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Optio Potis Durio

 

The sides of a coin

Part III

-Finish that road Optio-

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Prefect Placus Durio paused to examine the new gold and silver white cape on his desk. His uncle frowned as if unsure, but seeing him waiting at the center of the Cohort’s commander’s tent he forced a smile on his aged mouth.

“At ease Optio Durio,” he said and Potis relaxed his stance. “The Lord Commander will be joining us shortly.”

“Who will it be sire?” Potis asked, the news that were going to become part of the Second Legion out of Lesia still shocking to him.

“Lord Cornelius Mortymer from Stingray is here,” Prefect Durio answered. Lord Mortymer was the Lesia’s Master of Silence. His uncle had raised Potis after his father’s death and always kept the young officer near him at the Legion’s posts since then. “But a council member should never run an army, so it will be Lord Godfrey Caxaton of Telus that will take the lead.”

Telus was a petty barony in Andatelia.

“What about the Frye’s?”

Another prominent family from the city of Dokamna.

“Lord Osmund loves the Navy, I don’t see that changing,” His uncle explained. “There’s a rumor Ettore Pintor is also with the King.”

“The ‘Butcher of Yepehir’?” Potis gasped. “I thought Lord Mortymer had him leading the ‘Three Hundred’?”

“Apparently the company is sailing for Eplas under D’Orsi,” His uncle replied and rubbed his face with both hands. “A new command.”

“The lads were saying it doesn’t feel right camping away from their brothers,” Potis said a little tentatively.

“The lads being the engineers?” The Prefect queried without looking at him.

“The sentiment is shared I believe in the rank and file,” he replied.

His uncle assumed an austere expression. “You are spending too much time there Optio.”

“It’s an escort mission,” Potis jested. “Heavy escort all around. People don’t have much to do, so they talk.”

“About what?”

“Politics.”

“They better stick to cutting wood and fixing carts. How many came with us?”

“Thirty from the old Century Prefect,” Potis replied. “It seems excessive to move so many soldiers for a Conference.”

“Perhaps there’s a reason for it,” the Prefect said.

“The situation in the North?”

“If the Jarl pushes back the Issirs, he’ll turn his eyes on the Duchy,” his uncle explained. “Lesia wants the status quo to remain as is. The supply of good quality wood is vital for the Fleet and of course for profit.”

“Can the Jarl break through though? He was mauled at the Bridges. That is twice a war he has started failed. He’s too old to try again,” Potis commented.

“He almost wiped them out there,” Prefect Durio corrected him. “They won by the skin of their teeth. Had the Jarl kept a reserve at the near, he could have routed the Crulls and Vanzon’s force was spent completely.”

“There’s a rumor, Lucius might be helping them. Found himself another Northern lass,” Potis said.

“I bet the Redmond’s are unhappy,” his uncle said. “Then again, marrying the Tiger didn’t end well for them. If this girl succeeds where they failed, the Jarl might become emboldened.”

“King Alistair will never side with the Jarl,” Potis argued.

“Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t. But as you said that’s not the old Tiger. Who knows what Sir Lucius has in his mind?”

“Will Lesia fight in the North?” Potis asked.

“Nobody wants to fight there,” the Prefect replied and looked at the scrolls on his desk. “But sometimes orders are what they are.”

There was commotion outside their tent and a soldier popped his head in.

“Yes?” The Prefect said. “What is it?”

“There’s trouble at the gates commander,” the soldier reported. “A rider came to inform us.”

“Which Gates?” The Prefect said standing up alarmed. “What are you talking about? What trouble?”

Potis always thought that at that point, things stopped making sense.

 

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The Cohort had slowly gathered, the men standing idle looking about them nervously. Prefect Durio stopped and glared at the rider, the third that had appeared in twenty minutes coming from the nearby Riverdor.

“Report!” His uncle barked, clad in his officer’s uniform, the armour well-polished and the new style cape billowing in the breeze. The weather was turning for the worse.

“They are fighting,” the scout reported. “A kilometer and a half from the Gates of Riverdor.”

“Who’s fighting?” Potis asked him, the helm heavy on his head.

