Seed of Rage

by Camilla Monk

  He sighed. “What do they teach you on your farms?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on to explain, “He’s the First Legate of the Lorian army.”

  When my face remained blank, he added, “The commander of all the armies of the East, second only to emperor Varalius.”

  That sure sounded like a big fish, but I wasn’t here for that. “What’s that man’s name?” I insisted.

  “Why should I indulge you?” Clearchos asked, his scarred mouth stirring in a fruitful attempt to smile. “You, who I’m told intends to leave my service.”

  My spine went rigid. Who had told him this? Thurias? Or could it be Gemina? Why would she betray me? I raised my chin, trying my best to let none of my fear show. “Whoever told you that is lying. I wouldn’t have come here bargaining if I didn’t mean to serve you to the death.”

  As soon as he heard this, a hoarse chuckle shook his frame. “Bargain?”

  “I know you want me to train hard with Victrix,” I went on, locking my gaze on the wolf on his chest. “I can do that. But if I become a good soldier… I want something in return.”

  Clearchos leaned back in his seat. Leather squeaked as he crossed his legs, and his fingers stroked the bluish fur covering the armrests. Over and over. “I have nothing to offer to good soldiers but their pay and bread.”

  I took it to mean that my audience was over, but he kept staring at me with that scarred gray eye that wouldn’t blink, and I understood. “What about the best soldiers?” I asked. “Can they bargain?”

  His mouth twisted sideways, baring sharp teeth. He was grinning. “The best can have anything their hearts desire.”

  13

  I didn’t go to visit Nerie in Gemina’s tent for several days. I couldn’t face him when the memory of his tear-streaked cheeks remained branded into my mind and kept me up at night.

  I tried squeezing my eyes shut, I sparred with Victrix until I had no rage or energy left in me. Nothing worked, so I became used to that stain, bore it like everything else, with silent obstinacy. It helped that thanks to my deal with Clearchos, I now had a reason to train, something to look forward to. Come to think of it, it was the first time of my life that I had a proper goal and purpose—that could be why I stopped trying to escape.

  I still thought of ways to sneak past the guards as I fell asleep on my branch at night. I’d nod to myself and vow that tomorrow would be the day. Yet unlike my promise to Clearchos, this vow was an empty murmur, fog on a mirror. I had reached a point where I knew most of the camp like the back of my hand, and who could hold their wine and who couldn’t. I could have vanished after dark, hidden in the woods to never be seen again. But would my life have been any better as a lone girl roaming a war-torn province? Would anyone else ever look at me the way Clearchos did and think I was worthy of being trained by his best? Granted, I’d be rid of Victrix’s constant abuse, but who would I punch and strangle under the guise of sporting wrestling when anger buzzed in my skull and roared with the urge to claw its way out? Who else would get the best and worst of me, and come up with new ways to make me bite the pit’s dust day after day?

  Like the traveler who lies in the snow to never rise again, I settled in this comfortable hell, where Irius tied my legs to better teach me how to use my arms, where Victrix bruised my ribs, and Thurias never failed to serve us his unholy lentil soup at noon, only to sneak me white bread at nightfall. Through it all, my desire for freedom ebbed, or rather, my cage expanded until I could no longer see the bars.

  Some ten days after my arrival at the mine, I woke up at sunrise to a tune I’d begrudgingly gotten used to. “Get down here, birdshit!”

  I flung one of my legs off the branch and let it dangle with a yawn. It was too early even for the grilli to sing. Shrill birdcalls sliced the cool morning air. My limbs were rusty from sleep, my head buzzed unpleasantly, and that asshole Victrix wouldn’t leave. I climbed down groggily, only to be greeted by his practiced glare. “Gemina wants to see you. She needs to take your stitches off.”

  My stomach twisted with dread and, admittedly, hunger. “I’ll go see her later.”

  Victrix’s eyes narrowed. “Get it over with before we start training.”

  “Can I take a shit first, or are you going to stick your nose into that too?” I snapped. I almost regretted the words when I saw the way his jaw worked in rising irritation. I had gotten bold with him as of late, standing my ground whenever he insulted me—which was all the time.

