The sounds he heard were vague and uncertain. Cheers, yells, and other noises reached him as he lay on the floor. He felt water trickle down his throat and it was like the ambrosia of the gods had been gifted to him. He moaned, as soon as his throat was moist enough to permit it. "He's awake," he heard a distant voice call, and it was met with more cheers and roars. "Legate, legate get up." He could smell smoke and blood, it permeated everything, even the air itself.

He felt arms raise him to a sitting position, at which point he realised that he must have been lying down. But I was tied to posts, he thought, still unsure into what dream world he had entered. Maybe he was dead? No, he wouldn't be dead, if so people wouldn't be telling him to get up. Maybe he was in bed, had he fallen asleep?

Then he was hit by a gush of water to his face.

He gasped and opened his eyes, his vision blurred and distorted. Coughing he brought up his hand, which felt like a lead brick strung by a blind stonemason to a wooden stump, and wiped the water from his face. "Wh-what?" He asked, not entirely sure what his what was supposed to mean.

"They came Legate."

His eyes adjusted and the blurry images began to gain some kind of focus. He saw spiked iron helmets and sharp steel spear tips. Legionnaires. He sat up and felt a rush of pain to his head. He moaned and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Who… what?" He asked again.

"The runners made it to the legion. They came for us."

He looked around. The ground of the clearing was littered with corpses of barbarians. Hundreds of his men were poking their weapons into the dead. Others were piling up the corpses for burial and yet more were standing guard over a large number of bound prisoners. The smoke was rising far into the air. "Help me up," he said, and his men took him by the arms and pulled him to his feet. They led him over to a nearby rock where he could sit down properly. "Tell me everything," he said.

"We did as you said, Legate," it was one of the runners who, even though they lacked armour, had a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. "We reached the legion and informed the serjeants of everything that had happened. They went to the Tribunes, but they were not willing to move."

"Of course they weren't," Marghaz muttered.

One of the Serjeants took over. "So we went without them, they were eventually forced to accept our decision. We did as you said, and attacked in several different locations, carving deep into the enemy ranks."

"They were getting ready to cook us at the time," one of Marghaz's fellow captives added. "They caught the barbarians unawares and smashed them to pieces."

Marghaz felt pride rise in his chest. "You did well," he said. "All of you. When we get back to Ghaereen, we shall celebrate this victory. And in New Ghis we shall put them," he indicated the prisoners, "in the pits and enjoy them ripping each other to shreds instead of us."

The men cheered at the prospect. When they had settled down, Marghaz asked the rest of his questions. "And the Tribunes?" He did not see them, and he doubted that they were willing to stay in the jungle for long. "Where are they?"

"They are on their way," one of the serjeants said, subdued. "They only led us when it was clear that we would not be dissuaded."

That did not surprise him in the least, so he asked the next question. "How did we lose so few men?" There were very few Ghiscari corpses amongst the dead that littered the ground.

"We formed squares," a Serjeant said. "Each of our two hundred men formed a large block and that allowed us to kill the enemy whichever side they came at us from."

Marghaz looked back to the ground, there were more dead here than there were outside Ghaereen after the battle. That would have to be something he thought about in the future. But for now, eh had another concern, as he recognised the helmets of the tribunes approaching him. "Help me up," he whispered, and one of the Legionnaires pulled him to his feet.

They bowed their heads to him. "You look well, legate," one of them said with more venom than a snake.

"I am," Marghaz answered, steadying himself on his feet. "Well enough at least." He stepped forwards, unsupported. "Their leader, did we kill him?"

"If you mean the one who stands three feet taller than the rest, then he is in chains," Yezzan said, and even he sounded much cooler.

Marghaz nodded. "What about his little advisor," Marghaz asked.

"You mean the one that can talk?" The tribune Orrahz asked. "We have him too, why?"

"Rip that one's tongue out," Marghaz said. "Then leave him behind, we take the rest with us." Animals like that don't deserve to talk.

He gingerly stepped forwards, testing his feet to see if they could hold his weight. "Are you sure it is time to return, legate," one of the Serjeants asked him.

Marghaz nodded. "If this didn't stop them for the time being then nothing will, and if it did, then we are no longer needed. Either way," he finished, "our place is at Ghaereen now, send a message alerting them to our return, then be ready to march, we are done with this jungle."

