B4 Chapter 2: Numbers are Hard
It started off with numbers. Though to call them simply numbers was akin to calling the sun merely a light. They were so much more, each one pregnant with meaning far beyond their simple values, like windows into an ocean whose impossible depths would drown a man who dived right in.
Quintus marveled at them, answering a few questions floating in the air before he had an idea of what was going on. It was as though he was being tested, but not just that. Even if he got something wrong, he was nudged in the right direction until he saw the error of his ways—something he found out embarrassingly early.
It wasn’t long before he tired of the exercise, though. Numbers were useful, especially for logistics. But that was where his interest in mathematics ended. He was no philosopher who spent their days ruminating over questions whose answers helped no one. He was a practical man.
As the numbers continued to present questions and insights that would have made Seneca drool, Quintus began to dig in his heels. This did not serve him. This did not benefit him, nor did it improve his ability to command. As the numbers attempted to tantalize him with their hidden knowledge, Qunitus rebuffed them over and over.
The numbers pulled back. They floated there, just beyond arm’s reach for a long moment. Then, they seemed to flicker in place. The ocean of incomprehensible knowledge beyond the window changed. It became a sprawling battlefield—no, many battlefields. As though the entire history of conflict itself were encompassed within.
A subtraction problem morphed before its eyes. No longer was it simply asking him to pointlessly solve number problems. Now, he had to identify the number of men left to defend against an assault if he split the group into three to flank his opponent. This was useful. Thinking through the situation, Quintus found himself imagining the solution in his head, shifting around the troops themselves. The groups before him shifted to reflect the answer, and the battle played out. The tiny men took their enemies off guard and slew them. Victory.
As though emboldened by his success, the numbers pressed in with renewed fervor. More and more battlefields entered his field of view, each one a scenario for him to take command of. They became increasingly complex as he solved them one by one, hundreds of battles whizzing by in a parade of blood and steel. Whenever the forces under his direction fell, the battle reset for him to try again—a convenience not afforded to anyone on the battlefield.
Soon, he was coordinating centuries, cohorts, and an entire legion through borderline impossible feats of logistics and positioning. With each one, he felt his understanding grow and deepen even further. This wasn’t just a numbers game. Not at all. It was about what those numbers represented. The weaknesses and strengths of each, down to the individual man. Enlightenment washed over him in a tide of tactics and strategy.
He was just ruminating over the optimal number of men he could pull away from assaulting a fortified mountain keep to fend off a raid on their supply lines—without the force being overwhelmed by the enemy ambush waiting along the path—when he realized something. Where was he? What was he even doing here?
It was such an obvious question that Quintus found himself frowning. The miniaturized battle before him waited patiently as he looked about the space. This… wasn’t where he belonged. No, it wasn’t. He’d been fighting, defending a gate… Corwyn Pass. Yes, that was it.
The name clicked in his head. Memories slammed into Quintus as his eyes widened. He didn’t have time for these play battles. He was in one. His men needed him. He had to escape, or else—
His will battered against the world around him. Yet rather than keep him encased like a prison, the place’s featureless white walls shattered like the surface of an egg. The place dissolved, and Quintus felt a wave of disorientation wash over him as the real world returned.
Quintus blinked his eyes and found himself standing on the ramparts of the fortifications. Rather than beneath the open sky as he remembered, Quintus found himself standing within a makeshift enclosure made of stone. He immediately thought that he’d been captured, but that didn’t seem to be the case. No ropes or chains bound him. He hadn’t been disarmed either.
A door at one end of the space beckoned him forward. Stepping toward it, he cautiously pushed it open—unlocked, meaning that he was among allies or the most mentally deficient enemies he’d ever seen. He angled himself to reduce the rapidly dwindling chance of ambush or enemy fire. But no such attack manifested. Instead, he came upon a group of Legionnaires. His Legionnaires, with Gaius among them.
Their heads snapped toward Quintus as soon as he opened the door. Gaius’s eyebrows rose, then settled into a look of relief. “Uncle! You’ve finally returned.”
The casual form of address in front of the men revealed just how concerned the boy had been. And judging by their expressions, he hadn’t been the only one.
"Are you okay, sir?" One of the legionnaires on guard asked.
Quintus blinked against the light and waved a dismissive hand. "I’m fine. What is all this about?”
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“A mental attack… of sorts,” Gaius explained. “The reinforcements we sent for had the bright idea of sending something called a ‘spell plague’ against the orcs. Apparently, we got caught in the crossfire.”
Quintus’s expression turned serious. “Is anyone injured?”
“Not permanently. One man suffered a broken foot when he dropped a stone on it during the trance.” The other Legionnaires snickered, but Gaius ignored them. “Other than that, all of our men managed to snap out of it all right. You were the last to awaken.”
Quintus could hear the question in Gaius’s tone. He nodded. “I see. That is good news. My apologies for worrying you, Legatus. I found myself fascinated by the opportunity to better myself as a commander.”
“I see.” Gaius nodded. “Well, good. I’m glad to hear it. Now that you’re awake, we should hurry to move out. The clean-up effort is nearly finished—unlike us, the orcs didn’t fare nearly so well.”