  He breathed out his temper and waved to the dilapidated wooden shack standing away from the tents. “Be my guest.”

  I whirled around and headed to the latrines, my shoulders set in stiff dignity.

  Now, one might ask why a girl passing as a boy in a mercenary camp where brute strength was the only currency would take the risk to step into this supreme den of virility. The answer is: because an occasional visit to the shithole was, in fact, the safest way for me to get by without arousing suspicion.

  Privacy—or the lack thereof—was the biggest challenge I faced at the mine every day, second only to Victrix’s frequent and ill-concealed attempts to kill me during training. That I kept my tunic on at all times and didn’t wash save for a quick splash of water were no cause for suspicion; everyone around here agreed that soap and combs were for the whores. Living in a camp with two thousand men, however, I quickly learned that a considerable amount of masculine politics took place in the latrines. Pissing there was, of course, out of the question—that, I did in the woods, preferably at night, crouched in the bushes and ready to spring up at the slightest creak of a boot crushing a dead twig. My tunic was, however, long enough to take a shit undetected among my peers.

  But it never got easier. As always, my heart beat a little harder as I neared the entrance and the stench of rotting waste hit my nostrils. I tried breathing through my mouth as I pushed the rickety door—hell, even horse dung smelled better than this. I scanned the two long wooden seats pierced with half a dozen holes each. Three guests in attendance, one already wiping his hairy ass with a sponge hastily tied to a wooden stick. That’s why I preferred to come early in the morning: fewer men, clean sponges. I was used to wiping with leaves, and I couldn’t figure who had ever thought it a good idea to share a sponge for that.

  The assembly greeted me with nods and grunts while the one who was done with his business dropped the sponge stick back into the bucket of water where it belonged. It landed with a loud rattle that I felt in in my bones. I walked to the seat, careful to keep my lap safely covered by my tunic while I pulled my trousers down. I maintained stern eye contact with my two companions all throughout—the slightest hint of hesitation or shyness would invite a leery grin and a wager on the size of my cock. Any suggestion that I was a mollis would require I pull up my pants lighting fast and draw my sword to demonstrate the contrary. I took slow breaths and kept a hand close to the hilt.

  Across from me, a youth with a broken nose said, “Been hot lately. Heard Gemina sacrificed a dog to Voltur ‘cause we need a lil’ rain.”

  His neighbor nodded, his head bobbing like a pecking bird’s. “Dogs work great.” His bulging brown eyes set on me, clearly expecting some sort of input on the matter.

  “My village was near the lake, and we had a river too, so we dug a ditch to bring water from there to our field,” I explained, reaching for the sponge. I swallowed hard and contained my shiver of disgust as I dragged it between my butt cheeks under their attentive gazes. I would need to find some leaves fast to wipe again.

  The one with the broken nose grabbed the sponge stick right after I’d dropped it in the bucket. I reached under my tunic to give a final tug at my belt and dashed out of the shack while he wiped and told his companion that gutting a bitch when the moons were at their closest worked best.

  Was there any place in the world where Victrix wouldn’t tail me? I had the impression that his stalking had gotten worse lately. As expected, he was here, leaning against a tree
with a lopsided smile, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt. Not for the first time I wondered just how much Clearchos valued my budding skills, for his hound to track my every move like that…

  “I’ll go see Gemina. I’ll join you in the pit once I’m done,” I muttered, hurrying past him.

  He shrugged. “Works for me. For every hour I spend waiting, you’ll run a hundred laps.”

  My shoulders slumped but I didn’t lash back. There was no point; even if I made it back on time, he’d find some other way to torment me: my arms still hurt from yesterday’s push-ups.

  •♦•

  I’d managed to ignore the knots in my stomach until now, but when I saw the shell curtain, my courage wavered. I knew that Nerie no longer left Gemina’s tent, and if he did, he mustn’t go very far; no one had seen him outside since that night. I needed to see that he was all right, but at the same time my skin crawled at the idea of facing him—maybe because it’d be like facing myself, in a way. My hand rose to part the curtain, gliding against the smooth shells hesitantly.

