Marcus had always been of the belief that a Legion on the march is a beautiful thing.
This Legion, his Legion, was making slow progress through the Igroe River Valley below him. Marcus had made his way to the top of a small ridge that jutted out from the mountains enclosing the valley to the North. Without concious thought Marcus adjusted his weight as his horse pawed and neighed beneath him. His Legion, the 10th was strung out in a long line as it followed the curve of the river. They were on their way South and out of the valley, moving towards the next assignment. A Legion was always on the march, a Legion standing still was a n ugly thing, deformed,smelling and somehow congealed. A Legion on the march was a scorpion poised to strike, coiled steel strength.
On the ridge a fresh and slightly cool breeze carried the green scent of the river in an otherwise dry and arid land. The bright glitter of spear points and bare freshly sharpened metal stood out hard and fresh against the brown dust of the valley. The faint calls of horses and Nagro could be heard across the valley, protesting the weight of the wagons hitched to their shoulders. A Legion on the March didn’t travel light, everything had to travel with them from anvils to spare tack for the animals. The Legion carried all it needed to survive for months in a hostile wilderness. A Legionnaire marched with all of his cooking equipment, pots and pans, spoon, sharpening stones and abrasives to keep his weapons in trim, glues and knives to keep his armour maintained, bedroll, tent, tent pegs and hammers. Of course a Legionairre would also be waering his light armour of undershirt and cured leather. In formal combat they would also wear the heavy armour of the Legion, boiled leather and formed copper plates. A Legionairre travelled witth all of this and the most important part of his world, his weapons. No Legionairre would be without his throwing spears, his broadsword and usually a dagger or two.
Light infantry carried more spears than regular infantry and wore only boiled armour with no plate. The heavy infantry carried the massive axes known as Mank’s and wore heavier steel plates. The priests of course rode in the wagons because it wouldn’t be seemly for a Priest to walk. Marcus thought it was more likely to be because Priests were simply lazy. If this were peacetime there would also be a long trail of camp followers, the women and children of the Legion, marching with their men wherever the Legion had ordered them. The woman usually walked to the rear, talking amongst themselves and planning the days meals. The children would be running all along the line of march,s howing an energy that Marcus hadn’t felt in himself for years. He envied the children their energy, their vitality, and it made the troopers a lot happier to have their families with them, not least because with their wives along they didnt have to cook their own meals. As this was to be a punitive expedition the men had left their families behind at the Legions home fort at Prem.
The first time Marcus had seen the sight of a Legion on the march he was 8 years old and it was one of his clearest memories. He could still, even now, 30 years later, recall the sight, the sound, the smell, the texture of that day. His father had taken him to market as part of an effort to teach him the ways of trading that their family had followed for generations. The market had been in the same place for nearly three centuries. Originally it had started as a gathering place for farmers outside of what were then the city walls. As the city grew and walls were extended the market found itself within the city proper and gained a place within the general commerce of the city.
Everybody came to the market, farmers and merchants to sell and buy, estate managers and slaves on the business of their masters, Matrons and their grandchildren having an adventure, young girls and boys just looking for their opposites to flirt with. The more permanent Souk traders had built themselves small lean-tos against the rough plaster of the inner city walls. Many of these traders’ buildings could almost be called proper shops selling textiles, precious glassware, pottery, spices, jewellery. There were even 2 small Ironmongers the roar of whose furnaces could be heard and felt even over the cry of the crowd and the heat of the day. The farmers would arrive daily with their produce of vegetables, leather, plants, animal flesh and every conceivable item that could be dug, pulled or grown out of the earth. They would set up in the centre of the square, paying 1 silver coin for a piece of earth big enough to lay down on. 2 silver coins was the price for a space big enough to park a wagon for a day.
The wagoneers and farmers had to have a place to put the oxen and cattle which had pulled them to the city and so the north western corner of the market had become a place for the sale of live animals, a place where, for a small fee, farmers could tie up their animals safely. Here you could buy just about every animal known to civilisation. From the common or garden domestic animals through to the rarer and more exotic only seen on the fringes of the Empire. Animals for eating, riding, flying, hunting, fighting, even fucking could be bought at the flesh market.
In the south western corner of the square was another kind of flesh market. This was the domain of the Slavers. Mostly these peddlers of man flesh were Valpurga from the North, although several Empire merchants had turned to the trade after the northern wars had created large refugee populations and thus opportunities. The Valpurga were distinct in their long purple robes and intricately tied turbans, blue-black tattoos proclaiming their tribal affiliations and their places within their societies. The tattoos covered every exposed inch of their faces and hands. Rumour had it that at the height of the northern wars there were several Empire merchants who had not been averse to creating their own refugee’s if they could not find anyone willing to sell themselves, or others to the slavers dock. It was well known that the Valpurga had been raiding each others tribes to provide slaves for the Empire for centuries, but the Valpurga were barbarians and people expected that sort of thing from them. It was said a Valpurga merchant would sell the purity his own daughters to make a profit.
It was at one of these slavers stalls that Marcus had seen his first Aloi. He had been one of the very rare prisoners captured in fighting on the very southern edge of the Empire. Marcus was six when he saw him. The Aloi stood out over the heads of the crowd being at least a foot taller than his guards. He was standing alone on a display platform sweating in the sun, waiting for his turn at sale. Heavy iron manacles fastened to his wrists, feet and neck were attached by chains as thick as a mans finger, to a pole driven deep into the ground. The Slavers guards were keeping a clear space around the Alois, trying to keep the curious and the foolish out of the massively muscled reach of the man. The Aloi was nearly 7 feet tall. With every movement Marcus could see the muscles in his neck and shoulders flex beneat his black-green skin. His long unkempt hair was grey and greasy and matted. Marcus wondered if his hair was always that color or if he was as old as Marcus’s Grandfather. The Alois smelled strong, he obviously hadnt washed for days or weeks and was utterly filthy.
Suddenly Marcus was sad, an old man shouldn’t be standing for sale amidst those who hated him. He should be at home beside his hearth with his woman and his children. The low forehead and deep-set eyes of the Aloi slowly scanned the crowd, the heavy lower jaw with its small upward jutting teeth opened slightly as he panted in the heat. Marcus thought he sensed contempt in the black eyed gaze and breaking from his fathers grip he started to duck through the crowd, slipping and diving through legs and between bodies to get a closer look. As he broke through the legs of the surrounding crowd and looked up, he realised that his movement had attracted the attention of the Aloi and Marcus was looking directly into his eyes. For a long moment the man and the boy looked at each other. Gleaming with sweat in the brutal sun the Aloi was magnificent, his musculature shone as if carved out of ebony, the loincloth he wore as his only clothing to cover his manhood simply enhanced his massiveness. With a roar, claws extended, sharp teeth exposed in a horrible rictus the Aloi jumped forward at Marcus. For just one second Marcus thought he was going to die. Then the chains caught with a crash and the Aloi came to a sudden painful halt. Behind the Aloi amidst the slavers guards, whips were uncurled from belts and began to snake through the air cutting and slicing. Fresh welts began to appear on the arms and back of the already deeply scarred skin of the Aloi.
The Aloi was driven to his knees with whips and clubs, but even through the pain and the savage beating, he never broke eye contact with Marcus.
A Kiwi in Online worlds 