“King Alistair with the Issirs. The Second Foot.”

“What is the Second Foot doing there?” The Prefect queried and Potis spotted a group of officers coming their way. One of them wearing a Legion Lorica, but styled in white, silver and gold, the white boar of Lesia engraved on the shoulder guards.

“They moved sire. In the night,” the scout replied, just as the first rain drops started falling.

“The Legion is fighting the Foot?” Potis asked and looked at his uncle. Several of the soldiers and lower ranking officers standing closer to them could hear their conversation and his uncle grimaced. “Uncle… Prefect Durio, we should help them,” Potis blurted out.

“Help who?” The Prefect snapped, jaw clenched in frustration. “We have no idea what in Tyeus spear is going on! Go tend to your engineers Optio.”

Potis stood back and stared at him. “I ask permission to lead the Second Century outside Prefect!” He said loudly saluting.

His uncle grunted, a worrying eye on the approaching officer and lords, the other at the men listening in.

“Prefect?” Potis asked, a lump in his throat. “It will be a simple scouting mission sire!”

“Ah, damn it,” Prefect Durio grunted staring at his nephew strangely.

“May I take the Century out of the camp sire?” Potis asked again, his heart thundering.

“Do it,” his uncle relented. “Don’t engage, see what is going on and report back. Stay out of it Potis.”

“Belay that order Optio!” The hard faced officer barked, stopping a couple of meters from them.

“Pintor,” Prefect Durio said and glared at the newcomer. “You can’t rescind my orders in my camp.”

Ettore Pintor pressed his lips into a thin line, square jaw closely shaved and the lines on it deep especially near the mouth. He reached into his armour and got a scroll out, the rain dropping on them, the thunders and the lightings making it difficult to hear their exchange.

His uncle snatched the scroll from him and paused to stare at a wiry Lord standing next to Pintor. The rare red Lynx engraved on the front of his iron cuirass. He kept his head shaven, the pale skin gleaming under the pouring rain.

“Prefect,” Potis tried again and Pintor eyed him warningly.

“Prefect Pintor is assuming command Optio according to this,” his uncle told him. “I’ve been reassigned to the Second Cohort.”

“Uncle per the Legion’s book, we can’t change command in the middle of a crisis!” Potis argued and Lord Caxaton glared at him.

“Optio, you are dismissed,” he barked and Potis gasped.

“He’s right Prefect Pintor,” his uncle said turning to face his colleague. “Lord Commander,” this he addressed to the seething Lord Caxaton. “The orders usually take effect upon returning to base. In fact this is issued for the next month.”

“Prefect Durio,” Lord Caxaton hissed, under the uproar of the skies above them. “A technicality. I can assume command earlier! I’m a plaguing Lord!”

“Not in the Legion you can’t milord. A King could,” his uncle replied holding firm. “So I will ask the King to clarify these orders. In the meantime, Optio Durio will take the Century out and find out what is going on.”

“Stay where you are Optio!” Pintor barked. “Prefect Durio you are relieved of your position. Do you comply?”

“Not until I talk with King Davenport,” his uncle replied, clenching his jaw.

Lord Caxaton turned his head around and looked at the two men-at-arms escorting them.

“Arrest the Prefect,” he ordered them and a collective gasp came out of the men standing and watching the exchange. “And anyone else!” Lord Caxaton barked glaring at the men of the Cohort under the heavy downpour. “It’s an order by your Lord Commander!”

“You are not arresting the Prefect,” Potis said and dropped his hand to his sword.

“Ah! There it is. Mutiny!” Prefect Pintor gasped and took a step back, everyone tensing up and the murmurs turning to protests from the rows of legionnaires.

“Enough!” His uncle yelled loud enough to be heard. “This is unacceptable. Lord Caxaton, there’s no need for violence here. Prefect Pintor can have command of the Cohort. But I ask for an audience with King Davenport today.”

“Fine. Surrender your sword Prefect and tell the men to disperse, but remain ready to march if the need arises, or if we know more.”

