“Why are you here?”
She jumped, her eyes snapping open, certain she’d see accusation. Certain he knew exactly what she’d been sent to accomplish.
Instead she saw a soft sort of wonder in his eyes, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and he said, “What’s a girl like you doing on the edge of a battleground? What are you doing following around the foulest legion in the Empire?” He shook his head. “It’s not right. You deserve better than this, Silvara.”
He spoke to her not in Cel, but in Bardenese, her native tongue rolling off his with only the faintest of accents. Another surprise, and it occurred to her that this was what she liked best about him: the fact that she couldn’t predict him and the thrill that came along with it.
Realizing she hadn’t answered, she said, “Fate brings us where we are meant to be.”
“Why could you possibly be meant to be here? What good can come of it?”
A question with so many answers, none of them certain. “Time will tell.”
Agrippa blinked, his eyes refocusing, and he straightened. “Time. Shit. I need to get back to camp before shift changes or I’ll be stuck out all night. We need to go.”
He swiftly shoved the remains of the food and wine into a sack, then kicked dirt and sand over the fire until it was only glowing embers. Pulling on his cloak, he took her by the hand, leading her unerringly through the darkness and back to her camp.
On the outskirts, he pulled her to a stop in the shadows before pushing the sack of food into her hands. Pulling her close, he lowered his head to kiss her lips. “Thank you.”
“For what?” she asked, looking at the precious food that would be enough to feed all the laundresses tomorrow and maybe the day after.
“Everything,” he answered, and then disappeared into the night.
14
Marcus
“Sorry for the interruption, sir, but the proconsul wishes to speak with you. You are to attend him in his pavilion immediately.”
Marcus looked up to see one Grypus’s guards, who were all men of the Ninth. “His pavilion?” Marcus had not been inside those tents since the camp had been first constructed, all of Grypus’s wagons of necessities having arrived in advance of the man himself.
“Yes, sir. And you are to come alone, sir.”
There was no declining the request, so Marcus rose and accepted his heavy cloak from Amarin before stepping out into the cold night air. The older legionnaire said nothing as they moved through the quiet camp. The only sounds were the few gatherings around fires, nearly everyone who wasn’t on duty having found their bedrolls.
Grypus’s pavilion, however, burned bright with lamp light, the cost of the oil the man went through on a daily basis impressive only when not compared to the cost of the wine he consumed. More of the Ninth stood in a perimeter around the crimson-and-gold structure, all of them appearing grim and watchful, though Marcus’s practiced eye told him they were cold and bored.
A servant greeted him at the entrance, a skinny old man who oversaw all of the proconsul’s other servants and the running of his household, such as it was. He silently accepted Marcus’s cloak, handing it off to another servant before motioning for Marcus to follow him inward.
It was like stepping back into Celendor, the tent spacious and luxurious with expensive furniture and thick carpets and enough braziers to turn the interior almost balmy. Perfumed oils burned in sconces, masking the scent of the camp with jasmine, and somewhere within, a musician played.
The servant held aside a curtain, and Marcus passed into a large chamber to find Grypus sprawled across a couch, one of his female companions rubbing his feet with oils while another fed him grapes.
“Proconsul.” Marcus inclined his head. “You wished to see me?”
“I did, yes.” Grypus waved away the women, sitting upright even as a third approached with a cup of wine. “Get the legatus one, too. Give him a taste of something finer. Sit, boy. Looking up at you makes my neck ache and I’ve enough aches as it is. Cursed cold province.”
Though he didn’t care for drink, Marcus accepted the golden cup from the woman and took a polite sip while he waited for the man to speak.
“I witnessed the day’s events. Heard your man’s accusations,” Grypus finally said, eyeing Marcus over his cup. “Any truth to it?”
This was dangerous ground, especially given that he could have no expectation of the proconsul keeping any of this conversation in confidence. “It is a difficult thing to prove, one way or another.”
Grypus snorted, then took a sip from his wine. “You’re always so cautious, Marcus. Which is a fine quality but there are moments when one must be bold! Take action!” He pumped his hand in the air. “That, you’ve yet to learn.”
“As you say, Proconsul.”
“Hostus claims there are a good many things you’ve left to learn. That the Thirty-Seventh has yet to learn. That you should spend another year under the guidance of the Twenty-Ninth. What say you to that?”
Marcus took another sip of his wine, buying himself time. “It’s true that we’ve much to learn, Proconsul. But false that we’ve anything left to learn from them. I’d suggest that Hostus’s recommendation serves the Twenty-Ninth’s ends, not ours.”
Grypus cackled wildly, motioning for the woman to fill their cups again. “Let’s speak plainly, boy: Hostus is a sadistic prick who is in over his head with this fortress but refuses to admit it. If he knew a way to crack Hydrilla, he’d have done so by now.”