  “Come in.”

  I heeded Gemina’s call and stepped inside. She was crushing seeds in a mortar while reading instructions on a parchment. My heart squeezed in joy and relief when I saw Nerie sitting in a corner, chatting quietly with a blonde girl. Her button nose and big brown eyes were familiar—she was the one Thurias had sent to give us water when we were in the cage.

  My ears perked up when he asked her, “When was the last time?”

  Her mouse face bunched as she whispered a reply I couldn’t understand.

  Nerie frowned and leaned in to whisper something back in her ear. She nodded.

  “He’s learning fast.” Gemina’s voice snapped me out of my daze.

  “You’re teaching him witchcr—medicine?” I asked.

  “I need the help. Now come here.” She motioned to the colorful curtain barring access to her sleeping quarters.

  Nerie looked up. Our eyes met, and my cheeks grew hot from the shame that wouldn’t leave me, but also because he didn’t know I was a girl and I wondered what he might think of this second visit of mine to Gemina’s private quarters…

  Gemina combed a golden curl behind her ear and tilted her head expectantly. I sent Nerie a quick nod of acknowledgment and followed her, my eyes glued to the floor.

  After the curtain rustled close, she flicked her wrist at my tunic. “Just take it off, no need to play pretend.”

  I sat on the bed and undid the leather lace tying the shoulder—nothing more. “Someone could come in.”

  “Very well.” She cleaned my skin with a damp rag that smelled faintly of wine and herbs before taking a pair of tiny scissors from a leather pouch. “I thought you’d have left already,” she noted, while tugging at the first stitch.

  The section of thread came out with a prickle of pain, along with a brownish scab, but I barely felt it. I was entirely focused on her words, like an echo to Clearchos’s blunt accusation. You, who I’m told intends to leave my service. Had she been the one to tell him that? Why would she sell me, if she truly meant to protect me? “Clearchos gave me good reasons to stay,” I told her.

  “So I heard… He was very pleased about that little deal you made with him. He’s starting to think you were sent to him by the gods.”

  So, she knew about that too. What else had he confided in her? “I don’t think the gods have anything to do with that. He just promised me something I want, and I’ll do whatever it takes to earn it.”

  She dropped another snip of thread in a small wooden bowl with a snort. “You shouldn’t listen to him. Leave. I don’t want to have to treat you after you’ve been raped by a hundred men. Do you want me to tell you about—”

  Nerie. “No. If it comes to this, I’ll just kill myself.” A shiver of nausea snaked through me. I’d rather die. I hoped that Servilius would be the last man to ever touch me. No, I vowed he would be.

  She gave a sharp tug at the thread that had stifling a hiss of pain. “Everyone says that. But most of us lack the courage to take their own life.”

  “I’m strong,” I retorted. “I killed Fishtail.”

  “You’re an arrogant little turd. You and Victrix could be twins.” It was the first time I picked up an undercurrent of anger in Gemina’s voice. The same anger that oozed from Victrix whenever he mentioned her.

  “Do you know him well?” I asked.

  “He’s a cretin swinging a sword, like the rest of you.”

  “Why do you dislike him? He’s no worse than the rest of the men,” I countered. Even as I said this, though, I knew it wasn’t true. There was something about Victrix; his anger ran deep, and only blood could placate it. I felt it when we fought, that tension thrumming close to the surface under our skins, the madness and the joy in his eyes. Mirroring mine.

  Gemina went silent, working on the remaining stitches none too gently. Once she was done, she wiped a few drops of blood that were blooming along the jagged scar. “Good as new,” she said tightly.

  “Thank you.”

  I fastened my tunic and as I was about to leave, her fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Constanter.”

  Goose bumps prickled up my forearm in response. “Yes?”

  “Do you have a rag, for your menses?” she whispered.