No. This is not right, Potis thought and his uncle approached him after he surrendered his weapon and reaching grabbed Potis hand, to keep it away from his sword.

“They can’t do this uncle,” the young man whispered to him and the old officer stared in his eyes moved.

“Orders are what they are,” the Prefect said solemnly. Then lowered his voice so they couldn’t hear them. “Leave my boy. Find a way out. You hear? Get away, forget about me.”

Optio Durio stood back shocked, the rain smarting his eyes, a mix of bitter water and tears down his cheeks. His uncle followed the two men and they walked away from them towards the gates of the camp. Lord Caxaton turned himself to follow behind them but paused not three strides later and asked a still staring at Optio Durio Prefect Pintor.

“What’s the punishment in the Legion for disobeying a Lord Commander’s direct order when in the field Prefect?” He asked pretending he was troubled.

“Beheading sire,” Prefect Pintor replied staring at a wild-eyed and shaking Potis. A man put a hand on his shoulder.

“Come lad,” the baritone voice of Centurion of Engineers Bart Bestia cautioned him. “We gotta go, whilst we have the time.”

“Well then,” Lord Caxaton said. “I suppose it is what it is. Get it done Prefect. See to any dissenters also.”

 

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Bestia tossed him a haversack and then bodied him towards a horse. About thirty men were already there waiting under the heavy rain, looking haunted. Potis was moving like an automaton too stunned to take charge.

“They’ll open the south gates and we will hoof it,” Bestia explained to him, square jaw and teeth clenched in a manic smile. “That’s it. No orders after that Optio. Whole thing went tits up,” he added shaking his head. “A couple of years for my pension. Ah curse it all to Oras hells!”

“We should stay and help the Prefect,” Potis protested, but Bart grabbed the young officer by the collar and glared at him.

“Your uncle is dead,” he explained. “There are rumors of people getting the chop right and left all over the city.”

Potis sucked air in desperately trying to calm himself down, but failing. “Why?”

“It’s a question you don’t ask unless you’re a lord lad. We need to leave now, before they replace everyone willing to turn a blind eye and then we’re fucked. Don’t let the Prefect’s sacrifice be in vain.”

“He knew,” Potis gasped in shock.

“Thought he could stall them as much as he could and the old man might’ve succeeded. Kept ye out of it also, but your head ain’t safe yet, nor is mine.”

Potis nodded and reached for the reins.

 

 

The First Legion was set up obliquely in the Battle of the Turncoats. The Second Cohort split into its six hundred men strong Centuries to guard the wings of the formation. The Second Foot got sucked into the depth of the west flank and after an hour of heavy fighting found itself struggling against an ever closing corner there, when the wings got to work. They lost two soldiers for every legionnaire according to accounts that are heavily disputed, but got help from the massive Crimson Band, a rebel warband led by Sonny Lindberg who owed the High King, or was working for him in exchange for a pardon, a fact no one knew at the time.

They managed to stabilize the front attacking the crumbling west flank and Commander Deimos Alden ordered the Legion to disengage and retreat. King Alistair rescinded the order amidst another row between the Lorian Lords, who had had enough after two days marching under heavy rain and protested the King’s decision. King Alistair refused to listen to any dissenting opinions and ordered Sir Deimos to charge with his cavalry the Lingberg’s brigands and dislodge them from the flank.

Lord Doris disagreed, but the other lords gave their consent and a humbled Sir Deimos charged ahead of four hundred riders onto Lindberg’s sides giving them a taste of their own medicine. The Crimson Band warriors not kin on defending against a Cavalry charge, despite their numbers –estimates have them at around a thousand two hundred- got routed out of the field losing a lot of men. The regulars of the Second Foot pivoted twenty steps back while the brigands were melting under the hooves of Sir Deimos riders and set their spears to defend his second massive charge of the day.

Sir Deimos raised his sword and yelled for his riders to follow him. They did and charged on the packed Issir regulars lines, bristling with spears. Sometimes a spearwall might fail, people are justifiably scared of onrushing cavalry. People can also be well drilled, or fanatics. The Issirs didn’t budge, most of the horses refused to attack a wall of pointy things and tried to turn away. Some brave men and horses pushed through and fell to their death, Sir Deimos amongst them. It is said at least three spears skewered him, two through the torso and one right through his helm. Two short in number than the spears that killed his stallion.

