Heir of the Gods

Ch. 42: Guidance

The candles burned lower and lower, making shadows skitter over the walls of the tent. Evening cold was beginning to creep in around him, but Calix's focus was on the cramped row of numbers he had spent more than half an hour on.

There were too many men in the Eighth Cohort. Or...there seemed to be. Calix hissed in disgust, scribbling out yet another column, just to start again. The cohort had too many men, but the legion didn't exceed the standard five thousand. And there were no corresponding shortages of food, gear or bunk-space.

Try as he might, he couldn't find where he'd screwed the calculations up.

He sat and struggled through another long calculation, but got the same solution as before and growled in fury. Swearing filthily, he threw the quill down and shoved back from the table. His muscles cried in relief as he stretched and walked away from the chair he had been sitting in for most of the day.

His back and hips ached horribly with the inactivity, his eyes and head throbbing from staring at scraps of paper for most of the day.

The only relief he'd had was a little before noon, when Martialis had come to his tent. Calix scowled as he bent forward to touch his toes, his hamstrings snarling in protest, his lower back sighing its relief. That meeting had been more interesting than the grain requisitions he'd been slogging through, but not terribly heartening.

"What's the worst of it," he'd asked the commander.

Martialis pursed his lips in thought. "Basic swordsmanship for a good number of them." He paused as Calix had stood, ambling toward the map hung on one of the tent's walls. Then he continued, "Formations are still sloppy. The men are learning to work as a unit."

Calix had traced his fingers over the southern half of the map, his hands practically twitching with the need to move, if even for just a moment. His gaze strayed to the blank northern portion of the map, wondering what horrors and secrets awaited them there.

"Appropriate swiftness in following orders."

At that, Calix hung his head, hands falling to his sides. So they didn't even meet the basic requirements demanded by a proper Metian legion. Lovely.

Almost afraid of the answer, he asked, "Are there any who have any real potential?"

"There always are, sir," Martialis said kindly. "It's just a matter of separating wheat from chaff." The commander stood. "Luckily, the winter season is upon us. We should have four or five good months of little fighting to do the threshing."

Wars were typically fought in fairer seasons, but something told Calix his legion wouldn't have the peculiar luxury of boredom most soldiers suffered through when the snow began to fly. He hadn't said that, though. He just nodded, and planted the seeds of the plan that had been forming in his mind for the better part of the morning.

"Give them a month of hard training, Commander," Calix said, finally turning to face the man. "Five- to seven-mile marches in full kit, followed by calisthenics until noon. After that, an hour of lecture on basic maneuvers and formations. The rest of the day I want spent on sparring and formation drills."

"Yes, sir," Martialis responded, an enthusiastic light kindling in his eyes.

"I want bi-weekly reports on progress," Calix said, allowing himself to pace a little before the map. "And at the end of the month, I want ten names from each of your legates—the best men from each cohort."

A hundred of the best men his stripling legion had to offer. That is what he'd begin this hunt with.

A look of surprise had been quickly wiped away by Martialis, who simply nodded, saluted and then left without another word once Calix had dismissed him.