by Camilla Monk
He jumped from his perch and closed the distance between us. “You forgot to give me back my sword.”
I clutched it tighter. “Clearchos said it was mine.”
He leaned in until I could see fine threads of red in the white of his eyes and smell wine on his breath. “Will it still be once I beat the shit out of you? We’re right outside Gemina’s tent; you can go back in there once I’ve punched your teeth out.”
My knuckles whitened around the sword’s hilt, even as chills slithered all over my body. “You can try.”
Unexpectedly, his lips quirked, and instead of hitting me, he said, “Follow me.”
I did, but made sure to maintain a safe distance between us as we made our way through the camp. I noted with relief that some fires had been put out and many tents were now closed. Clearchos’s Legion was falling asleep. Victrix led me outside the mine to a tent that had been erected regrettably close to an ibex pen. I recognized Felus, chatting with another boy barely older than us. There were more new recruits inside the tents, whose laughs ricocheted in the night.
I counted eight wool covers tossed on the tent’s dirty floor, and seven boys. I winced. Rolled inside the eighth cover, I recognized my leather satchel. I stiffened, ready to take it back from whoever had dared appropriate it.
Victrix noticed the direction of my gaze. “Thurias thinks you earned it back. He’s such a weak cocksucker.”
I ran past Felus and his new comrade to seize my treasure. As I opened the satchel to inspect its contents, my lips thinned. Of course. The money, the knife and the bronze fibula were gone—as expected—but at least my steel striker was still in there, along with the hare tail I had cut off and kept for good luck.
“Tell Thurias I’m grateful,” I mumbled.
“I’m not taking any orders from you, birdshit,” Victrix stated, before he stomped off.
Watching him walk away, I wondered if Fishtail had been his friend or if he didn’t care that he was dead.
After he was gone, I hesitated a while before reentering the tent where the rest of Clearchos’s recent recruits now lay squeezed together like fish in a net. Staying outside or giving any sign that I awaited an opportunity to run away might attract suspicion; I gripped my satchel and my sword tight and stepped inside. Adopting Victrix’s tactic of choice, I walked to my designated spot in a corner of the tent with my head up high, and treated anyone who dared to lay his eyes upon me with a withering glare—it kind of helped that I was the only one with a sword, and that by now every single man in Clearchos’s Legion knew me as the boy who’d killed Fishtail.
Huddled under their ratty wool covers, my new tentmates followed my every move with sundry levels of anxiety or, for some, animosity. Felus tended toward the latter, a challenge gleaming in his brown eyes as he watched me curl under my own cover, my precious satchel and sword tucked against me.
“You got lucky,” he grunted.
I felt all eyes on me, awaiting a worthy comeback. Someone coughed to my right, a copper-haired boy no older than fourteen. Soon afterward a furtive fart filled the tent with a suffocating stench. I tried to breathe through my mouth in vain. “You too,” I eventually told Felus. “If Clearchos hadn’t stepped in, that man would have killed you.”
He sat up abruptly. I gripped the sword’s hilt, ready to strike.
“You went and asked for a real sword. You broke the rules,” he hissed.
No doubt Felus’s new comrades had told him about that. Gemina had been right to warn me: not everyone liked me after what I’d done. “There are no rules in the pit but Clearchos’s,” I replied. “And it’s my sword anyway.”
“It’s not!” Felus said indignantly. “Everybody says it’s a Lorian officer sword. You stole it!”
Lorian… as in Loria, the capital of the East. Sudden shame warmed my cheeks. Everyone knew, except me. I should have guessed that the soldier, with his nice brooch and all his money, was no ordinary legionary. But all soldiers were the same in my mind, and his soaked tunic had been too dark for me to recognize the scarlet red of the Lorian army. “I found it in the woods,” I mumbled.
“So, you didn’t kill the Lorian to take his sword,” a scratchy voice whispered from across the tent, tinged with disappointment.
“No,” I admitted. “He was dead. I just took his things.”