  I squirmed away from her, freeing my wrist. “It’s not been a problem yet.” But her mere mention of the word summoned a new and monstrous fear, that made my temples buzz painfully. I hadn’t given much thought to the child who might grow from Servilius’s rotten seed until now, but if I didn’t bleed soon… As Gemina moved away to search a chest near her bed my eyes fluttered shut in silent horror. I’d kill myself for sure if it came to this. I fought a wave of nausea at the thought of my body being invaded by another for the second time, my belly swelling uncontrollably.

  “Constanter?” I blinked out of my nightmare to see Gemina handing me a square of folded linen, her brow wrinkled in concern. “Here.”

  My cheeks burning with shame, I took the proffered rag and tucked it under my tunic. “I need to go to training.”

  “Suit yourself.” Gemina sighed.

  On my way out, I found Nerie poring over one of Gemina’s parchments. The mousy girl was gone; in her place, was an older one with hollow cheeks, who dozed on his pallet. He paused in his studying to look at me. An uneasy smile tugged at his lips, and I felt my heart being ripped out of my chest. Even then, a part of me already knew the two of us were drifting down different paths. I tried to smile back, but it didn’t feel right—more like a wince. Silence stretched between us. I wanted to go, but I figured if I didn’t speak now, I’d never muster the courage again, and I needed to tell him this.

  “I shouldn’t have run away,” I murmured.

  Nerie paled, a sudden pain weighing on his features. The parchment slipped from his fingers and landed silently on his lap.

  “But I’m gonna make it up to you. I’m gonna fix this.”

  His features pinched in incomprehension; I ran out of the tent before he could say a word. I knew it could never be fixed, that anything I did would be for me, not for him. I just didn’t want to hear him say it.

  •♦•

  That night, after our training, I went to piss in the woods, and found a little blood in my loincloth. In my mind, I thanked Meditrina, and Gemina too for the rag. But after I’d rinsed myself in a stream, my hands were shaking, and in the safe cradle of darkness, I cried.

  14

  Time trickled inexorably—but you don’t know that when you’re young. What I knew was that days became weeks, and then months. The nights in my tree became cooler, until one morning I woke up in the dark, my limbs cold and stiff enough that I considered climbing down and joining the others in the tent. Or not. Sleeping in the tent would mean becoming part of Felus’s reluctant herd, and what used to be a matter of survival had turned into a question of honor; I wasn’t one of them. I wrapped my cover tighter around mys
elf and wiped icy dew from my face. Dawn would come soon, and with it a little warmth.

  I waited, watching as the indigo sky caught fire and the sun peeked at the hem of the horizon like a white-hot coal. Summer had ended, which meant I was sixteen. More than old enough to find a husband, I thought with a derisive smile.

  Since Victrix had lost the tiresome habit of waking me up with pebbles, I relished the simple privilege of being able to climb down my tree and go relieve myself in the woods undisturbed. I pulled down my trousers, exposing my buttocks to the morning cold with a tired yawn. My infrequent visits to the latrines were a thing of the past, owing to a radical change in strategy. I had noticed that Clearchos and his personal guard never entered the stinky shack, never bathed with the men in the river, and generally didn’t mingle with the scum; I decided to imitate them. I was, after all, Fishtail’s killer and Clearchos’s most promising recruit. I wagered that my absence would be perceived as a display of gravitas rather than the suspicious dealings of a mollis.

  It worked. The more aloof I became, the brighter my star. My rare presence around campfires was met with wary curiosity. New recruits, barely escaped from the pit, lowered their eyes when I walked past them. And if they didn’t, I glared them into submission like Victrix did.

  After I’d pulled up my trousers, I went to splash my face with a little water from the stream. I kept my ablutions to a minimum and decided that my tunic could wait for another few days until I washed it and wore my new brown one instead—I’d recently procured it from another soldier in exchange for the finest piece from my rock collection; he said that it was cornalyn and it’d sell for a good price once he cut it right.

  Chewing on a piece of bread, I made my way toward the pit while the rest of the camp awoke grunting, coughing, and, for some of us, bleating. The ones who’d drunk too much last night were easy to spot; they were bickering over a bucket of water to splash their faces with, yesterday’s empty jugs lying scattered in the ashes of their dead fire.