The word was spread and the Legion readied themselves to march back to civilisation.

The walls had been, for the most part, put back together. It was a shoddy job compared to what had been there before, but it would be sufficient to hold back the enemy that were now leaderless until they could be restored to what they once were.

"It is good to see the city again, is it not?" Asked Yezzan.

"It is," Marghaz agreed, "I need to wash this filth from me."

"I should think that, after this victory, you will be granted a bath."

Marghaz chuckled at that. It would be right wouldn't it, maybe the Master would be kind enough to let him use the one that was inevitably inside his compound. Though he doubted it, Masters knew nothing of kindness, particularly not to those like him. He was about to say as much to Yezzan, but then he heard the sounds of cheering from the walls. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see what was happening. "What is that?"

"I believe," Yezzan said. "That they are cheering for you."

"Me?" None had ever cheered for his victories before, was this what this was like? Was he truly being celebrated? He felt a smile come, unbidden to his face as they got closer and he was able to see that the walls were indeed lined with citizens of the city. The gates were opened as the legion got closer and Marghaz, leading the way, was met with the cheers and celebrations of the people.

It was not a formal parade, like they had in New Ghis proper to celebrate the glorious triumphs of the Legates and Consuls returning from campaign. In those cases, the city watch lined the street, keeping it clear for the triumphant legionnaires to pass. It would be scripted so the men would be clean and polished and knew where they were to march in perfect lockstep, if at all possible. Flowers would be strewn on the road and thrown from the rooftops by the citizens. But here there were no flowers, only the people themselves throwing themselves at his men, seeking to touch their saviours. He himself must have felt at least forty different lips touch his face in fierce kisses, had a dozen flowers pushed into his hand and unknown numbers of children hugging his legs in thanks. Nevertheless, it was important that the men kept moving, so he made sure they did, allowing the entire legion to enter the city. When the captives followed them through he heard the cheers turn to jeers and the sound of manure and worse being thrown at them. He smiled at the thought. He knew that they wouldn't try to kill them, no one tried to kill slaves when they still had a purpose to serve, even when that purpose was to die for entertainment later on in the fighting pits.

At the end of the main road, at the Master's palace, Marghaz ascended the steps, which other Legionnaires were guarding, preventing any but Marghaz and his guards from passing. He was met at the top of the steps by the Master and Consul Harredan. "You are still alive then?" Harredan asked.

Marghaz nodded. "Of course. I hope you did not expect less."

"Of Djoran, not at all, but you," Harredan said, looking him up and down. "You had yet to prove yourself. You have rectified that at the very least."

"I am glad to hear that you think so," Marghaz replied. "The enemy horde has been scattered and broken, their leader is in chains, I would think that there would be a little recognition for that."

"I believe there will be," Harredan said.

The master shuffled forwards here. "Indeed, Legate Marghaz, word of your victory has already been sent to New Ghis. We sent it as soon as your messenger arrived. They will be waiting for a hero to return, and you shall do so."

"Indeed he shall," Harredan said. He turned to the Master. "Master, Legate Marghaz and I have matters of war to discuss, you need not bother yourself with the details." The Master, sweating as he was, nodded and shuffled away, leaving Marghaz alone with Harredan. "Finally, it is good to be rid of him," Harredan said, leading Marghaz and their guards away from the crowd and into a shaded courtyard.

Marghaz nodded. "What matters of war need discussing?"

"None," Harredan confessed. "I wished to speak to you about your return to New Ghis."

"What about it?" Marghaz asked.

"You will have to be on your guard, the Masters are not going to be pleased with your victory here, with you dead or defeated you are no threat, but alive, you represent the legacy of the best of us."

Marghaz looked around for those who may listen in. "No one will talk," Harrendan said when he saw him.

"Do you think they will try to murder me?"

"Not in the city, no," Harredan said. "I sent the men to New Ghis with the message of your arrival, the city will be awaiting the return of a hero, and not even the most brazen of the Masters would dare murder a hero within the city. That and your father wouldn't have it."

"My father?" Marghaz hadn"t spoken to his father in years.