Gaius began barking orders for the men to mobilize. Quintus couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Compared to where he’d been at the start of this campaign, the boy really had grown into the role of Legatus quite well. His words held an authority and confidence that couldn’t simply be due to skills alone. He even had a bit of stubble on his chin now.
While the others bustled about their tasks, Gaius remained where he stood. He stepped closer to Quintus and lowered his voice. “It’s all right, Uncle.”
Quintus looked at him. “What do you mean?”
The boy’s eye glinted with mischief. “You’re not alone. Mathematics can be quite a complicated subject. Why, I heard many of the men lamenting that ‘numbers are hard’ in the aftermath of this whole debacle. I’m certain that no one would judge you…”
Quintus activated [Tactician’s Awareness] and checked that none of the men could see them. Then, he smacked Gaius in the back of the head. The boy’s eyes went wide in shock, then he laughed. “I deserved that.”
“Indeed, you did.” Quintus crossed his arms. “And more besides. You’re lucky I’m so merciful.”
“Quite, quite.” The young Legatus chuckled before turning more serious. “Now. Why don’t you put those newfound tactical skills to use?”
And so he did. Quintus found his centurions and immediately demanded a report. Soon, he was surveying the battlefield of comatose orcs that sprawled before them. Many had been slaughtered where they stood and now lay like flattened grass above a ruby pond. But time had helped the Legion’s efforts on that front. Those that remained were now starting to pass out from dehydration and exposure to the sun. Evidently, Quintus had been out for a day and a half, which didn’t feel like nearly long enough for such a thing. But then again, he’d never tried standing in one place for that amount of time.
Once they’d finished cleaning up as much as they could, Gaius had Quintus and the rest of the men rejoin with the rest of their forces at the back of the pass. They’d found themselves similarly preoccupied, doubly so given the massive tunnel their men had needed to close off. But without an enemy actively breathing down their necks, tying up such loose ends was mere formality. The next day, they were marching home.
***
The return trip to the capital found Marcus far less exhausted than before. Evidently, all of this time keeping up with the Legion was doing wonders for his endurance. Perhaps the increase wasn’t reflected in actual stat points, but he wasn’t so boorish as to assume those numbers were an end-all, be-all. Though he did look forward to some levels in [Mythchaser] upon their return.
Yet as they approached, a feeling of slight dread began to settle over him. A feeling that only intensified as shapes began to become visible in the distance. Many shapes. Familiar ones, too.
He steeled himself and his stomach. He was not looking forward to this. Not again. It had nearly made him sick to witness the Romans’ form of punishment last time. Worse, the shapes were not in a group like last time, but rather a long row stretching along the road. The very road they would be taking into the city.
His suspicions were only confirmed as they drew nearer. A long, long line of men and women nailed up on crosses. Priests, based on their garb. As they kept moving, Marcus could feel the stares of the dead men looking down on him. Except they weren’t all dead.
He flinched as one of them writhed weakly in place. Marcus made the mistake of looking up and meeting his eyes. Two hollow, pleading orbs stared back at him, his mouth moving without sound.
Marcus shuddered and kept moving. Thankfully, the Legion’s marching pace made the macabre show pass by more quickly than it would have otherwise. Although their column slowed down as they neared, dragging out the experience even further. Obviously, the Legionnaires didn’t find this nearly as disturbing. They probably saw it as fitting, based on the word they’d received from their brethren in the city.
He had known to expect it, at least expect something horrible and brutal and barbaric. To his surprise, though, Marcus realized that he was… fine. Not sick, not even particularly disturbed. The occasional living person did trouble him, but not as much as expected. That was almost more worrying than the alternative. At least they were outside the city. Then, perhaps parents could keep their children away from it all.
His head whipped up with the sudden realization. Abel. He turned toward the boy, already concocting some errand to send him away from all of this. Yet the boy was handling it even better than he was. He wore a stoic and impassive face, that of someone numb to death. No, more than that. Marcus could tell. There was also anger there. Righteousness.
It confused him until he saw Abel turn his glare on one figure in particular. One that Marcus recognized. This was one of the priests who had attacked the Legion after they saved Abel’s house. The boy’s eyes narrowed at the corpse before he continued on.
Marcus shook his head. That was even more worrisome than his own reaction. Marcus wanted to start humming or singing to lift his own mood. But no tune came to mind that fit. It couldn't be a triumphant victory song or one of besting the odds. Though they had been victorious, it didn’t seem to fit. Not with this, nor with the underhanded and vicious methods they’d employed against the orcs. Though perhaps he should feel grateful that he could be so picky.
It wasn’t all bad news, though. He saw a column of men marching in the distance, escorting a different group of robed priests in a different direction. The fact that they lived at all boded well. Perhaps they were merely being exiled.
He strummed a quiet song of sorrow as he walked. For those whose lives had been lost. For those he’d been unable to save or turn aside, and for times long past. For this wasn’t just a victory over men. This truly seemed like the death of the old gods.
