Page 164 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)
MARCUS
Marcus sat in the dirt cradling Nic’s body, what should have been silence broken by the screams of the injured. By the retching of those pushed past physical endurance. And by the weeping of those whose minds had been pushed past what anyone could endure.
Under the control of Rufina’s blight, the Fifty-First had fought past human capacity, crawling onward no matter how badly they were injured.
Attacking and attacking, those among the living given no choice but to deliver the killing blows required to make them cease the onslaught.
Men Marcus had never once seen break had fallen to their knees and let the undead kill them rather than fight on.
Had turned and run, leaving their brothers to see the battle through.
No matter how they’d reacted, Marcus knew none of them would ever be the same.
That none of them would ever forget the horror.
Which was as it should be, because to forget would be the greatest crime of all.
The masses of men around him stirred, and Drusus pushed through them to sit at Marcus’s side, his eyes taking in Austornic.
“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive,” the older legatus finally said. “I’ve seen more than you can ever know, and I will say, it does not get worse than what you have endured today. What we have all endured today, though the Thirty-Seventh and Forty-First took the worst of it.”
Marcus swallowed, his mouth dry as sand. “It was my fault.”
“I know.” Drusus slung an arm around his shoulders, thick arm squeezing Marcus tight in a way that made him feel younger than he had in so very long. So incredibly out of his depth, and yet it had been his actions that had brought them to this moment.
“But this isn’t the time for you to break, Prodigy.
You can’t lead men to the edge of oblivion and then leave them hanging because it was harder than you thought it would be.
” Drusus sighed. “You’ve been scheming. You have a plan.
That much was abundantly obvious to all of us, even if it didn’t go quite as you had hoped. ”
The plan had been to give Lydia and her allies an opportunity to reach the blight.
To give her a chance at destroying it on the hopes that those who’d succumbed to it might be brought back to life.
Yet as Marcus stared down at Austornic’s corpse, he knew that no matter how things fell for Lydia’s plans, the Fifty-First would not come back from this.
Knew that Mudamora and its allies might have victory, but it would not be a legion victory, for their enemy still sipped wine on the far side of the Endless Seas.
Lucius Cassius.
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been fighting the wrong fight, Drusus. Our eyes have been on the wrong enemy.”
Drusus banged a hand against Marcus’s armored back. “You’ll not get any quarrel from me on that. So get up, and get us marching in the right direction, boy.”
Marcus carefully set Nic’s body on the ground, ensuring the boy’s eyes remained closed, and then allowed Drusus to haul him to his feet.
All around them, the ranks were in shambles.
Men sitting in the dirt, or staring into the distance, or wandering aimlessly, all while the Mudamorians fought on against Rufina’s forces.
Fought for their land and the lives of those they loved.
It was past time the legions did the same.
Amarin approached, holding the reins of Marcus’s golden mare. The sight of his old servant hollowed Marcus’s stomach, and he said, “I’m sorry, Amarin. I’m sorry it took me so long to get to this point.”
“You’re here now,” Amarin replied, holding the horse steady while Marcus mounted, then straightening his cloak across the mare’s haunches. “See it through.”
At the sight of him, the Thirty-Seventh lifted their heads.
Got to their feet, and then pulled up brothers who struggled to do the same.
Centurions cleared their throats and barked orders to form lines.
His legion, though a shadow of what it had been before this battle, stood tall.
As did the Forty-First and the other legions that formed his ranks.
Surrounded by the bodies of the fallen, Marcus set aside his grief and spoke. “We have been fighting the wrong war.”
His words were carried back through the ranks, making them as loud as a storm.
“While we conquered the West, Lucius Cassius has risen as a tyrant over Celendor and its provinces, using steel and fist to beat our people into submission even as he steals their children to bolster the ranks he uses to oppress. Poverty and famine and disease run rampant through the provinces, all while the patricians of the Hill turn a blind eye to the toll, unwilling to risk themselves or their coffers to check the Dictator’s deeds.
A small few stand against him, but what hope do they have against the man who wields this?
