The Long March - What Was Old Is New Again

Contemplation
Telemaco Signorini
(Source)

The children in the village called him "the old man," which didn't bother him, much. He was, after all, only in his early 60s, not that old, all things considered. But in an area where the chief occupation for men was soldiering, having men around past the age of 60 was something of a rarity. It's not that the men from this area died early (though some did), but that they went off to join the regulars and never returned.

His name was Jonathan, son of Eleazar, but everyone in the village called him "the General." In his country that had been, in times long past, an honorary rank only conferred upon a man (no woman had ever attained that position) for specific duties. Such as command of an army composed of multiple columns.¹ During the Border War of a decade ago, he had been given command of such a force. The people of his village remembered that and honored him with the title. His mail was still addressed using his permanent rank of Colonel.

Now he sat at his desk which looked out over the valley. He could see all the way to the plains on a clear day. Today, at this elevation, they were experiencing a spring snowfall. It was accumulating but wouldn't last on the ground more than a day or so. He had the thought that the local farmers who eked out a living on the thin soil of the mountains called a snowfall such as this, "poor man's fertilizer." He remembered his mother telling him that when he was a boy. For some reason that had stuck with him through the years.

He looked again at the letter, it was on official stationary and bore the florid prose so beloved of bureaucrats everywhere. The man who had transcribed the letter had excellent handwriting, easy to read and pleasant to look at. But the content bothered him.

For the letter ordered him to report to the nearest garrison, he had been recalled to active service. His honorary rank of General had been reinstated and he was to report immediately upon receipt of the letter.

He looked up at the messenger, the man was soaked to the bone from riding up the trail in the spring snowstorm. "Have a seat by the fire ..." he looked at the man's uniform for some clue as to his rank, the man's insignia was a mystery to him.

"Centurion, Sir. I'm with the Imperials."

"Ah, of course, that was created after I retired. Anyway, sit man, a glass of brandy perhaps?"

"That would be appreciated, Sir."

The General nodded to his batman, one of the perks of his attaining the position of General was the lifetime right to a personal servant. His, the man's name was Jonathan, was more of a friend than a servant, though he insisted on doing his duties as specified in the regulations.

"Wouldn't be proper, Sir. After all, part of my pension covers my expenses as your batman." Jonathan had pointed out to the General.

As the messenger sipped his brandy and let the fire warm him, he was watching the General closely. Finally he spoke, "If it pleases you, Sir, you can ride back with me in the morning." Suggesting, perhaps, that the General was reluctant to fulfill his duties.

"Jonathan, have the stables prepare our mounts. I presume you have rations for the trip already packed?"

"Of course, General."

Turning to the messenger, the General said, "Why wait until morning? We can leave within the hour, the day is still young."

The messenger had hoped for a night in a warm bed, perhaps with a local lass for company. Now he realized that the General was set upon obeying his new orders to the letter.

The General thought that the young centurion covered his disappointment well, just not well enough. Why wait, he thought, the orders said "upon receipt," couldn't be clearer than that.

The Chamberlain was waiting outside of the Ruler's office. He had heard shouting from within moments ago, he had rushed to the door only to be stopped by the guardsman on duty.

"It's nothing, Sir. The Ruler and his wife were having, let's say, a discussion. Nothing to it, happens all the time."

The Chamberlain nodded, he knew that was a frequent occurrence. The Ruler was getting less cognizant with each passing day and his wife was really running things these days. If word of that got out, it could present difficulties for everyone in the palace.

The Chamberlain stepped past the guardsman, giving him a look which brooked no interference, and knocked once upon the door, then twice. From within he heard ...

"Enter."

The Chamberlain stepped into the room. The Ruler was looking out of a window, a rather blank look on his face. His wife looked harried and tired.

"Ma'am," he said and gestured towards the opposite side of the room, knowing that what he had to say might cause an outburst from the Ruler.

She stepped over to him as they crossed the room, "What is it, Chamberlain?"

"His Eminence is here."

"Here in the palace?"

"Yes Ma'am, he's in the anteroom."

"Dear Lord ..."

The man known as "His Eminence" had arrived at the palace unannounced. He was gravely concerned with the situation in the capital. He and his escort had seen the cohorts proceeding towards the laborers' quarter as they rode in. He had resisted the urge to ask the lead cohort's commander what their orders were. For one thing, he suspected it was to make a statement, a violent one, in the laborers' quarter, for another thing, his presence in the capital was supposed to be a secret. For all the populace knew he was happily retired to his private island off the coast and no longer involved in public affairs.

"Your Eminence!" the Ruler's wife greeted him cheerfully.

He nodded, "Madam." She insisted on being addressed as "Your Highness," something he refused to do. In his day she would have been nothing, an ornament on her husband's arm, no more.

"What brings you to the capital?" she asked, ingenuously.

