“Yes. Grypus’s wife is arriving and I am to greet her.” He waited for an inevitable quip, but Agrippa only nodded and held the reins while Marcus mounted, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Agrippa was clearly angry.
Which shouldn’t matter. Agrippa had broken legion laws—laws Marcus was bound to uphold—and the punishment was standard. To not have punished him would have shown favoritism, and it would’ve encouraged others to engage in similar behavior. A hundred reasons ran through his head for why he shouldn’t feel guilty, and yet the sentiment remained. Annoyed with himself, he said, “I want to get this over with, so speed would be appreciated.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Agrippa said, passing the order to the fifty of his men riding escort. The party broke into a fast canter, heading south.
The speed of their travel made conversation impossible, everyone focused on keeping their mounts steady on the muddy road even as they watched the surrounding forests for opportunistic rebels. Even so, Marcus found himself grateful when the walls of Melitene appeared through the trees, for he’d spent the majority of the ride stewing over whether he should say something in an attempt to ease the friction between him and Agrippa.
The gates to the fortress opened, men of the Ninth saluting him as he passed into the familiar interior. The centurion on duty approached as Marcus was handing off his reins. “Legatus? We were expecting the proconsul.”
“He’s occupied and sent me in his stead.”
A faint smile rose to the older man’s face. “I’ve heard of what occupies him. Virile old bastard.”
Marcus knew he should reprimand the man for speaking so of a senator, but he was in no mood for it. “Has she arrived?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet. But one of her servants came through the xenthier already and informed us she’ll be here within the hour.”
A thousand things to do, and he was going to spend his day waiting on a senator’s wife. Exhaling, Marcus strode into the fortress, Agrippa following at his heels, having said not a word beyond orders to his men since they’d left camp. His silence was disconcerting in its rarity, and Marcus found himself wishing the primus would crack a joke or say something inappropriate, even if it was at Marcus’s expense. Because anything would be better than this.
They passed through the inner gates, and his eyes went immediately to the black stem of crystal jutting out the side of a large outcropping of rock. About as thick as his arm, three feet of it was exposed, and it glittered in the faint sunlight. A dozen men of the Ninth stood on guard around it, weapons facing inward, for this was a terminus.
Stopping outside of the perimeter, Agrippa at his left, Marcus again debated if he should say something.
You could apologize. He dismissed the idea the second it materialized, because one did not apologize for deserved discipline.
You could tell him it was past time someone commented on Carmo’s stench. He tossed that idea aside with equal speed, for it would only encourage a repeat of events, and that was the last thing the legion needed.
You could tell him you heard it was a good fight. He frowned, that idea having merit given Agrippa’s endless quest for reputation. But it felt off, because he knew that impressing his fellows hadn’t been the reason Agrippa had picked the fight.
Nothing Marcus came up with felt like the right thing to say. So he settled on stewing in silence, breathing in the breeze that emanated from the xenthier crystal. It was scented with dust and heat and Cel cooking. Smells from a fortress a thousand miles away transported by the xenthier just as it did anything else that touched its tip. It smelled like home, despite it having been years since the Thirty-Seventh had been in Celendor itself for any length of time, yet Marcus felt no nostalgia. All his demons lived in the heart of the Empire, and life was better far away from them.
“Sir?” Agrippa said abruptly, and Marcus twitched, startled. “Yes?”
“Might I ask a question of some importance?”
Marcus’s stomach dropped at the seriousness of Agrippa’s tone. And mentally, he prepared a dozen responses to defend his choices after the brawl. “Of course.”
Agrippa frowned at the xenthier. “Do you think that if someone on guard duty at the genesis farts that we’d smell it here?”
The question was so unexpected that Marcus found himself lost for a response. “I… I… I suppose it would stand to reason, though I’ve never seen it documented. Certainly, there have been complaints of other foul odors emanating from other terminus stems.”
Agrippa pursed his lips, giving a slow nod. “Would have to be sustained, I imagine. No one is going to report a passing whiff.”
Marcus struggled not to laugh. This was Agrippa’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness—the ability to read a moment and know exactly what to say to diffuse tensions, even if it was an inane conversation entirely inappropriate for two legion officers to have. “Agreed. Sustained and concentrated enough to note, else the fortress’s commander would be inundated with endless reports on smells.”
“Would make an interesting experiment. The collegium is always interested in our discoveries, after all.”
Marcus huffed out a breath of amusement, imagining submitting that report. “You giving up on military fame in favor of publication?”
“Never.” A slight smirk rose on Agrippa’s lips. “But my prose is good enough that the world deserves to read it, and it would impress the girls to say my findings were kept in Celendrial’s Great Library. I’d be willing to include your name too, sir, if you’d give the order for men to participate.”
“I am not giving that order.” Marcus’s eyes flicked to one of the Ninth on duty, the older man fighting a grin. “But if the men on duty were to eat an abundance of beans in advance of their shift, it isn’t as though I’d be able to stop them from passing wind.”
“Fair.” Agrippa shifted his weight. “Of course, there’d be one idiot who’d get too enthusiastic and sit on the stem, which would result in him having to explain to those who’d endured the stench for however long just what the Thirty-Seventh was up to.”
