Spurius took a step towards them, hand on the pommel of his short sword. "Have you heeded the traitor's call too, Maritor?"

"What does he say?" Orsin shouted over the distance. "Where is Skippii Altay?"

"Where do you think?" Spurius said. "With the enemy."

Cliae rose to aes knees in the mud, heart rising to see his companions again. They stopped three paces from their superior, each armed with spear and shield.

"Cliae, you good?" Orsin asked gruffly.

"Yeah, I'm alright" ae wined, as masculine as ae could muster.

"What news?"

"Nevermind news," Spurius snarled, stepping between them. "Get back to the parade, legio. I will see you there shortly."

"This is bullshit," Drusilla said, tossing his shield and spear to the ground and striding forward. "Let him speak."

"Stand back," Spurius warned, stiffening.

The big Summitus man paused, then continued forward. Spurius' sword lashed from its scabbard and sliced him open. Drusilla yelled in pain, staggering backwards.

"No closer!" Spurius screamed, a certain fear in his voice at opposing six strong legionnaires.

"Hey, Spurius," Orsin said, planting his spear and unfastening his brooch. "Let me at least put my cloak around him. He's cold. Looks terrible."

"So what?" Spurius said, sword held close to his chest, ready to strike. His eyes darted to the tents surrounding them, where an audience of scribes and slaves gathered to watch the drama unfold.

"Legionnaires," Spurius appealed. "Fetch legionnaires. We have rogues in our midst. Where's the fucking custodes?"

"Hey," Orsin said calmly, regaining his attention. "Consider it my resignation." He tossed his shield aside, holding out the cloak. "Let me just do this last thing for a comrade."

"It won't matter," Spurius said. "They'll strip him naked and whip him."

"I know," Orsin said, striding ever closer. "They'll do the same to me, won't they?"

Spurius, who had been rocking eagerly from one leg to another, suddenly stopped and stared at his old comrade. His breath deepend, and a treacle seeped into his tone. "I'll see that they do."

Swiftly, like a hawk swooping, Orsin threw his cloak over Spurius's sword. He darted forward, unafraid of the blade, which had been turned aside, and struck his superior in the jaw. The punch ran up from his toes, twisted in his hips, and followed Spurius to the ground. The man landed with a thud and a jolt, and there lay silent.

"Arc!" Drusilla barked.

Kaesii whooted. "He's out cold!"

Standing above his foe, Orsin massaged his fist, a fresh worry triumphing over anger as he stared at the unconscious body of his superior.

"Nice shot," Cur said. "A shame it had to be done. I was hoping to make Octio."

"You, a superior?" Orsin grimaced.

"I'm cruel enough."

"Suppose."

"We're never going to get paid again after this," Kaesii laughed harshly.

"Except in lashes," Arius said grimly.

"Suppose we'll see plenty of those," Orsin said.

Drusilla clutched his arm, where blood trickled through his fingers. He strode over to Spurius' body, hawking phlegm in his face.

"Suck on your lashes, winestain," he cursed. "Sodding Vestians."

"Hey," Kaesii said. "He doesn't represent us all."

Custos Maritur strode forth and extended a hand to Cliae, helping aem out the dirt.

"Here," the veteran said, retrieving Orsin's cloak and wrapping it over aes shoulders. "You were brave to return."

"Thank you," Cliae spluttered.

"You have a message?" Arius said seriously. "Tell us quickly."

"The Imperator," Cliae blurted, unsure of where to start. "I could tell you now, but he must know soonest."

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"This way." Custos Maritor led them through the crowd of onlookers towards the centre of camp. But just as they set off, two legionnaires came onto the dirt path, headed by a custodes: a man whose cloak was trimmed black, bearing a club and iron chains at his waist.

"Is this him?" the custodes said, pointing at Cliae. "The slave?"

"No," Custos Maritor said. "That's him, on the ground. A traitor."

"Traitor?" the custodes said skeptically. "A superior? What's going on here?"

"We require an urgent audience with the Imperator."

"We have news of the enemy," Kaesii said, though his voice was pitched high like a plea.

The custodes raised an eyebrow, opposing their passage. Beside him, the legionnaires lowered their spears a fraction and raised their shields, ready to impose martial law if necessary.

"Criteus," Cur cooed in a companionable tone which Cliae had never heard him use before. "Is that you?"

"Flexillus," the custodes greeted shortly.

"You remember me, old friend?"

Criteus snorted. "It hasn't been that long, legionnaire."

"Oh, but too long since we shared a vase by the fire." Cur stepped forward, spear lowered non threateningly. "Do you remember that boy whom you took a fancy to? What was his name?"

Criteus raised his chin. "This better be relevant, Flexillus."

"Remember how he went missing one night, and all the companeight agreed to have not seen anything while you got your story straight?"

"I remember trust amongst brothers," Criteus said. "I did not expect that trust to be wagered all these years later."

"Ahh, then you never really did come to know me, did you, Criteus?" Cur smirked. "Happens, that I remember the name of the boy, and the farmstead where he may or may not have found his freedom. A little hamlet in the hills outside of Arteynos… This situation is a little like that one, my friend. Turn aside. There is much to distract yourself with."

