Firebrand

An Optio and an Officer

Three days later, Martel and Eleanor walked into the camp of the Tenth Legion. Since they had to wait for the next available ship sailing to Morcaster, they settled back into their old tents. With time to spare, Martel crossed both bridge and town to visit his friend.

"Come in, take a seat," Henry spoke in invitation. "They've finally taken the leash off?"

Martel entered the home of the stonemage and sat down. "You could say that."

"Here, something to keep us warm. It's starting to get cold." Henry rubbed his hands together before he dug out some cups and wine. "I had wondered if they'd make you camp all winter in that outpost. I suppose as a firemage, you got ways to stay warm, but even so."

"On the contrary. Well, I can believe the legate would be happy to make us stay there, but we got word all the way from Morcaster, granting us leave," Martel explained.

Sitting down, the stonemage gave his visitor a scrutinising look. "You've gotten leave? Already? I know you've been busy, of course, fighting so much."

Martel suddenly felt awkward, having admitted the truth; he did not know how long Henry had been stuck in Esmouth. Most likely, he went years without receiving leave to go anywhere. "Yeah. Eleanor requested it for us. Wrote a report about all our fights. I guess she convinced them."

The stonemage took a sip from his cup. "I'm glad," he finally said. "I've seen it before. Soldiers holding an extended position, fighting days on end during sieges and the like. It changes them, and not for the better. Some recuperation far from the front will do you both good."

"You're probably right," Martel assented, just happy that his friend did not judge him or resent him. Since Henry knew who Eleanor's father was, he could probably figure out the circumstances of why they had been granted leave.

"The Tenth has a reputation for a reason. People think the siege of Nahavand is worse, but little happens in that place. Neither side can advance, so they dig ditches and glare at each other. Not like here." Henry refilled his cup. "They don't like talking about it, but Robert, the camp prefect, once admitted to me that the Tenth has the highest casualty numbers of any legion in the Empire. More than twice that of the Thirteenth."

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"I had no idea." Martel knew that the Tenth was considered among the worse postings, but he did not realise it was the very worst. He felt a sudden pang of guilt that he had dragged Eleanor here, a recurring feeling; they would never have been assigned to this legion if not for his feud with Duke Cheval.

Henry nodded to himself. "Enjoy every moment you are away from here. As hard as this summer has been, another waits next year." He raised his cup in a salute.

"I'll be sure to bring back a jar or two of the best wine Morcaster's got," Martel promised, raising his own cup.

***

On his way back to camp, Martel passed The Salty Mug. It was already dark, and plenty of legionaries crowded the place. Some of them saluted him as he passed by, though most seemed too drunk to take note of their surroundings.

"The battlemage of the Tenth Legion himself! Come to share a drink with the common soldiery?"

Confused at being addressed in this manner by a voice unknown to him, Martel looked around in the dark until he finally located the speaker. It was the optio of the sixth cohort, whom Martel had once overheard voicing complaints about him. Realising the words were spoken sarcastically by a man too drunk for his own good, Martel resumed walking away.

"As expected. Too good for the likes of us, these wizards and prefects."

Martel froze in his tracks. It was unthinkable for even a legionary to address a prefect like this. Although a low rank, for an optio to speak in this manner to a superior officer, in the presence of his own men – the fellow had to be heavily intoxicated, or he harboured even greater hatred of the battlemage than Martel had surmised. He turned on his heel and stared at the optio, ten feet or so separating them.

"Now I've done it. We all heard how the battlemage treats those who speak out of turn." Although visibly drunk, slurring his words, the optio had a dangerous glint in his eyes, like he was picking a fight that he knew he could never win.

Martel remembered the last soldier who had insulted him; Martel had sent him flat on his back. Nobody would give him trouble if he did this to the optio after repeated insults. But on the previous occasion and others like it, Martel had struck a blow out of anger, acting on instinct. He did not actually enjoy punching people, nor did it seem a good solution to this. At the same time, he could not simply let this slide.

He looked at the other legionaries present. "Soldiers," he barked, and reflex make them snap to attention. "Your optio has had more to drink than is good for him. Escort him back to camp and place him in the stockade to sober up. Now!"

The soldiers saluted, some more correctly than others, and a pair of them grabbed the optio by the shoulders, probably more to support him than force him anywhere. Together, they began moving towards the camp.

Martel turned his attention on the remainder of the soldiers outside the tavern. Some of them looked away, while others stared unashamedly. Digging into a pocket, Martel found a gold crown and threw it to the nearest legionary who looked sufficiently alert that he might catch it. "Have a round on me, and mind that you share it with all."

"Yes, sir!"

Various expressions of gratitude, most of them slurred, came Martel's way. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement and resumed his own journey back towards camp.