There must be fifty thousand Grays filling the stands. More. They are joined by dockyards workers—Oranges, Greens, Blues, and Reds in the tens of thousands.
I suffer the petty jealousy of a commander without an army facing a contemporarywithan army and wish in vain for the thousandth time that I could retrieve my own legions from the sand. Why does Apollonius deserve such loyalty? Such power?
The last time I saw the man, he had only the tattered remnants of his personal legion to call upon. Not even a thousand men. That he can spare so many troops for mere pomp while still holding the station against the potential of invasion from the Carthii navy on the pole suggests his numbers run deep, or his peace is utterly secure. Or both.
He’s stronger than I imagined.
Buthow?
Apollonius has always been popular with Grays. Despite his eccentricities, he is a man of war. Never more joyful than on campaign. Flawless in self-promotion. Still, it would take an ally to swell his numbers like this. One name stands apart. I look over at Cassius.
“I don’t think those Votum haulers were just carrying iron.”
“Lysander?” he asks. “He might be naïve, but he’s no fool. He should know the Minotaur never suffers bedmates for long.”
“Maybe he’s just that desperate.”
Silence falls on the exiled legionnaires as we, the two most reviled sons of Mars, stride onto the Carthii sands and are forced to a stop in the center. Eyes scour me with generational hate. I ignore them and search for their warlord and Sevro. The man in the cell might have been bait, but that doesn’t mean my friend isn’t here.
“Rath!” I shout.
When he doesn’t come, my annoyance grows. Damn his pomp. Damn his trap. Damn his celebrity. I glare at his men. They stare back, haughty and hateful beneath their banners, tipped with golden bulls and tigers and lightning bolts and eagles. They are bolstered by zealotry, armored against culpability by words likeduty, fidelity, brotherhood.
“RATH!”
Finally, when he has judged the tension to be at its crescendo, a horn blows from high above the pulvinar, and dockworkers and soldiers gaze up lovingly at a lone figure in purple armor who emerges atop the roof of the pulvinar holding a horn.The horn sends images of charging horses galloping through the dark alleys of my mind. A glittering coven of Peerless knights enters the pulvinar beneath Apollonius. I recognize manyof the faces. Legates and Praetors of little wealth but not insignificant fame or capability. Frontline veterans. Professionals.
“Minotaur!”a single Gold Legate shouts from the pulvinar.
“Invictus!”hundreds of Gray centurions echo.
“Minotaur!”the Legate calls once more.
“INVICTUS!”roar all the Grays, joined by twice as many dockers. I was right. Invictus. In the days of the Society a lesser house could hope for no greater honor on the field of battle than to be permitted to weld the battle cry of House Lune to that of their own general. Cassius’s expression darkens. He searches for Lysander amongst the knights beneath Apollonius, but if the Heir of Silenius is here, he hasn’t the fortitude to show his face.
I wonder what Cassius would do if he did.
Apollonius descends from the high place with his arms outstretched and his cape swirling behind from the high place, but not to join us on the sands. He lands amongst his Grays, where a stout, bearded centurion tilts back his tattooed head and booms with a powering, rousing voice that’d do a Violet baritone proud:
When he returned from deepest grave,
He had no home though he was brave!
But he had two horns, that iron knave,
Praise he who commands our legion!
In reply to the singing centurion, the legions also tilt back their heads and throw their arms about one another and wave their standards like gravcross hooligans until each and every one carries the song’s unending verses.
Forgotten soldier, march to war
Take your glory, Minotaur
Forgotten soldier, march to war
Take your homeland, Minotaur
Soon all of Gold will envy he
