For weeks now, the fortress had been sending up signals with smoke that spoke to the direness of circumstances within the city. Begging their fellow rebels to help. To rally and attack the legions from the rear. To do something, anything, because to surrender would mean being forced into indenture and to continue to hold out meant almost certain death.
Except the rebels had been hard hit this past year with the presence of six Empire legions in Bardeen. Attacking these two from the rear would only net casualties, so the rebels had attempted different tactics. Carina and Hecktor had infiltrated the legions’ civilian followers in an attempt to discover information that might help the fortress but had learned little. So when Silvara had arrived, having run away from her mother’s home on the coast in the hopes of joining the cause, they’d decided to try a different tactic.
“I’ll find a way to run into him again,” she said. “I’ll dress differently. Change my hair. I’ll try harder.”
“The boy’s no fool,” Carina scoffed. “If he thinks you’re trying to get into his bed, he’ll be suspicious of everything you say. Every action you make. This was our one chance and you failed. When Hydrilla falls beneath the Empire’s heels, the blame will be cast at your feet.”
“Easy, Carina,” Hecktor said. “It was always a plan with little chance for success. Silvara is not at fault.”
She was to blame. But so were they, because it had been a flawed plan to begin with. “Maybe next time you’ll see the merit of putting a knife in my hand instead of buckets,” she snapped back. “I was so close! I could have done it!”
Carina snorted. “Says the girl who doesn’t know the first thing about fighting and who has never killed a man.”
A fault not her own given she’d been forbidden to learn. And it was a weakness Silvara was erasing, for she took every opportunity to watch the legions train. Practiced their forms in her tent and when she was alone in the woods foraging. “You doubt my resolve? The lives of my father and brother are at stake, Carina. I wouldn’t hesitate.”
The rebel leader opened her mouth, but Hecktor beat her to it. “Your commitment is appreciated, Silvara. But while the loss of their legatus would be a blow to the Thirty-Seventh, it would solve none of our problems. It is the Twenty-Ninth’s legatus, Hostus, who commands this siege. And the only impact Marcus’s death would net is a promotion for his second. What we need is information from the inside.”
She knew that. Spirits help her, but she knew. And yet to strike a blow…
He waved a hand at her. “Go about your business, girl. If we have further need of you, we will come to you.”
Eyes burning with anger and shame, Silvara lifted her buckets and exited the tent, heading to the river. Because even if she was useless to the cause, she still needed to eat. Which meant she still needed to work. Which meant going back to scrubbing filth from the tunics and undergarments of her enemy, the smell of their sweat thick on her nose.
Exiting the camp, she kicked a rock and cursed loudly, watching as it rolled down the slope into the frigid river, where the water was turbid and white as it flew toward the drop a hundred paces away. The roar of the waterfall was loud even from a distance, and she’d been warned more than once that to go over would mean almost certain death. Especially given she couldn’t swim.
Just one of her many limitations.
Kicking another rock, she muttered a curse she’d heard one of the legionnaires use, her nails digging into her palms. Her dream was to fight alongside her father and brother, but they’d refused to teach her because they believed her too small. Too weak. Had instead sent her and her mother to work in a legion fortress on the southern coast, arguing that taking legion gold to fund the rebel cause was a fine thing.
Silvara knew the truth. The work was steady and safe and allowed Silvara to learn the Cel language as well as their ways. Except that only mattered if Bardeen finally conceded defeat, accepting its lot as an Empire province rather than a free nation. Which wasn’t a concession she was willing to make.
A trio of Twenty-Ninth passed, one of them whistling at her while the others laughed, and she wanted to turn around and spit at their feet. Wanted to snatch up one of their weapons and run them through, then to stand, watching them bleed out onto the ground they’d stolen from her people. I hate you! she silently screamed as she did none of those things. As she kept walking, her head down. I wish death upon you all!
And she intended to see it done, no matter what Carina or Hecktor said. She’d find a way.