King Alistair seeing the Issirs in disarray, despite their win against his cavalry, climbed his horse and waving his famed sword over his head ordered the Legion forward. All flanks. The Issirs rushed to reinsert the men they had used to stop Sir Deimos into their line, but this caused confusion in the ranks as most brought their spears with them and a Legionnaire unlike a horse, isn’t skittish to a spear. They just pushed them aside and approached to sword distance.

Facing annihilation the Issir commander, which wasn’t Sir Marc Est Ravn as he was sent by his father with three regiments down the coastal road to block King Alistair’s retreat towards Sabertooth Castle and the city of Alden, decided to pull his force back.

It was a fatal decision.

To his defense he just quickened the inevitable, as his biggest mistake was giving battle without waiting for the soon to arrive reinforcements and after a hard all-night march.

The Second Foot had shed most of its heavy equipment to catch up with King Alistair during the night dash through the plains and its supply train was still mostly in Riverdor. The Legion’s supply train followed five hundred meters behind the columns and while it had retreated before the battle, now Prefect Proclus Sula, in command after Prefect Ligur had lost his right arm earlier, ordered Optio Valens to bring the ten heavy Scorpios’ forward and fire them at the disengaging Issir regulars.

It was a vicious inhuman assault, every volley of the heavy two meters long iron bolts cutting down scores of hapless soldiers. The supply quartermaster had issued ten heavy bolts per Scorpio for the short journey and in twenty minutes, they’ve used them all.

King Alistair didn’t see the end of the battle and the Issirs routing from the field, as he collapsed from his horse. The King had worsened his injuries was the official word, trying to win the battle.

 

 

After a day and most of two nights of traveling they stopped near Aldenfort at the western knee of the Canlita Sea. There amidst the tall bushes and the families of pale-bark oaks by the side of the road they made a small fire that died as soon as it started. Everything was wet around them, even after the rain had stopped. They were soaked as well, men and animals.

“You said he tried to stall them,” Potis asked Bestia staring at the smoking embers, his body hurting, but not as much as his soul.

“Word is the High King offered to help Lesia keep Sovya into the fold,” Bestia rustled looking at men trying to find a dry spot and failing. “The Bank might had a hand in it. Wars are expensive.”

“King Davenport agreed?”

“He wasn’t in a position to argue and Lesia wants the Duchy.”

“What were the orders Centurion?” Potis hissed.

“Easy there lad. Antoon wanted the Cohort to ‘prevent’ the Legion from assisting King Alistair to break out. King Davenport gave the order, but knew your uncle wasn’t going to put us against our brethren in arms.”

“Politics,” Potics rustled angry. “He left it on my uncle’s shoulders!”

“The Prefect didn’t mind. Orders are what they are sometimes,” Bestia told him, then crooked his mouth. “Now other Lords and Pintor being there took the High King’s words at heart and the spirit of King Davenport’s orders got interpreted differently.”

“Would the King had backed my uncle?” Potis asked, after he cleared his throat.

“Nay lad. He couldn’t. The Prefect knew that. He chose to die with his conscience clear. Kings can’t do that, even if they want. Lesia has needs,” Bestia said. “As does the Legion.”

“How is being branded a deserter better Centurion?” Potis snapped.

“Yer alive lad, as am I and them fellows,” he pointed at the men watching their exchange, mostly engineers, smiths and carpenters Potis knew for years. “You’re young, life will go on.”

“I can’t let this travesty pass Centurion,” Potis explained. “The Prefect didn’t deserve this!”

“Very rarely people get what they deserve. Ye need a just ruler for that and even they make mistakes,” Bestia said looking at the sun coming up, a red disk behind the clouds. “Forget about revenge Optio. Find something you want to do that’s worth more.”

“We never got to finish that road up on the Tricorn Heights,” Potis murmured thinking out loud. “We left people crashed under the rocks.”

