Soldiers in golden breastplates trooped forward below the balcony to stand facing the remnants of the Twelfth and Third legions.
Conlan’s stomach knotted. Something felt wrong, the atmosphere laden with tension. Beside him, Villius shifted his attention from Martius to Turbis and back, his brow furrowed.
Peering down at his comrades in the Third, standing proud regardless of the turn of events, Conlan thought he saw many of them exchanging nervous glances.
The Twelfth Legion, meanwhile, remained impassive, with their hands behind their backs and their heads bowed. A gust of wind blew across the square, strong enough to lift the legionaries’ cloaks. Conlan realised with a start that the men of the Twelfth had their hands tied behind their backs. One young legionary stared defiantly up at the balcony.
A bell tolled at the opposite end of the square. Black-garbed men streamed out of the temple of the dark god in a double column, the priests of the Sender, tiny in the distance. An awed silence rolled down the square at the approach of the dark god’s disciples.
Conlan looked from the approaching priests to the Twelfth legion, then across at General Martius. His legs weakened as realisation dawned.
“We must regain our lost dignity. The men of the Twelfth were broken on the field,” said Martius, voice now strong and even. “They must be cleansed. The augaries have been taken. The gods have called for…” Martius paused, his face draining of colour, “… decimation.”
“No!” Conlan shouted, his voice echoing across the square. “General, No!”