Marghaz let the cheers of the crowds wash over him as his champion vanquished yet another opponent, leaving a trail of guts flopping like eels onto the sand. It seems that savage beast does have a purpose after allΒΈ he mused as the skull wearing warrior roared in anger, which only spurred the cheers on even more. "He is quite the warrior," the boy next to him commented. Marghaz turned to look at Grazdhan zo Marok, Djoran"s first born son. His hair was, like his father's cut to his head and a moustache was sprouting on his upper lip in a vain attempt to look older than his fourteen years.

"He is indeed," Marghaz commented. "He brought me glory, now he is bringing me riches."

The nine foot warrior demolished his next opponent, a former Unsullied warrior so quickly that Marghaz was a little disappointed himself, but an Unsullied alone was no match for a skilled warrior. "Was that truly an Unsullied?" Grazdhan asked. "I thought they were like the iron legions of old?"

"They are," Marghaz agreed. "But the strength of the Unsullied, and the modern legions, is in unity, not individual prowess, your father knew that well enough."

"I know," Grazdhan said. The boy had more of an image of a father to relate to than a father himself, so long was Djoran on campaign for his city. "Are you sure that I cannot come with you?" He asked.

Marghaz chuckled. "In a year or so, perhaps, but you have duties to your own noble house right now, to ensure that it does not fall. When that is done, then we can see."

Grazdhan nodded, he was meeker than his father, though that could be down to the fact that he was young and inexperienced, maybe sometime in the legions would help him grow into a man. But later, not now. He settled back as his champion was brought out of the fighting pit to rest and recuperate. Slaves captured in Sothoryos had little purpose other than being in the fighting pits. They were ugly so served no purpose as bed slaves, they could not be bred except with each other, anyone else would produce only stillbirths and deformed monsters. They were too stupid for labour, so they provided entertainment.

He closed his eyes for the next match, since it did not concern him, his champion was not fighting after all. Instead he leant back and let the cheers of the crowd wash over him. But then he felt a presence at his ear and looked to find a messenger bowing his head beside him. "Legate Marghaz," he said timidly. "The masters request your presence in the grand pyramid."

"Do they?" Marghaz replied. "Is it a request or an order?" He asked the messenger, who was sweating like he himself had been fighting in the pits for hours.

"I-I think they... do not wish... to have to be waiting... for... long," he said, stepping back as Marghaz fixed him with a hard and fierce gaze. He bowed and left.

Marghaz sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. "I had best go and see what they want," he said.

"Do you have to?" Grazdhan asked.

Marghaz nodded. "I won't be long," he said. "They won't want the mongrel hero in their presence for long." He followed the messenger outside the fighting pits and down the cobbled and silent streets. Most of the citizens were at the games, enjoying the spectacles that came with victories, so he his journey to the great pyramid was not interrupted. He only stopped to hand his weapons to the guards before entering the shaded building and greeting the five Masters who were waiting for him in the main chamber.

They were sitting on high back seats several steps up arranged in a semi circle around him and looking down on him. There were others in the room: The guards, which was to be expected, standing stoic and silent, and four other men. One of them was dressed in the robes of a dignitary and the others were his escort. They were not Ghiscari, he could tell that, but they looked familiar, though he could not place them.

"Legate Marghaz," said the Master in front of him, the one elected to head this meeting. The Great Chamber could seat four hundred, all of the important masters of New Ghis and many allies as well, quite comfortably. Statues of harpies served as decorations, and legionnaires as pillars. Fountains let a stream of cold water separate him, from the large central ground, which would be occupied by whoever was either delivering a speech or, as in his case, had been called upon. Tapestries of the pinnacle of the Old Empire hung from the walls as well, and light streamed in from above. "We have called you here because you are to be given a new assignment in the name of the city and the Ghiscari people."

"I live to serve the city and people," he said, clutching his fist over his breast and bowing his head. Just not you, he thought.

"Very good," said the master. "Then you are to lead a campaign to the Free Cities." He looked up in alarm. No army from New Ghis had ever gone so far west before. Why would he go? "I see you are surprised. Well, you see this man?" He asked, indicating the emissary. Marghaz nodded. "This is Emissary Malaquo, of the Free City of Volantis."

That was where Marghaz recognised the style of arms of the men, they were Volantenes. "A pleasure to see you, Legate Marghaz," he said, in a voice of silk that would be perfect for wiping the arse of anyone he had to court.