Bestia nodded but didn’t get the chance to answer him then.

“There’s someone coming Centurion,” Mario Toma reported from where he watched the road.

“Lorians?” Bestia asked jumping up and walked to his horse to get his sword.

“Issirs I reckon. They have a red sash over their necks,” Toma elucidated. “It’s that warband. Five of them.”

“Arm yourselves lads, but keep hidden,” Bestia said. “Optio, I take it you can use that blade if the need arises?”

Potis nodded and walked towards the road a scowl on his face.

 

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“There’s some of them Legion cunts popping out of the woodwork,” the Issir spat seeing Potis Durio coming out of the foliage, with Centurion Bestia behind him. “Killed me brother ye did. Fuckin’ ruffians.”

“Where was that?”

“Ye pretend ignorance?” The warrior riding next to him grunted.

“This is Regia’s land,” Potis told them. “Aldenfort beyond that turn on the road.”

“Fuck Regia,” a third one said. “Fuck Lesia and fuck you.”

Right.

Potis took a step back and unsheathed his saber.

“Hah,” the first brigand guffawed. “Yer gonna fight? Are you an officer, or something? I’ll have your armour,” he finished and kicked his legs to send his horse galloping towards him. Potis jumped away and cut him deep on the thigh as the man rode past him. Another horse came at him and while the young officer managed to turn his body, the animal sent him crashing down.

Potis rolled on the mud covered ground, loud yells mostly from their friends charging the brigands livening the early dawn. He jumped up, tried to wipe the watery dirt off of his face, but someone slashed at his chest, the blade carving his armour and opening a wound on his left forearm. The Optio groaned, downed his mud-covered blade savagely and got the brigand right at the side of his neck, the sharp blade going through flesh and bone, severing the man’s spine.

The brigand dropped lifeless from the saddle before him, blood mixing with the watery sludge and the ground slippery under his hobnailed boots. Potis stepped forward his ears ringing and his heart thundering in his chest. Bestia killed another brigand, but got a long knife under the armpit. He jerked away from it, just as Potis rushed the brigand with a furious cry. The Centurion stumbled back, blood on his armour and the Issir turned around blade in hand and teeth clenched in a manic smile probably realizing he was outnumbered heavily.

Potis shoved his saber through his chest, the blade angling up through worn out leather, lungs and out of his right shoulder, before stopping on the back of the brigand’s reinforced armour there. The Optio pushed him away with a growl and turned around to fight the next one, only to realize the scrap was over. The whole bloody affair lasting less than three minutes. Five brigands were dead, alongside three of their friends.

Bestia was seriously injured, but insisted they ride away as fast as they could. They patched him up, Potis bandaged his forearm and the men covered their dead with rocks and pieces of rotting wet wood. They dragged the bodies of the slayed brigands away from the road and kept their horses. They now had more horses than people.

 

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They avoided Aldenfort, as the guards there would probably have been on edge with whatever had happened back at Riverdor and it was one of the places more likely to have received orders about deserters. They traveled for four days and nights with small stops, exhausting their supplies and on the fifth, a pale faced and deteriorating Bestia stopped his horse near the banks of the Canlita Sea, more dark blue than pale skin under his eyes and announced that this was as far as he would go.

Potis watched the men lowering the heavy officer from his horse and carrying him near the brackish waters. The injured Centurion found a flat rock and collapsed on it with a grunt. The lower part of his face covered with a wild stubble like everyone else’s, his with more grey than black in it.

“How far to Islandport?” Bestia asked him a moment later. Potis sighed and walked to stand next to his spot. The afternoon air chilly near the big lake and a light breeze blowing over its dark and covered in mist waters. His heart heavy, much as the men that knew the Centurion better than him. But they had come close these past days and the man had saved his life. Potis wouldn’t have left the camp without him and would probably now be dead along with his uncle.

“Less than a week, I reckon. Might only be a couple of days though,” he croaked and watched Bestia trying to move his arm but failing. Rot had set in the previous day. A distant thunder warned them that it would start raining again soon. The weather worsening and the winter while mild, wasn’t over yet.

