Chapter 639: The Stronger Mettle

Chapter 639: The Stronger Mettle

The Stronger Mettle

"A known traitor in our midst, and the entire legion watches her speak!" the legate roared.

"The only traitor here is you!" Eleanor retorted. "How many lie dead because you commanded us into the east? All for your vanity!"

"We are fighting a war!" Varus bellowed. "Now seize this deserter!"

From her perch, Eleanor looked at him with disdain. "Always others must do your dirty work! Your men bleed for you and die, or if they live, you discard them like vermin!"

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"How many soldiers of the Tenth live on the streets of our cities, lame or mutilated, begging for scraps? Is that the future they promised you?" She shouted the last question at the soldiers. "Is that what you deserve? Death, mutilation, life as a beggar?"

Angry, near incomprehensible replies were shouted back. Eleanor's arguments, whether appealing to reason or emotion, began to take root.

"Where is your treasonous companion? You argue sedition on his behalf, but I bet he is dead, rotting in a ditch like he deserves!"

"Sir Martel is with the Khivans as a gesture of our intentions," Eleanor replied. "Yield your sword, 'sir'! Nobody will fight for a man who never fights for himself."

The legate drew his sword. "Your father is a coward, and you are a traitor," he spoke through gritted teeth. "You will die like the dog you are!"

Eleanor's answer was to draw her own steel, and she leapt down to face Varus while tossing the scroll case for Lara to hold. "Your command is at an end, 'legate'!"

***

"You shall have it. Our war with Khiva is over. They will not attack us, and we shall not attack them." Eleanor planted her sword in the ground. "The war is over!"

Cries of joy erupted from the throng. Soldiers laughed and cried, some embraced; others pulled away from the crowd, showing no emotions, and disappeared into the camp.

The legion prefect approached Eleanor, who gave her a wary look. "Proclamations are all well and good, as is this." Lara shook the scroll case in her hand. "But we both know there will be an answer to this. The men may celebrate today, but tomorrow, they will finally grasp what we have done." She spoke with a quiet voice, barely audible against the clamour of jubilant voices. "We are now mutineers."

"You include yourself in our number?"

Lara took a deep breath. "Sir Avery was – she and I were – she is dead because Legate Varus thought himself a great strategist and sent her on a fool's campaign." She looked down at the corpse. "If I was not a coward, I would have done this myself."

"Nobody would ever accuse you of cowardice."

The legion prefect glanced away. "Of all those I served with when I first came to this legion, almost none remain. Dead or grievously wounded, the lot of them. I am tired of fighting for an Empire that never fights for us." She looked straight at Eleanor. "Yes, I am with you."

"Good. In my absence, your voice will sway those who are less convinced. I must fetch Martel without delay."

"You cannot leave," Lara impressed on her. "These soldiers were convinced by you. If you are gone, they will think you have abandoned them right after convincing them of mutiny." She looked down. "Also, your hand is bleeding."

Eleanor glanced at her injured hand and pressed it against her surcoat. "Very well. I suppose whether I or another deliver the message is immaterial. I will find a trustworthy messenger from the fifth or sixth cohort – they should be keen."

"Meanwhile, we must ensure all the prefects are with us," Lara considered. "And that no word of this escapes Esmouth until we are ready. The gates and the harbour of the town must be closed. You should take a centuria now to see it done while I gather the prefects." She looked down at the corpse of the legate. "And get him buried."

Eleanor nodded in agreement. "To work."