"He has come to further solidify the alliance your predecessor made with the Free City against Daenerys Targaryen. We have been called upon to aid Volantis in their wars."

"Wars?" Marghaz asked.

A master to the left of him replied, "yes, if you would like to explain, emissary."

The emissary nodded. "Yes, our army has conquered Myr in a stunning victory," he said. "But now we face greater resistance from the other members of the Triarchy, Lys and Tyrosh, and more resistance is brewing. We call upon the help of your noble legions to aid us in this fight."

"Hence, we have picked you," a female master said to his left. "You are to lead our support of Volantis in their campaigns. It is for that reason, and your extraordinary success on Sothoryos, that we are naming you Consul of the expedition to the Free Cities."

He opened his mouth but no words came out. Me, a Consul, he wondered. Why are they rewarding me, they consider me a threat, surely? "I-I am honoured," he said bowing.

"You have earned it." Did they truly mean that, were the honouring him because they thought he deserved it, or was there another game afoot?

He bowed. "I shall ready my legion at once."

"No," said three of the Masters at once. Then the head master continued. "As of two days ago, the current men of the First Legion fulfilled their three years" service to their city. They have since been disbanded."

His euphoria at the promotion turned sour in his belly. How had he forgotten that? He had traipsed through that jungle to earn the loyalty of his men, forgetting that they were nearing the end of their service. Was that why the Tribunes were eager to get back to Ghaereen, they were eager for home, not his position. He barely heard what the Master said next. "You will be granted the newly risen men of the new Fourth and Seventh legions with which to carry out this campaign. You are the Legate of the Seventh, and Legate Orrahz will serve as the Legate of the Fourth under your command."

That wouldn't be tribune Orrahz, he knew, that man had neither the skill nor the connections to gain such a promotion. More than that, he was about to go into a campaign, a very dangerous one for arrogant Volantis to call for aid, and he had to win it with twelve thousand raw recruits who had never seen combat before. "So all my men are new recruits?" He asked them, to confirm.

"Not all," said another master. "One thousand men under tribune Yezzan wished to remain under your charge; they will serve in your new legion."

Yezzan, at least I have one familiar face and one thousand men who know what they are doing. Even so, he wondered whether or not he was supposed to come back from this campaign. If they had heard of his rescue of his own men, and judged it suicidal, that might be their reasoning. Looking into their eyes, he saw hints of that in the cold brown irises. His hand curled into a fist. If this was just their latest attempt at eliminating him, it would not work. He would see to it that he survived, even if it was just to spite them. He looked into the eyes of the female master, she had a look in her smug smile that said she had no expectations of survival.

"If that is all, masters," he said, bowing. "I shall go and design my personal standard, with your leave."

The Master chairing this group nodded and dismissed Marghaz with a wave.

The standard maker's shop smelled disgustingly of dye, which was to be expected, but was still not welcome to his nostrils and he covered his nose with his mouth in a vain attempt to block it out. There was a slave girl at the welcoming desk, a jewelled collar around her neck. Being the only one with the privilege of providing the Legions and Consuls with their banners, this standard maker clearly earned enough to show it on his slave. He removed his hand from his mouth to speak with her. "Where is your master, slave?"

She got up, bowed low and went to retrieve him. She returned with a balding man, sweating heavily and with many rings on his fingers. "You must be the new Consul yes?" He asked and Marghaz nodded, not wanting to take his hand from his face. "Yes, I am sorry about the smell, please, come."

Growling at the back of his throat, Marghaz followed him deep into the workshop. He saw slaves in adjoining rooms soaking new banners and clothes in the dye. He shook his head as he thought of Daenerys Targaryen, the foolish Valyrian bitch, she would have these slaves paid, meaning that she would get less money from it herself, with which she could spend on other things. He would never understand the self righteous fools who thought they could change the proper way of things.

They finally made it to the back of the workshop where, once the dyer had closed the door, the worst of the smell could be drowned out. "My apologies, Consul," he said and he sounded earnest at least. "I had not expected you, I do normally make a point of meeting our noble soldiers in person." Marghaz nodded as the man chuckled. "It seems only yesterday that our dear Djoran was in here requesting a design for his personal standard."