“Wish I could see Valeria through the fog,” Bestia rustled. “Never been aye. Always thought, I’ll do it when I retire. Help the Goddess’ girls fix stuff that need fixin’,” the Centurion of the Engineering Cohort finished, sadness in his hoarse voice.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Potis had agreed with difficulty.

“No such… thing Optio,” Bestia murmured, hazy eyes trying to pierce the veil over the waters and get a glimpse of the elusive island. “You get our boys out from under ‘em rocks,” he told him and Potis Durio’s eyes blurred as well, overcome with emotion. “Give ‘em… a proper burial, aye. Finish… that road… Optio.”

“I will Centurion,” Potis whispered, his voice barely coming out, not that it mattered. Bestia couldn’t hear him. After I do what is right.

“By all gods, old and new, I’ll finish it,” Potis Durio repeated, tears wetting his rough cheeks and several grown men wept silently behind him, while staring at the fogy waters of the Canlita Sea. A promise the young Optio had already given to the dead legionnaires buried at the mountain pass more than year back and never really forgotten.

I will, Potis vowed again solemnly and wiped his face, just as the skies opened up above them.

 

 

And he did.

 

 

The Lords of Regia present when the King collapsed decided to take him to Alden as fast as it was possible. Lord Holt disagreed arguing the long travel would be fatal and being the highest ranking Lord there he managed to get his. Prefect Sula, commanding the Legion as Faustus Ligur was incapacitated, was ordered to hold the regiments of Sir Marc Est Ravn that was approaching fast, with the less damaged First Cohort, the Second to get the King to Sabertooth Castle.

‘Give us twelve hours’, the venerable Lord Holt had ordered the cousin of the Lord of Demames. ‘The Fair Lady shall bless your lineage.’ While no one can say with any certainty if she did, the Sula family is more famous today than it was then. Whatever the case may be Prefect Sula fought Lord Commander’s Marc Est Ravn three regiments to a standstill on the road leading to Sabertooth castle, in a savage struggle that lasted fourteen hours and marked the last day of the Battle of the Turncoats.

The Second Foot had to retreat as it had lost almost half its men, around a thousand five hundred in that engagement alone. It hadn’t even reached Sabertooth Castle, much less the city of Alden according to its initial marching orders.

The First Cohort survivors of the ‘Battle of the Coastal Road’ numbered less than four hundred. Prefect Sula wasn’t one of them. It must be noted that the men returned under the command of the then Decanus Glycia, the only surviving officer.

While the Battle of the Turncoats is a part of history no one has taken an honest look at, it had a cascading effect on the politics of the continent. The Second Foot had to return to Riverdor almost at half strength, the loss of valuable men needed for the campaign on Eplas irreplaceable. The High King had played his hand and while he’d taken out one of his opponent’s, what he’d done in reality was lessening his own power. Lesia withdrew to its borders and poured enormous amounts of gold in creating her own Legion. The ‘Glittering’ Second Legion.

Regia while winning the battle, it had suffered a huge blow as its already lessened First Legion was crippled and almost bled dry. But the biggest loss was the important men that were lost in the almost three days struggle. Some of them irreplaceable.

For all parties involved.

Amongst those perished, Prefect Sula, Prefect Durio of the Second Lesian Legion, Sir Deimos Alden, five out of seven Captains of the Second Foot, all four Centurions of the First Legion, infamous Sony Lingberg and many others in the days that followed.

War had come out of nowhere and it had caught everyone by surprise.

Despite enormous efforts and sacrifices to douse out the flames, the beast had finally awaken and as a great, but now forgotten man had said years before.

 

 

‘War is a slothful beast

Slow to awaken,

Difficult to understand.

Once it does though,

It has a mind of its own,

And cannot be stopped.’

 

 

 

Lord Sirio Veturius

Circa 206 NC

 

The Fall of Heroes

Chapter XXIII

Battle of the Turncoats

(King Alistair Alden,

Stalwart Tiger of Regia.

-Second day, Battle of the Small Plains

Third day, Battle of the Coastal Road-

Early third month of winter 190 NC)