He neared. The loathsome stone. The hopeless warden. So young and overburdened. So easily lured. A whisper, cold as the void. Silent to all but the intended. A prick, so tiny, it was not felt. He bled. A drop that was not missed. And another. Cosmipox's patience was eternal.

***

Skippii gasped for breath as he awoke. He had rolled onto his stomach and pressed his mouth into his bedroll. He lifted his head, and for a moment, he did not recognise their tent. It was empty. He was the last one up.

"Hello?" Cur said, peaking through the flap. "Have you gotten into the wine?"

"No." Skippii rose groggily. "What time is it?"

"Time you got a move on, kid. We're out at next trumpet's blow."

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?" he said, bolting outside.

"We tried," Cur said.

"I told them to let you rest," Tenoris said. "But come now, quickly. Today shall be a special parade."

Before long, vast forces of Legion IX were summoned to the shallow foothills before the besieged city Nerithon. Each tonnage divided into neat blocks. Skippii held his shoulders back, chin raised high with the legion's banners for all the defenders to witness. Their superiors examined their health and the quality of their equipment. But today's parade lasted longer than usual. Arcanus filtered through the ranks, ever praying for the Pantheonic fortune. The Imperator himself stood at the head of the First Cohort and gazed at length upon the city walls. Without need for parley, the legion's message was sent: 'Here is the Ninth Legion, professional fighters of Auctoritas. We mean business.'

"The temple," Arius said lowly. "Look upon its roof."

Due to their vantage in the foothills, they could see over the city's walls towards the roofs of the city's largest monuments and forums. There, upon a mound, rose the Temple of Chryseon. Its pillars glistened in the morning sunlight as if the sun God himself were emanating from its polished marble. However, a section of the dark slate roof had caved in, and the walls were marred with black paint–inscription of some sort.

"They've ransacked it," Skippii said.

"It's not Chrysaetos' temple anymore," Cur added. "It's the heretic's."

"See those cracks in the wall?" Orsin said, a few paces down the line from Skippii. "The rock is different there. They must have rebuilt the walls after they were sundered."

"The eastern tower too," Arius added, positioned behind Skippii. "That appears the weakest."

"What are those black mounds?" Fulmin asked.

At the base of the tower knelt two charred pyres of wood and rubble. More such ruins were pressed against the heels of the mighty walls.

"Seige towers," Skippii answered over his shoulder. "Destroyed, burned."

"Left there as a reminder," Drusilla said grimly. "Walls that not even the Fifth Legion could get over."

A chill sea wind swept over their formation, and in the distance, the red cloaks of fallen legionnaires ruffled atop Nerithon's battlements.

"We shall triumph where they failed," Tenoris said resolutely.

"They must be starving by now," Kaesii said. "Ready to give up, I bet. No food in or out for eighteen months. It's a wonder that the Philoxenians haven't revolted against their oppressors."

"Who is to say how many of them remain Philoxenian," Cur said. "Nerithon was lost a long time ago. It's almost wrong to call it that still; an insult to the old Nerithon. Look at its temple. Look at the ruin. The proper Philoxenians have been butchered, or exiled, or bred out of the lands."

"Many of true blood still remain in this country," Tenoris said, quick to quell the old veteran's cynicism.

"Farmers, peasants," Cur said. "Even the tribesmen hate us. Hate the Pantheon."

"The Nodreos?" Kaesii said.

"Yeah, them," Cur spat. "Scum."

"Then we need not show mercy atop the battlements," Tenoris said. "Any man wielding a weapon shall be our foe."

"No matter his face, his language," Fulmin added.

"Maybe they feel forced to defend," Skippii said.

An odd pause fell upon their group.

"Out of fear?" Orsin asked.

"We are liberators," Drusilla said. "That doesn't make sense."

"They might not see it that way, or maybe they were lied to," he said. "You never really know how the other side thinks. Imagine them looking at us now from those towers. Because they're up there–the defenders of Nerithon-"

"The conquerers of Nerithon," Cur amended.

"The conquerors," Skippii agreed. "The people who have lived there for, what, one-hundred years now? People born without a concept of Philoxenian or Ürkün, just Nerithon as it is now. Who knows what kind of people they are? Perhaps they're not one or the other, but something else entirely."

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"If they would agree to submit to the Imperium Auctoritas," Kaesii pressed, "Then we wouldn't have to lay siege."

"I know," Skippii said. "The city must be taken. It's our duty, our privilege. But…" he sighed. "I don't understand this enemy. I don't understand what motivates them. What caused the Nodreos to betray us? What encourages the Ürkün to fight?"

"Conquest," Kaesii said.

"Riches, greed. Plunder and killing," Cur said sourly.

"The heretic gods," said Tenoris .

"It's not the full picture," Skippii said.

"Hmm." Orsin pondered, then cleared his throat. "To know one's enemy is to know their weakness."

"And, in knowing their weakness, the fight may be won without drawing a sword," Arius added.

"I'm not the only one wondering then?" Skippii said.

"To contemplate is natural," Arius said. "But beware not to falter when it comes time to act."

"Huh?" Kaesii said.

"He means, stab first," Drusilla clarified. "Ask questions later."

That afternoon, after a lengthy parade, tasks were split between the cohorts. Skippii's cohort was tasked with improving the palisade defences facing the city. Planting their spears in the ground and leaning their shields against them, each companeight created a sheaf of arms–easily retrievable in case the enemy got brave and rallied a sortie from the walls. All afternoon, Skippii carried posts which had been chopped by Tonnage V over to Tonnages I to III who were digging ditches and reinforcing the barricade.