“And I’d have to pay for his transport back.” Marcus stopped trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking. “And then I’d have to listen to the explanation of what happened and come up with a punishment. A punishment that would need to be documented and submitted. This is a flawed plan that you propose, Agrippa.”
The primus looked sideways at him, hazel eyes gleaming bright. “So we’re doing it, right?”
“It would put the Thirty-Seventh in the running for the best prank of the year.” Marcus rubbed his chin. “Who is the current leader?”
“Thirty-First, I believe. They rigged a false floor in Senator Saturinius’s private latrine, though it came back to haunt them. They were on water rations, so they were stuck with his stink for close to a week. Thankfully the senator apparently still believes himself the victim of termites.”
“Good, but unoriginal.” Marcus eyed the xenthier stem, his mind filling with possibilities. “I think we can trump it.”
They returned to silence, but it was no longer uncomfortable as they waited in the cold air, inhaling the smells of home.
Then a man appeared from nowhere. He stumbled away from the stem, blinking wildly, then his eyes focused on the legionnaires facing him and he straightened. “The domina is ready to travel,” he said. “We will begin with her personal effects so as to be prepared to receive her in comfort.”
“Hopefully she travels lighter than her husband,” Agrippa muttered.
False hopes, as for the next hour, he and Agrippa watched chest after chest of belongings appear from the xenthier’s tip, servants madly racing to move them out of the way before more arrived. Then it was furniture, the woman apparently bringing an entire villa’s worth of belongings to decorate her husband’s tent to her standards. Crate after crate of food and wine, four frantic horses that went bolting every which way until the servants caught them, a silk-dr
aped litter, a bathtub, and it went on and on, the courtyard nearly full to the brim.
Then the woman herself appeared.
Unlike the majority of her servants and guards, Lucretia Grypus did not stumble as the xenthier spit her out into the courtyard, only strode away from the crystal as though she owned the fortress, scowling at Marcus as he approached.
“Welcome to Melitene,” he said. “I’m—”
“Where is my husband?” She shoved past him, shouting loudly, “Plotius? Plotius! Where are you? This journey has been the worst sort of misery. It took hours of watching my things shoved across the ground into the xenthier and I’m sure half of everything is ruined. I’m filthy and starved and I need a glass of wine. Plotius!”
Wincing at the shrillness of her voice, Marcus said, “Your husband sends his regrets, but he was unable to come to meet you.”
Lucretia rounded on him. “And you are?”
“Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh.”
“Ah, the prodigy.” She looked him up and down. “I thought you’d be taller.”
Marcus knew that if he turned around he’d find Agrippa barely containing his laughter, so he stood his ground. “The proconsul suggests you might be more comfortable in Melitene. It’s a proper fortress with direct access to supplies from Celendor, and—”
“Yes, I’m sure Plotius has given you any number of reasons to fill my ears with as to why I shouldn’t join him,” she interrupted. “Spare me the sound of your voice, boy, and get my caravan underway.”
Shit. If he arrived back at camp with this woman, Grypus would make him pay for it.
Then from behind him, Agrippa began to cough. Not a little cough, but the loud barking noise of someone at risk of losing a lung. Alarmed, Marcus turned to see the primus resting his hands on his knees while he choked and gagged, spitting phlegm onto the ground.
Then he gave Marcus a meaningful wink.
“Get back,” Marcus shouted at him. “Don’t be spreading your disease to the quality, you fool!”
As Agrippa staggered against the wall, Marcus turned to Lucretia. The statuesque blond woman eyed Agrippa with alarm that was no doubt increased by the primus’s bruised and swollen face. “What’s wrong with him?” she demanded.
“It’s of no consequence,” he said. “Only a flux that is passing through camp. Nothing to concern yourself over. I’ll arrange for your things to be loaded—”
“A flux?” Her voice went up several octaves.
“Yes. With the cold and the damp it spreads quickly, but most recover. We bury the bodies far away from camp and we’ll keep the sick well away, you have my word.”
She watched Agrippa, who was still carrying on his performance, with growing horror, then said, “I’ve reconsidered. I shall remain in Melitene.”
“But—”
“I’ve made my decision.” Whirling away, she shouted at the servants. “Draw me a bath. I need this filth washed off me.”
Marcus watched her disappear inside, surrounded by a flurry of servants, then he turned to Agrippa. “Can you manage the ride back?”
“A bit of wine before we go would—”
“Nice try.” They strode out to where the horses and the rest of the escort waited. As he mounted, Marcus said, “That was a masterful performance.”
Agrippa gave him a sweeping bow. “In another life, I could have been an actor, my performances are so nuanced. Perhaps we might consider forming a troupe within the Thirty-Seventh so others might be treated to my skill.”
“Not a chance.”
Laughing, they rode out the gates and hit the road at a gallop, heading north to camp. It was only when they could see Hydrilla looming in the distance that Marcus drew in his mount, motioning Agrippa over. They rode next to each other for a time, breath misting in the cold air, and then Marcus found himself saying, “I know why you picked a fight with Carmo.”
“Yeah, because I told you.”