Around the room were rough drawings and designs, and the man sat at his desk, where he clearly drew his designs. "So," he said, sitting down at the desk. "How can I help you? What design would you like? I have some possible bases to work off here." He held out a small pile of papers and Marghaz took them, setting them down, since he only had one hand to work with. He flicked through them. There were harpies of various designs and colours. "Please be aware that I can make any design in any colour," he said. "The colours are not limited."

Marghaz suspected that if he had asked for something truly outlandish then the man might have paled, but it would serve him no purpose to do so. His man clearly supported the soldiery, at least at some level. He finished the pile and was left without inspiration, the harpies all looked wrong, somehow. The designer saw that and spoke up. "If you wish to look around for your inspiration, maybe sketch something yourself," he indicated a thick tome. "Then please, feel free."

Marghaz nodded, there was no point in him drawing, short of quick sketches of maps for war at very short notice, there was no need for him to learn. However there was a book of designs to one side so, without any other inspiration, he began turning pages in that. It was clearly a book for foreigners to get designs of their own, for there was not a single harpy in it. Instead there was a wide menagerie of beasts of various kinds, from tigers and zorses to basilisks and wyverns. He skipped through most of them, but one caught his eye, a winged horse.

He thought it over. There was technically no rule that said that consuls had to pick a harpy to put on their personal banner, but it was the way, the old way. Then he thought more. He did not like the old way, the old way brought the city to the wretched state it was in now. Perhaps something new was needed.

"This," he said, pointing to the winged horse. "I want this."

The designed trotted over and looked alarmed. "You... you want a hippogriff, Consul."

"If that is what this is called," he said. "Then yes I do."

The designed looked truly nervous now, sweating and dabbing at his forehead with a silk cloth. "But... no consul has had anything but a Harpy in some form... ever."

"Well I will have a hippogriff," he explained calmly. "The Consul is quite within his right to pick his own banner. So I will have a gold hippogriff on a purple background."

"I...I... yes Consul," the man said finally. "I will have it delivered to you on Ghaen as soon as it is ready."

Marghaz nodded, smiled at the thought of that banner fluttering in the breeze, flying over the head of his army, turned and left the building, covering his nose to block out the stench of the dyes as he did so.

Ghaen was much larger than the island on which New Ghis was located. It had many wide open fields and hills and rocky areas, very suitable for camping the legions of New Ghis between campaigns. Or maybe it was the case that the Masters did not like having so many soldiers on the same island that they lived, plotted and died on.

He had landed at the port on Ghaen, far more rigid and organised than the one in the city itself and, after finding out that his two legions where on the far side of the Island, took a horse and spurred it into action.

The two camps of his legion were arrayed neatly and identically side by side. Inside he knew there were farming facilities where the legions could grow food when not training so as to feed themselves but that there would be no training grounds. That was the point of Ghaen, the island itself was a training ground, they would train out on the hills and fields to simulate proper battlefield situations.

He dismounted entered the camp of his direct legion to find Yezzan drilling his soldiers in routine battlefield drills. "Very good, Yezzan," he said as he approached. The men were practicing their tortoise drill at the time. "I see you wasted no time."

"Of course not le- consul," Yezzan corrected himself. "I serve you as my commander." Marghaz nodded. Yezzan would be his voice of caution, as he had been in Sothoryos.

Marghaz nodded. "Men," he called out to the legionnaires. "Rest for now," with relief they lowered their shields in a clumsy manner. "Next time," he said to them, "you will lower your shields properly. You are Legionnaires for the next three years, and by the gods I will have you acting like it, now," he turned to Yezzan, "summon the officers, from tribunes to centurions, I wish to speak with them in my tent."

"Of both legions, consul?"

Marghaz nodded. "Yes, of both of them."

Yezzan began barking orders and Marghaz made his way to his tent, sitting down and tracing his steel fingers on the table. Eventually all officers from both legions arrived: Twelve tribunes, sixty serjeants and one hundred and twenty centurions. There were so many that Marghaz quickly realised he would need to speak to them outside.

When standing before them, on a small podium so that they could all see him. He spoke. "I want each of the tribunes to stand before me, with their best serjeant as well. Now!"

Taking longer than it should have, he was presented with forty eight individuals. "Legate Orrahz," he asked the legate who was to serve under him. "Who is your finest tribune?"

"Tribune Ghoraz is the most able to command his men, consul," Orrahz said. Marghaz liked this one, little sense of pomp and pride, just simple obedience and brevity.

"Tribunes Ghoraz and Yezzan," he called out to the assembled men before him. "Please stand aside," with the legate Orrahz."