Reaching the banks of the river, Silvara set one of her buckets on the ground, then gingerly picked her way toward the edge, the worn soles of her boots slipping and sliding on the ice. She lowered the bucket into the churning water, clenching her teeth as it soaked her hands, the force of it nearly pulling her off balance.
The bucket filled in a few seconds, and she heaved, trying to lift the heavy water. Her arms, weak from weeks of little food, trembled, the bucket caught in the current. It tugged her forward, and she sucked in an alarmed breath, equal parts terrified of falling in and of losing a tool of her trade she couldn’t afford to replace.
“I don’t think so,” she said between her teeth, putting her back into it.
Then her foot slipped on the ice.
Silvara shrieked as she pitched forward, but before she hit the deadly water, hands caught her around the waist, hauling her back. She landed on her bottom on the bank, her fingers still clamped around the handle of her bucket, frigid water spilling over her legs and boots.
“It’s a bit of a chilly day for a swim, don’t you think?” a male voice asked in Cel. And when she looked up, it was to find herself staring into the hazel eyes of the Thirty-Seventh Legion’s primus.
4
Agrippa
She was even prettier than he’d remembered.
Smiling as she stared up at him, he said, “I personally prefer a steaming hot tub and lavender-scented soap, but perhaps you’ve a stiffer constitution than I do.”
“I could have told you that, Agrippa,” Quintus called from farther up the bank. “You’re the only one in camp who needs warm wash water.”
“And that is why I’m the only one who doesn’t stink,” he retorted. “Soap lathers better in warm water. Isn’t that true?” He turned his face back to her. “Tell them and maybe they’ll change their habits. We share a tent, so you’d be doing me a significant favor.”
“Yes.” Her voice was wary. “It’s true.”
“I do love to be proven right.” He held out his hand, watching as she hesitated before taking it, her skin icy cold against his. Already she was shivering violently, the thin wool of her dress and her worn boots soaked with river water. The wind howled past them, and despite having a thick, fur-lined cloak, he felt the chill as he helped her up the slippery slope.
“You should get your water farther upstream where it doesn’t run as fast.” He took the bucket from her and filled it, as well as the other. “On the far side of the bridge.”
“Good advice.” Her teeth chattered so hard he could scarcely understand her. “My gratitude…” She trailed off, then said, “I don’t know what I should call you.”
“We can offer you some suggestions,” Quintus said, and Agrippa flipped his middle finger at his friend before saying, “Agrippa. Those jackasses are Quintus and Miki. They’re a bit simple, so feel free to disregard anything they say as total drivel.”
“Well met, Agrippa.” She gave him a strained smile, then reached out to take the buckets from him. Though how she intended to carry them all the way back to the camp, he didn’t know. Not only was she tiny, but like most of those living in the followers’ camp, she showed signs of starvation, and being currently underfed himself, he knew how it sapped strength.
“We’re going that way anyway,” he said. “I can carry them for you.”
She looked away, but he didn’t miss the flash of annoyance in her eyes. Like she hated the suggestion that she couldn’t do it, which
he respected. Then she said, “You can’t carry wash water for me.”
“Why?” he demanded. “You think I’m incapable of it? I know I’m running a bit lean these days, but that still hurts.”
“That’s not what I…” She trailed off, large brown eyes fixing on Quintus and Miki, who were howling with laughter. Then she rounded on him, teeth clattering as she said, “You’re mocking me!”
“It’s only mocking if it has cruel intent.” Agrippa rocked on his heels, trying not to grin. “Of course, if you really want to carry them, we will leave you to the task. Your call…”
She hesitated, then said, “Silvara.”
That it was a name nearly as lovely as her face was the first thought that came to his mind, but Agrippa bit his tongue and waited in silence while she considered the offer.
Silvara tucked her hands under her armpits, then looked him slowly up and down as though she weren’t freezing to death before saying, “I suppose you might manage it. Walk quickly, though. I’ve washing to do.”