He raised an eyebrow, surely the woman couldn't be that stupid?

"Have the Council summoned immediately, we need to ..."

"Your Eminence, it isn't your place to ..."

"Now, Madam." His tone left no room for disagreement.

The lead cohort was on the main boulevard, two cohorts were behind them, the other cohorts were each on a side street to either flank advancing slightly behind the main body. The mounted auxiliaries were with the lead cohort except for a small party well to the front on reconnaissance.

The First Spear, leading the cohort in place of his Prefect who had been a no-show at the morning muster, was nervous. The advance had gone smoothly, he had expected resistance well before now. Perhaps the intelligence they had received was ...

"Sir!" came the shout from his second-in-command.

Galloping down the boulevard was a single horseman, one of the auxiliaries, the First noticed an arrow in his mount's rump. He raised a hand to halt the advance.

The auxiliary galloped up and pulled his horse to a stop, the animal's shoes raising sparks from the cobblestones. "Beggin' yer pardon, yer Worship, but the streets are full o' people up ahead. We was ambushed, my decurion² is dead, as are most of my mates! I escaped by the skin o' my teeth, Lord."

"Damn it man, pull yourself together!" the smell of blood was making his own mount nervous and he was trying to keep the horse under control.

"How many of them? Damn it, did you see how many?" He barked at the horseman.

"Thousands my Lord, there be thousands of 'em" And without a 'by your leave' the man turned his horse and fled.

"Optio!"

"Sir?"

"Send a party after that rascal. Stop him by any means or we'll have panic in the city."

"Sir!"

Magnus was still shaking, the auxiliaries had come down the boulevard at speed, shouting at the people behind the barricade to disperse. Before he could react a shot had rang out and one of the auxiliaries had crashed to the cobblestones, dead.

The others had milled about, not sure of what to do, trying to control their mounts and discern what they were up against. Cyrus had looked at him, waiting for an order to be given.

"FIRE AT WILL!" Magnus had bellowed. More shots rang out, more auxiliaries had died as did a number of horses. Two men had staggered to their feet, trying to ready their weapons as one of their number, still mounted, had turned and fled. A man on a upper story of a nearby building had loosed an arrow at the man.

The arrow had struck the horse and caused the animal to go even faster, nearly unhorsing its rider.

Before Magnus or Cyrus could get things under control, one of their own was lying in the street, dying. The two surviving auxiliaries had been hacked to death with swords and axes.

Blood had been shed on both sides. The rebellion had spread to the capital.

"Rider ahead, Sir." The Sergeant had noticed the mounted man heading their way. She had the best eyesight in the unit.

The Major looked up, sure enough, what appeared to be a dispatch rider was galloping hell-for-leather down the road.

"Send word back to the Colonel. Everybody stay on your toes, this person might not be what he or she appears to be."

The troops were nervous. Most of them had participated in the massacre of the Imperials. They knew that the rebel militia was shadowing their movement to the border garrison. As far as they were concerned, no news was probably good news.

The rider brought news.

"Sir, where is the column commander?" the messenger shouted as she reined in her mount.

The Major noted that the soldier was a lieutenant, an odd choice for a messenger he thought. "My colonel has been sent for, he should be up shortly. I am the senior major, what news?"

The lieutenant thought for a moment before she answered, "I'd like to give the full details when the column commander comes up, but I'll tell you this now, the Meridionals came across the border in force yesterday."

The Major went pale, war on the border and war within the country itself, what could possibly go wrong next?

The Colonel took the dispatches from the messenger and spoke with her in private for a few long minutes, then she headed off, to the south.

"Major, we're in the shit now I think."

"As if we weren't before."

"The lieutenant tells me that the garrison is holding their own for now, but that won't last. They need us and quickly."

"We could send a battalion on ahead of the main body, leave all of their wagons and baggage with the main column. The remaining battalions will come up as quick as they can. I'd say abandon the baggage altogether, but with the rebels about ..."

"I know, we'd never see the train again, and we'll be needing that. You know the garrison will burn down their supplies faster with the Meridionals hitting them, they might need the train as well. My troops are in pretty good shape, we'll go on ahead, if you want, Colonel."

"I'll have Simon and Paul give you their best companies as well, so that way ..."

"No need, Sir, you might need them here if the rebels get frisky."

"Alright, when will you ..."

"We'll leave immediately."

The Colonel nodded, then extended his hand, "Godspeed, we'll come up as quickly as we can."

¹ In this fictional world there are no brigades or divisions. A column, commanded by a senior colonel, would be composed of multiple regiments, a regiment typically being composed of two or more battalions. The use of terms such as "cohort" only came about under the current ruler when it was thought necessary to raise a body of troops loyal only to the ruler. An army was typically raised for a particular campaign and would be composed of multiple columns, divisions in modern parlance.

² See here for a description of the ranks of the Roman legions.