They did so, stepping forward from the line of tribunes and their best serjeants. "Now, the rest of you," he said to the rest of the line. You are all tribunes now."

They looked to each other in alarm, even Yezzan looked back at him aghast. "When you return to your legions, you will split your units in half, from now on, while you serve under me, you will serve as commanders of units of five hundred men, except you two," he added turning to Yezzan and Ghoraz. "You will serve as commanders of the first units, from now on to be referred to as the First Cohort. These units will be one thousand strong, and be made up of the very best of the legions."

He let them digest their new marching orders, then continued. "The rest of you are to pick two serjeants to serve under you, each of whom will command two hundred and fifty men, each of whom will lead two centurions, commanding one hundred and twenty five men and arms."

"What is the purpose of this?" A voice called.

"For too long the legions have been too divided, too inflexible, I will change that with you. With you I will create a force of hardened soldiers able to fulfil many roles on the battlefield. For the reasons of increased flexibility and adaptability, I am hereby removing all pikes from these legions. The pikemen cohorts are to put down these cumbersome weapons and take up the regular arms of the heavy legionnaire. The archers will, however, retain their bows and continue that practice." He had made his decision after Sothoryos. His pikemen were unable to operate in jungle conditions, and they had not been able to stay with the men in his battle outside the walls of Ghaereen. Now they would.

"You will decide on which officers will be fulfilling which roles later on, but for now, I would speak to the legates, all of them, about their new responsibilities, if you would all like to join me in my tent, you too, legate Orrahz." He stepped down from the dais, leaving the rest of the serjeants and centurions whispering amongst themselves.

He nodded at Yezzan, who nodded back and turned to the officers. "QUIET! You will stay still, silent and strong, as befitting men of the legions until your consul dismisses you!"

Inside his tent, Marghaz looked down at the sequence of blocks he had arrayed. "What is the purpose of this, Consul?" Legate Orrahz asked. "Why change the legions?"

Marghaz smiled at him. "For too long the legions have been defensive in nature," he indicated the blocks which he had arranged in a single line. "We have had to wait to break the enemy or, to achieve maximum effectiveness, march forward in a single line." He indicated this with the blocks he had arranged. Looking at it like this, it was far easier to see why this was the case, and that the inflexibility was not suited to flexibility on the battlefield. "What I propose is this."

He took the blocks and rearranged them. Now they were in three lines, four blocks in the front row, three in the second and three in the third, with the two representing the archers out in front in a line of their own. The three in the second line were positioned so that they were behind the gaps created by the first line and the three in the third line were in the gaps created by the second line's blocks. "This way, the legion changes," he said. He tapped the front right block. "The first cohort, the hard strength of the men, are here, and they can then punch and swing around the enemy."

"But what about the gaps?" Asked one of the tribunes, whether he was new or not he could not say. "Surely the enemy can just come between them?"

"They can, but so can we," Marghaz pointed out. He pointed at one of the blocks in the front row. "Let us say this cohort is facing particularly tough opposition, the fact that it is held up does not hold up this cohort here," he pointed to the one behind it and to the left, facing the empty gap. "They can advance still without impediment. This means that, whatever the opposition, the legion can always advance and push right through the enemy in the field."

"Not if they face a phalanx of pikemen," another tribune pointed out.

"Pikemen are defeated by their inflexibility," Marghaz said. "One cohort fixes them in place by standing just out of range of their pikes, retreating where necessary, and another swings around the flanks and takes it in the weak side of their force, destroying them utterly."

Yet another tribune spoke up. "But what if the cohort is surrounded, what can they do then?"

Marghaz simply indicated one of the blocks. "It is a square, if they are flanked or surrounded they simply turn one of their sides to face outwards, it shall be easy without cumbersome pikes to trouble them. The more sides of the square the enemy attack, the more directions we can kill them in."

He spent what felt like hours assuaging the trepidation in his new tribunes about the new formations. "It will require training," he said. "And we have two weeks maximum to train the men in their new square formations, but that should be enough to master the basics. At least, before we head out on our first campaign."

"Where are we going, Consul?" Orrahz asked.

Marghaz smiled grimly. "The Masters have signed an agreement with Volantis, we are to aid them in their wars, which is why we need to set off soon. So return to your men, and begin your drills, for the glory of Ghis."

"For the glory of Ghis!" His men chanted.