General Carpathiel surveyed the long columns of legionnaires and the pack train winding its way through the mountain pass at Skelne.
He was no longer a young man, to put it lightly. His days of campaigning should have been long behind him. Yet the balding general, his head rimmed with fine white hair, now brooded while watching his Imperium soldiers as they worked their way southward -- in more or less perfect formation -- moving like a single, glittering creature. Their spearpoints gleamed in rows unending. Meanwhile, were a person to simply listen to the birds or glance toward the carefree, sunshine-laden sky above, they could be forgiven for thinking that all was right in the world.
It wasn't.
A revolt of gladiators and Xokothi slaves in the south had begun to spread like a cancer -- a cancer which would have to be cut out or cleansed, and soon -- or other parts of Prythia might erupt into disorder and violence. More than anything, General Carpathiel considered himself a victim of poor timing. With General Agalzius's legions off pacifying nomadic barbarian raiders in the north, and General Krebnor's army in the midst of conquering one of Prythia's smaller and vulnerable neighbors to the west, even the resources of the mighty Prythian Empire were stretched thin at the moment. So, it had become General Carpathiel's task to keep the rebellion in check, at least until the Imperium government at Kannai, the Prythian capital, could muster a proper legionary force.
General Carpathiel's men numbered just shy of 6,000. Too many were old men, re-drafted into service, or boys convinced of their own manhood before their time. A proper Imperium legion consisted of 10,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry. Carapthiel grimaced as he watched his under-manned army navigate the narrow mountain pass, the very pass which connected the bottom or 'boot' of Prythia with the rest of the country.
"Do you think the rebels will put up much of a fight, General?" His lieutenant centurion, Vaevek, surveyed the troops beside him with an impetuous, bright-eyed enthusiasm that Carpathiel was too old and wise to share.
"Do not write off our foe yet, my friend, especially since we have yet to meet a single one of them," General Carpathiel remarked dryly. The old general was a bony man of slightly above average height and hard-bitten gray eyes. He didn't look like much -- perhaps an ornery schoolteacher past his prime -- but Carpathiel had led armies that had killed Prythian enemies by the droves, by the thousands even, and he had his soldiers' respect.
"Forgive me, General. I...I confess that I am over-eager to see my first battle."
Carpathiel grinned. "Forgiven, soldier. You aren't the first to do so, nor will you be the last."
Vaevek gestured at the ponderous progress of the pack train which trundled along between the frontmost and rearmost ranks of the army.
"Why not leave the supplies with a light force to protect it from bandits and simply press onward with our main force, Sir? As the fall of Bheketha shows, the rebels are getting bolder, starting to take towns with sizeable populations. Time is critical. Shouldn't we speed up our advance?"
But the old general stubbornly shook his head.
"One thing you'll learn, my young friend; war is often a game of 'Hurry up and wait.'"
When the younger man frowned, clearly not quite understanding, Carpathiel sighed with impatience. "If I press on and leave the pack train and supplies behind us, we leave ourselves vulnerable. If the rebels have a leader with half a brain, with scouts well placed, they could cut off our supplies and take advantage of our over-extended position. Then, instead of forcing a pitched battle with the enemy, we might find ourselves encircled in the hinterland." Carpathiel spat, then stared at the distant horizon. "I intend to lead an orderly advance, soldier. We will systematically find and eliminate the rebel filth. Is that clear?"
There was disappointment in Vaevek's chastened expression, but the lieutenant centurion nodded.
"Yes, Sir. Understood, Sir."
Carpathiel chewed on the inside of his cheek. A sense of unease clawed at him from the inside out. He couldn't quite put a finger on the root of the anxiety, but it lay there like curdled milk in his stomach. He had a bad feeling about this campaign. This was not like the others. Before, he had always waged war on undisciplined barbarian outsiders. These rebel gladiators, low-caste or not, were of Prythian blood, and one thing Carpathiel knew with certainty -- they were no fools. This Gorlann, especially, was a man of renown. Among the gladiators he had a reputation as a fighter both wily and brutal.
Carpathiel had faced many foes. None, he had to admit, were quite like the ones who lay before him now...
***~~***
"Come. Follow me, bitch."
Gorlann's harsh voice lashed at Anaria like a whip. Still naked, her hands bound in front of her, the young woman obeyed.
It had been several hours since Anaria and Shinatri had been taken up into the forested and rugged terrain above Bheketha. At 'Eagle's Hill,' a ridge that overlooked the valley just north of town, they were led into a camp filled with hard-eyed gladiators and brutal-looking Xokothi. The main difference between the two groups, besides the darker skin tone of the Xokothi, was the manner of dress for each. Whereas the gladiators wore armor and were well-equipped, the Xokothi often wore little, sometimes even walking bare-chested in only leggings, and their weapons were often crude and makeshift in nature. Nonetheless, each side seemed to have forged an unwilling, uneasy alliance. To the Imperium, the gladiators had been playthings to entertain the masses, a sub-caste of humans forced to kill one another for sport. To those same Imperium highborn elite, the Xokothi slaves were mere number-crunching administrative servants, destined to toil away out of sight, serving as the nameless, un-thanked backbone of Imperium legitimacy. Each group, in their own way, had been exploited by the Imperium. If nothing else, then, they felt a solidarity in their shared sense of grievance.
"Where are we going?" Anaria dared to question as Gorlann led her deeper into the trees behind the rebel camp. She had seen him talking to one of the other gladiators a short while ago, but the two had been out of earshot. She had been too busy comforting Shinatri and craning her neck to look elsewhere in the camp for any sign of her poor mother, Phaeka.
"Quiet, slut. You will observe and do what I tell you, and only if I think you can do something useful. That is all you need to know," Gorlann said gruffly.
'Fine,' Anaria thought. 'I hope you trip and chip a tooth.' It was an old Prythian wives' curse. She snapped her mouth shut, glaring daggers at his back all the while. After about another forty to fifty strides, they came to a small clearing near the crest of the hilltop. There Anaria saw four more gladiators and three Xokothi slaves. The men seemed to be expecting Gorlann. One of the gladiators nodded, then gestured toward a cluster of tall cedar trees. Glancing in the direction the man indicated, Anaria couldn't help but gape.