“Who taught you to fight like that?” another voice asked, much closer. It was the redhead, and also, I suspected, the one responsible for the miasma poisoning us all.
“No one did, I just…” What had I done, exactly, beside taking a lucky swing? Not lucky. Successful. If I was being honest with myself, I hadn’t struck Fishtail at random. I screwed my eyes shut in a vain attempt to silence a tiny voice inside me that whispered that I had enjoyed the fleeting moment of his death. The hunt and the kill. “He gave me an opening; I took it. He’d have killed me otherwise,” I concluded for my audience.
There. The idea that I’d acted in self-defense alleviated some of my guilt. I could believe this—that it wasn’t my fault and I’d been forced to slash his throat. The very thought conjured up a vision of the blood running down Fishtail’s neck and chest in black ribbons. My stomach heaved.
“Whatever,” Felus muttered. “Don’t think you’ll have it easy just because Clearchos noticed you.”
Once again, I had little doubt that it was the rest of the camp speaking through Felus’s mouth, and that was even more reason to run the hell away from this place. Fast.
•♦•
Back at my parents’ farms, we all slept together in the same big room. My mother and Servilius’s intimacy was protected by a straw screen, while Lar, Arun, and I slept on three pallets next to each other. I was therefore familiar with the many delights of sleeping next to teenaged boys—although sharing a tent with seven of them was a whole new level of promiscuity and dismay. I knew why a couple of them were breathing so fast and occasionally squirming under their covers; I knew that a light snore was the safest indicator that they were asleep, and that, fancying himself some sort of self-appointed leader, Felus would close his eyes last, once he was confident that the rest of the herd slept tight.
And I knew that he’d reopen them right afterward, like Arun sometimes did. It was a well-rehearsed play: I would hear the floorboards creak under his footsteps, wrap myself tighter in my cover and whisper, “I’ll wake up Mother if you don’t go back to your bed.” I would wait then, for the rustling of his covers, followed by more creaking and cracking as he tossed in bed, frustrated.
But here at the camp, there was no one to call, and I could rely on no one but myself when a big shadow tiptoed over the sleeping boys toward. Of course, budding despot Felus wanted the sword. Curled to my side, I hissed, “I’ll slice your fucking throat like that cunt licker Fishtail if you don’t go back to your bed.”
I waited, sweat beading on my forehead while I inwardly prayed to Picumnus that the obscenities I’d learned from our new comrades would deter him. I held on to my sword, the feel of the leather grip my only reassurance. The figure looming above me hesitated. His fingers twitched, perhaps calculating the feasibility of prying the weapon from my hands. He took a step back, then another, and I drew a breath of relief when I heard the rustling of his cover as he rolled to his side. If he was anything like Arun, he’d try again. Only a close encounter with the blade he coveted would curb his appetite—and I didn’t intend to stay long enough for that to happen.
I waited until Felus’s breathing became a shallow murmur and the peace inside the tent made my own eyelids heavy. Then, I unfurled and got to my feet with excruciating precaution. I had my satchel and my sword. The air was still, barely disturbed by the occasional grunt or stir from one of the boys. Drawn to the sliver of moonlight peeking between the tent flaps, I crept out.
The grilli’s relentless chirping and the night breeze against my skin brought me and indescribable amount of relief. I slinked away from the tent and made my way arou
nd the ibex pen, crouched, a shadow among shadows. The camp was quiet, save for a few soldiers on watch duty, chatting around a campfire in low, tired voices; no one noticed me as I progressed toward the woods surrounding the mine.
When one of the men brought a gourd to his lips and paused in his drinking to glance around, I froze behind a big rock. He squinted his eyes at the woods, shook his head, and resumed telling the others about a soldier he knew, who had reportedly bedded six whores in a single night. Crouched near a tree, I considered whether to dash to the woods or wait a little longer until they were drunk. In truth, there was a growing ache in my bladder and belly; I hadn’t had much to drink and eat since yesterday’s hare, but I needed urgent relief all the same. I peeked at the men. They couldn’t see me from here anyway.