“It is a difficult mission. And you’ve heard my thoughts on the matter, so I’ll not voice them again.”
The proconsul’s smile fell away. “I’m not interested in the things you’ve said, boy. I’m interested in what you’ve left unsaid.”
Rising to his feet, Grypus circled the room. “I’ve seen the way you look at Hydrilla, Marcus. Like a puzzle to be cracked. You know how to do it: you just don’t want to.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Marcus’s spine, but he said nothing as the man circled him.
“What’s less clear are your reasons for holding back. Is it that you’re sick of Hostus taking credit for your strategies? Is it that you’re lazy and would rather watch the Bardenese starve than fight them? Is it that you haven’t the balls to give orders that result in casualties? These are the questions I ask myself.” Grypus leaned down next to him, breath hot against Marcus’s ear. “Do you want to know what I concluded?”
Marcus didn’t answer.
“Over and over again, you’ve pressed for allowing them to surrender. And I think it’s because if they surrender, they’ll be indentured. Whereas if they are defeated, they’ll be slaughtered. And you don’t want all that Bardenese blood on your hands.”
His heart skipped, then raced, but Marcus kept his expression neutral. “With respect, Proconsul, my hands have been red for a long time now. I care only for achieving results with the least amount of cost in Empire assets.”
Grypus huffed out a breath, crossing back over to recline again on his couch. “You would’ve made an excellent politician, boy. Almost a shame you weren’t born first rather than second, else you’d have risen high in Celendrial. If your blood is as blue as I suspect it is, you might have risen to the very top.”
If only you knew, Marcus thought, but said, “My blood is the same color as every man in the Thirty-Seventh’s.”
“And it is blood that will be spilled if you don’t serve my will.”
Anger twisted through Marcus’s veins, but he hadn’t gotten this far in life by allowing his emotions to dictate his actions.
“These are your options, Legatus.” Grypus drained his cup. “You either come up with a strategy to crack Hydrilla’s defenses or I’ll recommend that the Thirty-Seventh spends another year under Hostus’s nurturing command. And I think we both know your legion won’t survive it.”
His men’s lives or the lives of everyone living in that fortress. Families. Children. All who’d f
all beneath legion blades when those walls fell, the Empire granting no mercy.
“What will it be, Legatus?”
The Thirty-Seventh had put their lives in his hands when they’d chosen him to be their commander. His duty was to them, no matter the cost. “If I do this, you must give your word that the Senate will grant the Thirty-Seventh the status it deserves as an autonomous legion. And I also want your word that we’ll be stationed somewhere far away from the Twenty-Ninth.”
Grypus lifted his cup. “Done. Anything else?”
“New kits for my men. Half of them barely fit in their armor.”
“Granted. And I assume there is one more request…”
Blowing out a long breath, Marcus nodded. “I want to command the battle.”
Silence.
“Better that you quietly provide the plan and Hostus executes it, thus his pride remains intact.”
“No.” It felt like snakes were twisting in Marcus’s guts, because he had no right to refuse an order from this man. He was the property of the Senate, required to bend to its will or meet the gallows, and in this place, Grypus was the Senate’s voice. But there were laws and then there were politics, and the two rarely marched hand in hand.
“As proconsul, I can grant you this authority,” Grypus said slowly, his brow furrowed. “But it will have consequences, you must know that. If Hostus murders you in one of his rages, I will see him hanged for it, but that won’t bring you back from the dead.”
To protect his men, he’d bear the consequences. Would bleed for them, if that was what it took. “Those are my terms.”
“Then we have a deal.” Straightening, Grypus leaned across the table to clink their cups together, and Marcus drank deeply though he barely tasted the wine. “We have a deal,” he repeated.
“The Bardenese rebels are about to learn the price of defiance.” Grypus’s eyes were full of feral delight. “Tell me, how are we going to achieve our ends?”
“We are not. I am. And you knowing the particulars was not part of our arrangement.” Marcus rose to his feet. “Thank you for the wine, Proconsul. I look forward to handing you the keys to Hydrilla.”
Then, handing his cup to one of the women, Marcus left the pavilion.
15
Agrippa
The first light of dawn pierced through Agrippa’s eyelids, waking him and reminding him that too much red wine was never a good thing. Rubbing at his temples, he rolled over, eyes latching on the empty space next to him.
Yaro.
He stared at the spot for a moment, then moved his gaze to where Miki and Quintus still slept. Miki had one freckled arm wrapped around Quintus, his face buried in his shoulder, both of them breathing steadily. So he almost felt guilty as he leaned over and shouted, “Wake-up time!”
Both of them jerked awake, and Agrippa barely managed to dodge Quintus’s fist as he swung it at his nose.
“You are a horrible person,” Miki groaned, rolling onto his stomach. “I don’t like you.”
“Lies.” Agrippa drank deeply from his waterskin. “You love me.”