” He gestured out to the tens of thousands of legionnaires surrounding him.
“None, is the answer. Cassius’s power will only grow as he climbs on the backs of common men and women, reaching beyond the voters, beyond the senate, until he grasps the crown that has not been worn for generations.
Until he is Emperor, his rule untouchable, his rule for life. ”
The men shifted restlessly, expressions grim.
“Since the day we were sent to Lescendor, we have been told our duty is to serve. To fight. To be the blade of Mother Empire. But above all else, we have been told to obey. To go where we are told to go, kill who we are told to kill, destroy what we are told to destroy, and to never question whether what we do is right. To question is to disobey, and to disobey is treason, and treason is death. Not one of us asked for this life, and if Cassius has his way, not one of us will ever escape it. There is a word for what we are, and I tell you, it is not soldier.”
He waited for his words to travel through the bloodied men, seeing anger rise through their grief. An old anger that had always simmered but which he now fueled bright.
“For the sake of gold to fund his rise to power, Cassius ordered us onto poisoned ground using bribery and threats with no care for how many of us lived or died. If you need more proof of how little Cassius values legion lives, know that it was he who sent the Fifty-First alone into the blight. But he would not have been able to do so if I had not broken my promise to them. It was not you who killed them today—it was me.” His voice cracked on the last, and silence stretched.
“I swore to protect them until they were ready to protect themselves, but instead I cast them back into the arms of Cassius when Austornic questioned my methods, my justifications, my goals. The deaths of Legatus Austornic and all of the Fifty-First are on my hands, not yours. Nic defied the Empire’s desire for more conquest—my own desire for more conquest—and he died for it, sure and true. ”
Marcus paused, allowing his words to disseminate. Allowing them to take what he’d said into their souls, full well knowing that he was giving them the opportunity to turn their back on him. To cast him down. And that they’d be right to do it.
“There is not a one of us standing here who is not guilty of blindly following commands. Of doing the worst while washing our hands of culpability because what choice have we but to obey? None more so than me, for in recent days, weeks, months, I have embodied that belief. Embodied that villainy, all while burying my head in denial by saying this is how it must be. I have no choice, and therefore what I have done is not my fault. Except that I did have a choice. I did not have to obey, which means that every death, every hurt, every loss that has come by choosing this ”—he gestured around—“is on me. But also on you , because just as I had the choice to defy the authority of the Dictator, the Senate, the Empire, you had the choice to defy me and did not.”
His words rolled through the ranks of men like a wave, and instead of row after row of legionnaires, Marcus saw men. Individuals with their own minds, their own hearts, each grappling with the awful truth that he set before them.
We do not have to obey.
“The legions serve the Empire!” he shouted, taking the Thirty-Seventh’s standard from Servius.
“But the Dictator is not the Empire. The Senate is not the Empire.
It is the people who are the Empire, and so it is the people we should serve.
The people we should protect. Instead we have abandoned them to suffer while we fight to fatten the pockets of the very man who does them harm.
“We are not the sons of the Empire, we are the sons of the people. We are Bardeen, Sibal, and Phera. We are Sibern, Atlia, and Faul. We are Timia, Denastres, and Chersome. We are Celendor.” Marcus surveyed the masses of men, seeing a rage long contained rising in their hearts.
“I say it is time we return to the Empire to do our duty. I say we return to the Empire and remind Lucius Cassius who rules.”
“The people!” the men screamed. “The people!”
“I will not ask you to follow me. I will not ask you to obey me.” He lifted the standard into the air, his arm shaking beneath the weight of so much gold.
“But I ask for you to march with me and return to the East. To join me in one last battle, because together, we will remind the Dictator that the legions are people. And that the people are legion!”
The roar of the men was deafening, fists and weapons and legion standards lifting in the air.
“All well and good, Prodigy,” Drusus said, rocking on his heels. “But how the fuck are we going to get back east? Your girl blew up all our lines of retreat.”
“Not all.” Marcus cast a backward glance at the smoke rising in the distance where the fight raged on. But not their fight. “She left us one. Now let’s march.”