failed.

      ‘Majesty, imperial subjects are being taken back to Alba as slaves. Two of the northern provinces are unable to deliver the appropriate taxes this quarter due to the sheer scale of wealth plundered from their lands. They seek aid in protecting themselves, and it has long been the imperial way to defend our interests by direct military intervention.’

      ‘Spoken like a general,’ the emperor noted sourly. ‘The three of you, Crito, Volentius and Quietus, are senior officers in charge of that region. Can you not deal with these issues with your own resources? You are given the same financial and military support as any other border region.’

      ‘With respect, Majesty, the southern border has been quiet for ten years, as has the east. To the south are our allies and to the east the horse clans who now know better than to even approach the border. But the north is a constant storm of troubles, with warring lands across the narrow seas. We have done what we can to support these lords, but without direct government intervention, we have reached the limit of our influence and power.’

      ‘If I might offer an opinion?’ put in Anicius Rufus with a raised hand.

      ‘Go on, Senator.’

      ‘For a relatively modest increase in taxes we could raise a new fleet specifically to control that sea. Perhaps we can also allocate military engineers to construct new defences and watchtowers on the coast?’

      The emperor tapped his lip. It was an attractive idea, but even he could see the problems with it.

      ‘I think not, Rufus. Sadly, between the costs of raising a whole navy and of a grand construction plan, the price makes such a proposition unfeasible. We are still, even after ten years, in the process of rebuilding the capital, and that cost is immense already. Plus, the northern coast is a long stretch. Even with the best fleet and defensive system, we would be lucky to locate and stop pirates before they had raided our lands. Sadly, I think this is not the answer.’

      ‘A diplomatic solution?’ mused another senator.

      Quintillian turned a furrowed brow to the man. ‘If I am not much mistaken it was you, senator Calina, who sent an embassy to the island of Alba some three years ago. Pray tell, have you heard news of them suddenly?’

      The senator shrank back into his seat and into silence. No. His ambassadors and their military escort had vanished without trace three years ago, as was common knowledge.

      ‘No. I cannot see sending more men to vanish into the void being a feasible solution, either.’

      ‘War,’ grunted one of the northern lords in his thick native accent.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘War, Majesty.’

      General Crito nodded. ‘The lords are all agreed and adamant that the only permanent solution to the problem posed by the islanders across the narrow sea is to invade their island and garrison it. Moreover, Majesty, I can tell you from personal experience that the isle of Alba is rich in mineral resources. It could be a positive boon to the rebuilding of the empire.’

      There was a heavy silence, and Quintillian glanced across at the empress. Jala gave the slightest of nods, and he returned it. Even emperors could be outmanoeuvred occasionally. General Volentius had for twenty years been craving an excuse to return to Alba and recover a reputation he lost in the ignominious failure of that campaign – as, for that matter, had the other two generals there, Crito and Quietus.

      And now, through the petitions of pliable northern lords, they had brought a reason for it to the court. Diplomacy had failed once and was unlikely to succeed. Sealing off the empire was of uncertain value and of definite high price. The only solution was war.

      War.

      An invasion of a land long held to be untakeable. And the failed campaign of two decades ago had not been the only attempt, either. Over the centuries half a dozen emperors had sought to make their name by attempting to add that soggy northern isle to the empire. Apart from half a century of scratching around to retain a presence in the southeast before it was withdrawn, they had all failed.

      Well he would not – could not afford to – throw away a sizeable part of the imperial military on an almost certainly doomed campaign. He’d have liked to send senator Anicius Rufus back, just to get him out of court if nothing else, but the man was far too old now to be leading a military campaign.

      Three men here, though, were not so old. And they were hungry too. Maybe being hungry to avenge their shredded reputations might give them the impetus to actually succeed where others had failed.

      Yes. His mind whirled through the possibilities. The three former prefects who’d been involved in the previous attempt had all caused trouble in some way or other, and sending them to the periphery of the empire on what was likely a fool’s errand was appealing.

      Sending good men with them was less enticing, mind. A nagging memory pointed out that the northern legions maintained by these men were partially constituted of those who had rebelled and sided with the Khan a decade ago. Some of his advisors had urged him to disband those forces entirely, but he had kept them on despite their potential troubles due to the lack of manpower after the war. If he was going to have to sacrifice an army to an invasion in which he saw no value, why not the least valued units under the least valued men?

      ‘Very well,’ Quintillian said, with a sigh. ‘I hereby sanction the casting of war spears. In one month we shall hold the ceremonies in the temple of the war god, and the campaign can begin.’

      He noted the smug looks of the three officers with the northern deputation.

      ‘However,’ he said, wagging a finger, ‘this will not be a grand imperial campaign. I will not make the same mistake we made ten years ago and concentrate our entire force in one region, leaving us open to invasion and rebellion elsewhere. I will allocate just three legions, along with their associated transport, auxiliary units and cavalry.’

      He pointed at the generals standing beside

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