“Yes, domina.” His heart skipped faster when she laughed, the sound as pure as the silver windchimes the Bardenese hung in the redwoods.
With Quintus and Miki trailing after them, they walked to the camp, passing a group of the Twenty-Ninth, who all lifted their eyebrows but mercifully said nothing. Although Agrippa had no doubt that word he’d been carrying laundry buckets would circulate through camp and that he’d hear about it from Marcus. And that what he’d hear would be something like, You are an officer of the Thirty-Seventh. Conduct yourself accordingly. As though Agrippa had conducted himself according to much of anything a day in his life.
“Where did you learn to speak Cel?” he asked, sweat beading on his spine, because the buckets were heavier than he cared to admit.
“I grew up in the town surrounding Illici,” she answered, naming the legion fortress on the coast. “One doesn’t get far if one doesn’t learn the Empire’s tongue, especially since the Cel don’t deign to learn ours.”
“I speak some.” In truth, he spoke Bardenese fluently, but he’d done enough spying over the years that the fact wasn’t something he’d admit freely.
“Only some?” Her gaze remained fixed on the path ahead of them. “That’s disappointing.”
“Why’s that? Do you have secrets to tell me that don’t translate?”
Silvara huffed out an amused breath, though it had a sharp edge to it. “No. It’s only that you look to have some of my country’s blood in you.”
It was forbidden to talk about what came before the legion. All second-born sons of the Empire were delivered to the gates of the fabled legion school the year they turned seven. To do otherwise was treason that saw parents hanging from the gallows. No one was exempt. Not even the sons of senators. Especially not the bastard sons of senators.
“I was born the day I walked through the gates of Campus Lescendor,” he intoned, repeating the phrasing they’d all been forced to repeat a thousand times to drill all thoughts of family and friends and the past from their heads. “The Empire is my father and my mother. The men of the Thirty-Seventh are my brothers. I am a legionnaire.”
She didn’t answer. Only kept walking.
The handles of the buckets cut into his palms as he warred with whether to risk saying more for the sake of keeping her interest. Especially as they passed into the camp, people around them on all sides. “I was born in Celendrial. My mother never spoke Bardenese to me, so what I know, I learned elsewhere.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No.” A lie, because he did remember his mother. Remembered her large brown eyes and long dark hair. Remembered the sweet sound of her voice when she’d sang to him. Remembered how he’d screamed and cried for her when his father’s men had taken him away, dumping him without ceremony at Lescendor’s gates. “But I’ve been hit on the head a lot, so my memory isn’t the best.”
They reached the large tent where the laundresses worked together, and he passed Silvara the buckets. “You better carry these in. I don’t do this for just anyone and I don’t want to stir up jealousy. Dissension in the ranks is never good.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “In the ranks of laundresses?”
“To underestimate them, and the destruction they might cause, would be folly. I will not be the cause of the Thirty-Seventh having to march naked.”
“A valid point. Winter is coming.” Taking the buckets from him, Silvara marched into the tent. Agrippa started to follow, but Quintus caught hold of his wrist, pulling him back.
“You’ve had your fun,” his friend said. “Let’s go back to camp.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. To sit in the damp around a campfire, knowing that it was only a matter of time until Grypus had his way. Having to keep that information to himself while surrounded by his men. By his friends… “You two go. I’ll come back in a bit.”
Quintus and Miki exchanged looks, the latter pulling off his helmet to scrub a hand through his short red hair, freckles bright against his pale skin. “That’s not a good idea, Agrippa. This is the Twenty-Ninth’s territory. They catch us messing around with their followers—especially the pretty ones—and we’ll pay for it.”
“The Twenty-Ninth can kiss my ass.” He was sick of being stuck under their control. Sick of the older legion dragging them down when they were supposed to be teaching them how to survive. “You two do what you want. I’m getting my laundry done.”
Turning his back on them, Agrippa stepped into the dim interior, the smell of lye soap slapping him in the face.