I pulled my trousers down, my heart beating with fear and shame at the idea of being caught. I relieved myself in the blink of an eye and wiped with a handful of grass and leaves just as fast.
“Going for a walk?”
The softly intoned question made me jump out of my skin, and I barely had the time to pull up my pants. I grabbed my sword and spun on my heels, ready to fight for my life. A massive shadow loomed over me, cloaked in darkness. I recognized his dense black curls silvered by moonlight. Who would have thought Thurias could be so silent when he looked like he could have carried a cow on his back?
I circled away, readying my legs to bolt. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“So, you got up, and you took your sword with you?”
I leveled a stubborn frown at him. “I don’t trust anyone here.”
Thurias leaned against the rock, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—that a turd lay in the grass between us. “You know, we’re less than thirty leagues away from Nyos.”
I crossed my arms, waiting to see where he was going with this.
He waved at the men gathered around the campfire, who waved back. I shuddered. “Clearchos has men everywhere guarding the mine, taking turns to camp in the woods, just in case Lorian scouts venture all the way here.” There was no trace of anger in his eyes as he added, “You should be careful. You wouldn’t want them to think you’re trying to desert.”
Well, well… Kind Thurias was also a shrewd bastard. And he didn’t sleep much.
I stepped out in the open, willing my legs to relax into a casual stride, even as the sword weighed heavy in my right hand. “What happens if someone leaves?”
He shrugged one big shoulder. “They’re sent back to the pit. But it’s different. They don’t make it out.”
We stood together in silence for a while, staring into each other’s eyes in the obscurity. I eventually averted my eyes; his placidity made me nervous. “You don’t like it here,” I told him.
He sighed and turned around to head back to the camp. “You’ll get used to it. Until then, learn to watch your back.”
Possibly the most valuable piece of advice anyone ever gave me.
10
I don’t remember if I dreamed that night. Of my home, or the pit, maybe? My second day at the mine started with a sudden sting on my forehead that had me groaning awake. Moments later, something hard flew my way and hit my arm, this time. I sat up astride the sigillaria bough I’d made my bed of, breathing in the spice of bark and dew-dampened leaves. Half-asleep and evidently under attack, my first instinct was to reach up for my satchel and sword, tucked safely above me at the heart of the treetop. My fingers met dew-dampened leather and steel; they were still here. I retrieved my treasure greedily and sat back on my bough, safe for a blissful moment among the whispers and bird calls of the canopy.
Or rather, safe until another projectile hit my knee, hard enough that I knew it’d leave a bruise even through my trousers. I looked down at the tent and the boys crawling awake fifteen feet below. At Victrix, his wry smile and the remaining rocks in his hand. Damned nutsack…
“What are you doing up there, birdshit?”
I reached to rub my eyes but stopped halfway when I was reminded of the cut on my shoulder by a flare of pain. I sighed. “Some things smell worse than Fishtail’s cock. I like it better in my tree.” That, and I didn’t feel safe falling asleep around Felus. But I figured Victrix already knew that, and he relished my cowardice.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Well, get down.”
I grabbed my satchel and sword and climbed down with stiff, sleep-rusted limbs. Someone had brought bread rations—well, tossed them on the ground, really. I grabbed mine before a grimy hand could snatch it first and tore away at the stale bread. A jug of passably fresh water made the rounds too, and that seemed the closest thing to heaven at that point in my life.
“Rejoice, poor fuckers,” Victrix yelled to all eight of us while we finished eating. “You’ll be spending the rest of your day in the pit.”
The boys looked at each other, then at Felus, as if he had the power to reason with Victrix. Some eyes lingered on my sword in its sheath. I knew what they were thinking; I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I would do whatever it took to stay alive until I could escape the mine…
Victrix, too, noticed the direction of their gazes. “You won’t need those,” he snapped, eyeing my sword and satchel.
I placed a possessive hand on the pommel. “They stay where I can see them.”
“Are you calling anyone around here a thief?” He challenged.