Casting a sideways glance at Agrippa, who was staring between his horse’s ears, he said, “What you told me was bullshit. Carmo set his eyes on that pretty laundress and you decided to play hero, am I right?”
Agrippa was silent, then he lifted one shoulder. “You know what he’s like.”
He did. If Carmo had been one of his men, Marcus would have seen him hanged a long time ago. “It was the decent thing to do. You’ve my respect for it, even if I can never say so officially.”
Agrippa turned to look at him, eyes filled with surprise. Then they narrowed. “I sense a but.”
They were almost to the gates of camp, so anything that needed to be said had to be said now. “Don’t pursue it, Agrippa. Don’t see her anymore. Because I don’t want to have to punish you for taking it too far.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Agrippa answered. “She’s nothing to me but a pretty face and I like variety in my life.”
He was lying.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do the right thing, so Marcus didn’t push. Instead he said, “Thanks for your help today,” and rode toward his tent.
8
Agrippa
Don’t pursue it.
Marcus’s words repeated through Agrippa’s head as he and his friends shoveled their rations down their throats, his eyes on the darkening skies. There was part of him that knew he should listen. Not only because Marcus was his commander, but because it was good advice. Yet there was another part of him that objected to being so restricted. Nearly every aspect of his life was governed by legion law, and Agrippa resented the notion that who he did or did not speak to during his free time was under equal scrutiny.
Especially given there was no cause for concern. She was just a pretty girl, and he’d kissed plenty of pretty girls without ever looking back. Why Marcus thought this time he’d take it too far was beyond him and Agrippa found himself railing against the threat of punishment. And the best way to do that was with defiance.
“I don’t want to go out,” Miki groaned. “My ass hurts from riding, my back itches, and I’m tired.”
“Sleep when you’re dead,” Agrippa sang, then leaned back so his head was in Yaro’s lap. “Don’t you dare cut me. I don’t want to look like I can’t manage a proper shave.”
“You can’t,” his second answered. “That’s why you always make me do it for you.”
“It’s his Cel blood.” Miki flopped on his back. “Wants to be served.”
Closing his eyes, Agrippa said, “Quintus is of purer stock than I am. You did warm that water, didn’t you, Yaro?”
“Yes, domina. Would you like me to buff your nails next?”
“Toenails, too. They’re looking abused these days.”
“There’s no amount of coin that will see me touching your feet.”
“My feet are beautiful.”
Miki said, “Quintus is good plebeian stock, which means he’s useless but not quite as useless as a patrician bastard like you.”
Agrippa winced, the soap stinging the scrape on his cheek. “Bastard being the operative word, boys.” He didn’t particularly like discussing his heritage, which meant his friends frequently brought it up.
“Do you remember how fancy he talked when we started at Lescendor?” Yaro scraped the razor along his cheek. “And the tantrums because he didn’t like the food.”
“Or the texture of the linens.”
“Or the smell of the barracks.”
“Or having to clean up after himself.”
“Shush, now.” Agrippa opened one eye to glare at them. “I’m feeling abused. You are all terrible friends. I’m going to move into a different tent.”
They laughed, then Yaro scrubbed the soap from his face. “All five of the hairs that make up your beard have been vanquished.”
“It’s seven hairs, and you know it!” Agrippa shouted, then rolled, water and soap and razor going flying as the four of them wrestled, eventually finding their way into their gear and staggering out of their tent. Only once a fortnight did they get
an evening of proper leisure, and no one at the gates questioned as they strode out and down the hill to the other camp, bickering and bantering and shoving until they reached the tents.
“We’ll come get you, all right?” Quintus said as they approached the laundresses’ tent. “Don’t even think about wandering about alone. Carmo’s got a knife with your name written on it.”
Don’t see her again.
Shoving aside the echo of Marcus’s voice, Agrippa gave them a mocking salute. Then, his heart galloping with anticipation, he ducked inside the tent.
The smell of soap filled his nose, and his eyes went immediately to where a candle burned. Agnes sat on a stool next to it, darning a tunic. “You’re late, boy.”
Leaning back out of the tent, Agrippa eyed the sky and then stepped back in. “I am not. You really—”
He lost his train of thought as Silvara stepped in the rear of the tent. Her dark hair hung long and loose down her back, the draft catching at her curls and sending them floating out behind her. The candlelight illuminated the rich brown of her skin, reflecting off her large dark eyes that drew him down into their depths. She wore the same dress as she usually did, but rather than being laced up to almost beneath her chin, it was loose, revealing the delicate lines of her throat.
“I wondered if you’d come,” she said, setting a steaming kettle on the table and putting a tiny sachet of some sort of herb inside for tea. “There are other entertainments in this camp.”
“Well… I…” He struggled to form a cohesive sentence. “Here I am.”
Agnes cackled, snapping him out of his stupor.
“You know,” he said to her, “You really shouldn’t stitch in such poor lighting. It’s bad for the eyesight.”
“You know,” Agnes countered, “that not finishing work for Empire boys on time is bad for one’s longevity.”
“A fair point.” He watched her work for a few moments, then shook his head. “I can’t allow this. Hand it over.”
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 6