“Take a wrong turn, boy?” an old woman with a face like a prune asked, emaciated arms plunging up and down into a washtub filled with crimson fabric.
“He needs his clothes washed.”
Silvara reappeared from the entrance at the opposite side of the tent, and Agrippa caught sight of a small fire burning precious fuel, a kettle over top. She was still shivering violently, which was no wonder given it was almost as cold within as without. He opened his mouth to say that needs was a strong word that implied he was dirtier than he was, but the old woman said, “He’s Thirty-Seventh, girl. They do their own washing.”
“His coin spends as well as the Twenty-Ninth’s,” Silvara replied. “So quit griping, Agnes.”
“Oh, ho!” The ancient Bardenese woman cackled. “Silvara’s got fire on her tongue today. All right, boy. You want your clothes washed, hand them over.”
The realization that he’d not thought this plan through dawned on him, but he was committed now. Agrippa unfastened his cloak and swung it around Silvara’s shoulders, covering her like a tent. “If you could hold this for a moment.”
She frowned, but he didn’t fail to notice how she pulled it tight across her chest. Or how her shivers ceased.
The eight women in the room—each old enough to be his grandmother—stopped their scrubbing, smiles rising on their faces as he unbuckled his armor and carefully put it aside.
“You’re putting on quite the show, boy,” Agnes said. “Maybe we should be paying you.”
“Consider it a gift.” His cheeks were starting to burn, but he caught the hems of both the tunics he was wearing and pulled them upward and over his head. “A ray of sunshine on this dreary day.”
Agnes only whistled at him.
Freed of the garments, he found Silvara standing in front of him holding out a hand. “Give them over, then.”
Staring at the fabric, which was marked with sweat and dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood, Agrippa decided that this had not only been a bad plan, but potentially his worst ever. “Ahh, no. I’m afraid I’m really rather particular, so I’m going to err on the side of experience. Agnes, would you do me the honor?”
He held out the garment, but the old woman only pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m busy. We’re all busy, ’cept the girl. Give it to her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His teeth started to chatter. “Some of those stains ar
e stubborn and they’ll require skill.” He eyed the old woman’s arms, once again engaged plunging a garment up and down in the tub. “And…vigor. A quality you seem to have an abundance of, Agnes.”
“Such a sweet boy.” Agnes grinned, revealing teeth that were rotting where they weren’t missing. “Must still have some of my charm. All right, I’ll do it. But it will cost you double.”
Given he’d lost most of his money playing dice the prior night, Agrippa winced but nodded, digging the coins out of his belt pouch and handing them over.
“Now give me the rest of it.”
“Rest of what?”
“Your clothes, you daft child.” Agnes cast her eyes skyward. “Mercy, Silvara, but looks only go so far—this one’s a simpleton if I’ve ever met one. You could do better.”
“Undoubtedly,” Silvara agreed, and Agrippa turned in time to watch a smile grow on her face, her fingers burrowed into the fur of his cloak. “But he does have a few charms.”
Agrippa felt his heart speed a little faster, the thought of keeping that smile on her face worth potentially freezing his balls off. He unfastened the armor buckled over his shins and dropped it onto the pile with the rest, then pulled off his footwear. Hooking his thumbs over the woolen leggings he reluctantly wore in this cursed cold province, he tugged them off, and handed them to Agnes, his whole face on fire.
“It’s a bit brisk,” she said, giving him a grin and dropping his clothes into her washtub.
“Would you like your cloak, Agrippa?” Silvara asked. “While you wait?”
“No need.” His teeth were chattering so hard he swore he was going to crack them. “I’m quite comfortable, thanks.”
The women all cackled loudly as he retreated, leaning against a tent pole, watching the old woman do a far better job at his laundry than he ever did. She hung his clothes up to dry near the fire, which sadly raised another lack of foresight in this dreadful plan. “I’m not sure I really thought this through.”
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 3