I scratched my nose with the back of my hand. “I misplaced five silver sigli and a brooch yesterday. Wouldn’t want it to happen again.”
A couple of jaws fell slack at the mention of so much money. I glimpsed Felus’s randomly planted teeth, before he recovered his countenance and assumed a frown more suitable of a leader.
Victrix crossed his arms over his braided leather cuirass and shook his head. “You just like to stir shit, don’t you?”
My tongue itched to lash back at him that he was the one who needed to abuse everyone around here; I bit the words back. Better lie low if I wanted a chance to sneak away. “I don’t want any trouble with you,” I mumbled. “But my stuff stays with me.”
He shrugged. “You still don’t get how things work around here.” He turned to the others. “We’re moving.”
Without another word, he spun on his heels and led the way out the camp. The rest of Clearchos’s Legion had risen too. Gravelly voices called—and ibexes answered—the steady thumping of someone hacking at a tree echoed the clanking of another forging more weapons. There seemed to never be a dull moment from sunrise to sunset for the recruits, unloading food and weapons from carts, digging holes to toss the dead and the trash in. I glimpsed a pale arm before it disappeared under a bucket of quicklime. I wondered with a chill of horror if it was Leis, and if anyone had performed the proper rites for him to be welcome in the afterlife.
There were no torches burning this time, and in plain daylight, baking under the morning sun, the pit was no longer so frightening. It was a small quarry whose walls had been consolidated with wooden beams here and there to serve as an arena. Nothing more, nothing less. Yesterday’s mud had dried into a cracked ground on which the bloodshed had left no trace. In the center, a group of men was busy training with wooden swords, hitting each other with grunts of exertion under the watchful eye of a bare-chested man whose long hair and braided beard I recognized.
His features were as inscrutable now as they’d been in the light of the torches. What struck me, though, were the ink lines vining up his chest, his arms and knotting into complex patterns all the way up his neck. Tattoos. Perhaps he came from those distant northern lands beyond the White Sea where people wore them. His skin wasn’t blue, though, which contradicted the account from one of the salt merchants who’d stayed overnight at our farm once. According to him, he had seen blue-skinned men with his own eyes there—some with lizard tails.
Maybe tattoos simply weren’t so rare among mercenaries. Victrix had one, too, peeking from under his cuirass on his nape, and looking around I realize
d that most men training in the pit wore at least some amount of ink on their skin. Words I couldn’t read, ugly mythical creatures and… well, a winged prick on a big guy’s leg—one of Picumnus’s symbols and, I’d heard, a powerful good luck charm with women.
Victrix’s shout sliced through my musing. “You’re all cunts!” I battled the urge to roll my eyes. What else was new? We were also bird shits, fuckers, molles, and so on… “But Irius and I are gonna make soldiers out of you!”
That caused a stir in our little band, and around us the constant clashing of wooden swords stopped. The other men watched us, curiosity and amusement playing over their sweat-soaked features. I feared we’d been brought here to get beaten up again, and all I hoped was that no one would die this time.
The man I now knew as Irius considered me with dispassionate brown eyes, his gaze stopping on my sword and satchel. “Put all that away.”
Feeling all eyes on me, I considered standing up to him but there was something inexplicably compelling about Irius’s deep voice and sparse words. It sounded ludicrous to trust him when he’d executed Leis without so much as a blink, yet my legs complied even as my brain debated whether to bite back. I didn’t know then that there existed men who could command without resorting to threats or insults.
I found a well-lit spot near the stone stairs. If anyone tried to take my things, I’d see them and be on them in the bat of an eye—provided I could still stand.
Victrix smirked but didn’t otherwise comment as he went to take an armful of rudis from a bucket sitting against the pit’s wall. He tossed them to the ground. “Pick yours.”
We all obeyed and stood there, the wooden swords hanging limply in our hands. What a legion we made…
Victrix raised his own sword—regrettably real—and pointed it at Irius’s chest, then his head. “Most of the men you’ll face will wear helmets and stand behind shields that are about two feet wide and three feet tall. What does that mean?”