While he worked, he kept a keen eye on the camp around him, as he had always done since his youth. He watched as banners separated from the main mass, leading Cohort III and IV into the westerly foothills to clear the forest for firewood and timber; Cohort VIII and IX ventured north towards where the siege was weakest, and the Fifth Legion's palisade encirclement had been broken. The auxiliary troops departed on hunting and scouting expeditions and the cavalry stabled their horses in large open tents.

Finally, as they finished for the evening, he watched a procession of banners and purple-cloaked legionnaires depart for the Fifth Legion's camp–their seniors heading to discuss logistics and proceedings with their allies.

As the light dimmed, the world outside the aura of their companeights campfire shrank. In the dim, the city walls would have looked just like any unspectacular cliff face if not for the sconces burning in rows atop its ramparts and flickering dimly behind archer's slits. The Gris arrived and handed them their rations–a paltry square of feta cheese and half a loaf of crust bread.

"Get used to it," Cur said when the rationer had moved on to proffer his meagre blessings upon the next companeight. "We're at siege now. It's shit food and boredom."

"What happened to the wine?" Kaesii said. "We had wine, didn't we?"

"We did," Drusilla said.

"Probably gone to the Fifth," Orsin said. "They won't have tasted wine for months. Maybe more than a year. Anything that doesn't have mould on it has probably found its way to their camp now."

"What?" Kaesii stammered. "How is that fair?"

"They've been at siege for a very long time," Cur said. "It's hard."

"So what? We've been on the march and battling the Ürkün, not sat around waiting for the enemy to surrender."

"It's the Fifth Legion," Cur emphasised. "A veteran legion. Not a velvet legion full of winey recruits too fat and well-fed for their own good." He jabbed his ear of bread at Kaesii. "Here, if you're so hungry that you'll starve. Take mine. Take a bit of bread from your elder."

Kaesii scowled, but said nothing. Beside him, you could see the sculptor's working inside Drusilla's head to formulate a retort that would rile him up. Skippii thought of something to distract them before they could be at each other's throats.

Drusilla's eyes lit up and a grin crossed his lips. Too late.

"I thought it was the policy of wealthy Vestians to-"

"Hey-up lads," somebody interrupted. Coming into view at the edge of their camp was an old veteran, about Orsin's age with unruly black hair down to his cheeks and an untrimmed beard. He carried a walking stick, not a spear, but there was a blade at his hip–a curved sword, seemingly not of Auctoritas forge. His red legionnaire's cloak was attached to his thorax by two medallions shaped like four-pointed stars, and he wore many bracelets of renown. Decorated and disheveled, his cloak bore no white trim–he was not a superior–just an average legionnaire of Legion V.

"Greetings, fine legionnaires. My name is Antonius, and I'm here to formally invite you to attend an audience at our lavish camp. If you'd like to set aside or scoff down those mouldy scraps your son-of-a-bitch Gris is feeding ya', and come with me, we'll have a proper feast."

He slurred with the onset of heavy wine drinking and left without awaiting their reply. Jumping to their feet, their companeight followed him through the hive of camps and onto a dirt path, leading down the hillside towards the long drawn-out palisade of Legion V. As they did so, Skippii spotted more companeights of Legion IX do the same, accompanied by escorts from the veteran legion.

"Do we have permission to leave?" asked Tenoris.

"Probably, right?" Kaesii said.

"I don't know," Fulmin said, lingering at the back of their group. "Why weren't we told about this during parade?"

"Who needs permission to walk these lands?" their escort announced loudly. "This is Auctoritas soil now. We fought for it. It's ours. This…" He waved his hand, pointing west, back the way IX had marched, then at Nerithon's gloomy walls. "All the way to there."

The veteran stumbled, and Tenoris nudged Skippii confidentially in the ribs. "It seems that Cur was right about where all our wine has gone."

"The whole legion's probably pissed," Orsin added quietly. "Good for them."

"Good for us if we follow him," Cur added.

Their escort waved informally at the legionnaires who guarded the palisade gate, which was enough to admit their companeight into Legion V's camp. The ground was sodden and muddy. No grass remained, only scattered tents, piles of firewood and oily puddles. Legionnaires sat around sparse fires, though portions of the camp seemed abandoned. The stench which Skippii had detected upon their approach festered here, soaked into the mud and grime of the bodies of men.

"It's so empty," Tenoris whispered. It was the quietest he'd ever heard the big men speak.

"The siege is deadly," Skippii replied.

Kaesii wrinkled his nose. "I hope our supplies have not spoiled already."

"You'd still eat it," Drusilla jabbed.

"Listen, lad." Cur raised his voice. "I know you're a bunch of velvet pudshits, but show some respect while we're here, yeah? These are your betters, so be polite. Be god-damned amenable."

They trekked for a short while beneath the glare of watchfires atop Nerithon's looming walls. Finally, their companeight arrived at a campfire and tent nestled amongst a dozen overs. Many of the adjacent fires were shared by the clean cloaks of Legion IX's recruits mixed amongst Legion V's downtrodden veterans. Six such sat before them, and halted their conversation as their companeight entered the circle. Some stood to greet them, others remaining seated, staring with discerning eyes.

"This them?" one said. He was skinnier than the rest–verging on malnutritioned. Dark backs clung to his eyes, though his stare possessed a sharp, sinister quality. "I was told they were recruits, but Chrysat."

"Chrysat yourself," Cur said, taking the lead. "I've served thirty years."

"Serving from the back, aye? I'd trade your thirty for my last month."

"Perhaps we should turn and go," Cur said. "And leave the Fifth to the dirty work of Nerithon?"

A shadow came over their fire. Beyond, the walls of Nerithon loomed with malice.

"Come now, Visori," Antonius said. "These are our guests. Sit now, friends. Let us break bread."

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