Cur motioned to the camp surrounding them. "For one, there is a superior who has been assaulted by knaves, lying unconscious in the dirt. Shouldn't you see to him soon?"

Criteus' eyes lingered on Cur, then slipped to Cliae, but finally, his stern gaze fell upon Spurius behind them. "Begone," he said, and the two groups strode past one another quickly.

"This way," Custos Maritor directed. "What can you tell us briefly?"

"Skippii is alive, and well. He has… well, his powers… They're something else now. His strength has grown."

"And Tenor?" Orsin asked.

"He is well. He is with Skippii."

"That's all I need to know," Orsin said. "Everyone, on me. We'll fetch Fulmin. Leave Maritor and Cliae to speak with the Imperator."

"Where is he?" Cliae asked after them.

"With the custodes," Kaesii explained over his shoulder.

"Kid didn't know when to shut up," Cur added, a curiously fond grin crossing his lips. "Gone and got himself arrested."

"But he won't miss this one. We'll get him released." Orsin turned to the old veteran. "What are you smirking at, you're beginning to look like a younger man."

Cur laughed, shoving Orsin jovially with his shield. "Not if I can help it."

The companeight departed, and Cliae was whisked away by Custos Maritor towards the central camp. A small palisade perimeter there congested the entryway through guarded paths. But the purple-cloaked guards seemed to recognise Maritor, and allowed them to pass with no more than a nod.

"What of the call?" Arius asked. "The beast's cry?"

"Cyclops," Cliae explained. "We tricked them. Skippii and Tenoris have led them to Nerithon's walls. They'll attack."

Suddenly, Custos Maritor stopped aghast, hand on Cliae's shoulder. "The cyclops… How many?"

"I don't know," Cliae said. "Four, or more."

His eyes widened. "And they're attacking now?"

"The enemy, yes."

"That's brilliant," he exclaimed. "And we were going to form a defence at the palisade. We would have missed our chance."

Grabbing aem by the arm, Maritor ran past the repositums and physician's tents towards the centre, where a large pavilion was erected, tipped with many striking banners, fluttering in the storm's wind. Outside were posted more legionnaires in purple cloaks–the dress of the superior's guard. They hailed Maritor and listened to his pleas, but all their words sounded too frantic and muddled for Cliae to comprehend. Ae felt as light as ash, floating upwards on the draft.

Was this really happening? And how could it be? The truth, of course, but how? Mix his words or stutter, and ae might miss aes chance. It was easy enough convincing aes friends of Skippii's plan, and that ae meant well, but aes superiors and all their staff? Why shouldn't they respond as Spurious did and beat aem? Shouldn't ae run? In the panic and fray, ae could get away. And then what? Hide forever?

A sound, like a horn of magnitude, spread above them in a wave. Swirling storm clouds rumbled as though in response; beasts and Gods making their final preparations of war. All about aem, legionnaires ceased their conversation and stared up at the Sleeping Mountain, towards where its foothills met Nerithon's walls. There, a tremendous cracking sound rang out, like trees splitting in a gale. Then low, the thudding of boulders. The monsters were at the gates. The fight had begun.

"Go inside, quickly," Custos Maritor said, pushing Cliae past the guards. Ae stumbled forward as though in a dream, half-falling through folds of fabric. The rain ceased, replaced by a dry warmth. The tent opened before aem, and Cliae's heart froze.

Standing tall, arms at his side, a kingly man was fitted his armour by his servants. Many people filled the room, most unarmed, dressed in the togas of slaves and scribes. Some, however, were draped in regal war attire–bespangled with medals and high-plumed saffron helmets, swords at their waists and shining iron breastplates upon their chests.

Cliae was stunned to take it all in. Firelight from a central brazier shuddered in the tent's walls, which shook against the increasing wind. In the room's centre was a large desk, filled with scrolls and tablets and maps. Bookcases, mirrors and candlelit shrines–the likes of which would not go amiss in a stately home–dressed the walls, adorned with gleaming decorations and marble busts. But most elaborate of all was the Imperator's breastplate, which was fashioned with muscular curves of the masculine physique, fitting perfectly over his powerful body. His blonde, receding hair was tied in a short ponytail like a sheaf of wheat, as was the fashion in Virellia.

What struck Cliae was the muscularity of his sun-tanned face. His cheeks and brow seemed to possess biceps of their own. How could such grandiosity have ever been a mere boy, similar to aem? What chisels had shaped him? What hardship had the gravitas of his bloodline conquered? In awe, Cliae merely stood by the entrance and stared, until the Imperator's eyes fell upon aem.

His eyes wrinkled a fraction, seeming to read the alarm in Cliae's expression, louder than words could convey.

"Come forward."

With a shuddering breath, Cliae stepped towards aes Imperator, fists clenched on the verge of screaming, then bit aes tongue and knelt.

"My Imperator," ae said. "I alone know what is happening in the mountains. I alone know what will happen very soon. The legion must be made ready."

"Speak."

And so, a slave entreated with an Imperator.

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