"His is a master is he not?" Harredan asked. "He would not countenance the murder of his son, and as long as you somewhat toe the line, his voice will be heard. But if you go too far there will be no one who will be able to stop the Masters from trying to eliminate you."

"They were probably hoping that I would die here."

"Probably," Harredan agreed. "But they did not succeed, and now you are stronger for it, you have a name, and a name brings hesitation, hesitation and fear."

"Fear brings action," Marghaz added. "And I do not want the masters acting against me too soon, I need time."

"That is true. You have established a name for yourself as a Legate of note, but that is all. Djoran was beyond equal."

Marghaz nodded, he knew that to be true enough, but he didn't know why Harredan was telling him this now. Was his victory truly so important? "Why are you telling me this now?"

Harredan chuckled. "Because I learned something whilst you were gone."

"What?"

Harredan turned to him. "You are aware, aren't you, that the Legates have been competing to assume Djoran's place as the First Legate, the first of us all?" Marghaz nodded. He knew that much. "Well, the decision has been made, Legate Horahn took the title, news arrived only a few days ago."

"Horahn," Marghaz muttered. A by the book commander if ever there was one, competent, but he lacked imagination, at least, according to Djoran.

"Indeed," Harredan said. "I will confess that I had hoped that the post might come to me, it is, after all, prestigious. But it seems that I will be confined to this backwater forever."

"Why Horahn?" Marghaz asked.

"Because he is too by the book to be able to plot rebellion, I suspect," Harredan answered. "The Masters are moving to ensure that the Legions are leashed to their hand."

"I still fail to see what you learned while I was in the forest."

Harredan raised an eyebrow. "Do you?" He sat down on a nearby stone bench. "I learned that things must change in New Ghis, and that you are the one who has the youth, and, following this victory, the popularity, to influence it."

"Influence it," Marghaz repeated, scoffing. "I am a soldier, not a politician."

"For now," Harredan said. "But the time may come soon that you will have to be both, that we will have to be both." He beckoned to his guards who followed him away. "Enjoy your celebrations and the comforts of the women here, the slave girls are ready and you shall have the first pick, as is befitting your rank."

"So, you divided your soldiers how?" Marghaz asked the serjeant.

"We just attacked independently, with each of the men under our command, Legate." The serjeant explained.

Marghaz nodded and sat back. "That will be all then," he said, waving his hand for the serjeant to leave him while he looked over the table in front of him.

The attack from multiple directions on the brindled's camp had been utterly devastating, far more of the enemy had been slain than had in the battle outside the city. It also had the advantage of flexibility. It would have been impossible to maintain a battle line in the forest, hence why he replaced the equipment of his pikemen, you need a full battle line in order to hold the flanks of a phalanx, or they are too easily broken. Could it become a full formation, a proper one? He was unsure, but the trip back would give him time to ponder it. But it would be useful. Lines of pikemen had been shattered by the apes of the forest, and once shattered they would be too easily destroyed by the enemy. True, the enemies he was likely to face in the future would not likely have apes, but a catapulted boulder would have much the same effect, and it would be something to counter. A battle line made up of squares, separate from each other, would be more flexible, and there were other benefits too. He would have to see to that, a more flexible legion would enable him to explore a greater variety of tactical options. Without the cavalry arm of the legion, that flexibility could be the difference between victory and defeat.

A soft moan escaped from the bed behind him and he looked around. The raven haired slave was coming to. She had a good beauty to her, which is why he had taken her, although he should probably have gone for one more experienced. She was too tired after the first round to put much effort into the second, he had had to bite her, hard enough to draw blood, in order to get her moving and making noise again, there was nothing fun in fucking a girl lying as still and silent as a corpse.

"Legate," a voice called from outside the room.

"Enter." It was one of his guards. "What is it?"

"The ships are ready for inspection, Legate," he said, bowing, then he caught sight of the slave girl behind him. "Yours, Legate?"

Marghaz glanced at her, felt nothing but disappointment, then got to his feet. "If you want her, take her, she is useless to me, I'll get another one if I need to, But I suspect we'll be on the ships this evening," He looked out of the nearest window into the air. It was past midday, which meant the worst of the heat had passed, but it was still hot out there. "I will be glad to leave this place." Then, when I get back home, he thought. I can finally start planning my revenge for you, Djoran.