“How’d it go?” Quintus asked, rubbing his eyes and then rooting around in the piles of garments and weapons for his tunic. “Servius get you set up?”
“Delivered in remarkable abundance. What did you do for him?”
Quintus laughed, but whatever explanation he intended to give was cut off by Felix leaning into the tent. “Legatus wants a word.”
“I haven’t even had breakfast.”
“Eat later.” Reaching down, Felix dug Agrippa’s breastplate out of a pile of blankets and threw it at him. “What a mess this is. It’s no wonder you three are always last in line to eat. Hurry up.” Then he ducked back out.
“Must be important if Felix is playing messenger,” Agrippa muttered, sorting gear and weapons into three piles. “I can already feel my day being ruined.”
“Who cares about your day,” Miki said. “Tell us about your night. Did you see her?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Well?”
“We drank a bunch of Grypus’s wine and then threw the bottles into the waterfall pothole to see if they’d come out the bottom.”
Miki’s eyes narrowed. “That’s… You’re full of shit. That’s not what you did. Tell us the truth.”
“Caught me.” Buckling on his weapons, Agrippa led them outside. “We went swimming where the river goes around that big bend downstream. Might have lost one of my balls to frostbite, so we’ll need to stop in to visit Racker later. Was worth it, though.”
“Nice try,” Quintus said. “Tell us the truth.”
Rather than telling the truth, which was that the evening he’d planned was ruined by him weeping on a girl’s shoulder, Agrippa continued to regale them with increasingly farfetched scenarios until they reached Marcus’s tent, where the rest of their patrol waited with Felix.
“In,” the Thirty-Seventh’s tribunus ordered, holding back the tent flap and ushering them all inside. Marcus stood speaking with the Thirty-Seventh’s chief engineer, Rastag.
Short and round, Rastag was painfully nearsighted and prone to breaking the spectacles he wore perched on his small nose. Ostensibly, he was as trained to fight as the rest of them, but every man in the legion knew he was more danger to his own line than the enemy. But he was a master with war machines and already had several bridges and fortresses to his credit.
“Good,” Marcus said, abandoning his conversation with Rastag. “You’re here. If anyone asks, I reprimanded the lot of you. Feel free to complain about me at will if it makes your story more convincing.”
Agrippa wrestled with the desire to say they’d complain with or without permission, and instead lifted one eyebrow. “And the real reason?”
“I need to get out of camp without Hostus noticing.” Amarin appeared at that moment carrying a bundle, which revealed itself to be the standard cloak and helmet worn by the rank and file. Marcus handed his own cloak, which was embroidered in gold down the back with Celendor’s dragon, to Felix. “Run drills through the morning. Neither Hostus nor Grypus will be up much before noon and you can ignore everyone else.”
Felix gave him a long look. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I.” Agrippa rocked back and forth on his feet. “Especially since I don’t know what this is.”
“Soon enough.” Picking up his crested helmet, Marcus pushed it down on his second’s head. Though the pair didn’t look particularly alike, both had golden Cel skin and were the same size and height, so Felix could pass. As he had many times in the past. “Wait until I’m gone. Amarin will bring my horse.”
“Don’t forget to sneeze every few minutes or so,” Agrippa interrupted, the fact that horsehair didn’t agree with the legatus well known. “And brood the entire time. A few dark glares at the fortress would be fitting.” When they both glared at him, he shrugged. “I’m only trying to make this an authentic performance. Carry on.”
“It will be fine.” Glancing at Rastag, Marcus said, “You have everything you need?”
“Hold on,” Agrippa found himself interrupting again, although at least this time it was for a valid reason. “Why is Rastag coming? And more importantly, if I’m taking two of the most important members of the Thirty-Seventh into woods teeming with not just Bardenese rebels but back-stabbing Twenty-Ninth pricks, I need more than eight men.”
He wasn’t sure if all ninety-eight men under his command would be enough.
“Agreed,” Felix said. “This is too risky.”
“Overruled. If anyone asks, which they won’t, Rastag is inspecting infrastructure. Now let’s get underway.” Gesturing at the front of the tent, Marcus said, “After you.”
Giving Felix a look that he hoped conveyed his deep dislike of this plan, Agrippa headed out of the tent, walking swiftly toward the open gates and into the clear-cut. His eyes skipped to the camp in the distance, where only a few smoke plumes rose. He’d made no promises to see Silvara this morning
but had planned on it.
Would she wonder why he hadn’t come?
Would she care?
The group approached the tree line, Agrippa heading for the path he’d taken the day prior, but as they passed beneath the trees, a cold sweat broke on his skin. His pulse roared in his ears and he took a deep breath, fighting to control the rising panic in his gut.
It will be fine, he told himself. Carmo won’t pull the same shit twice.
But what if it was something different?
What if it was something worse?
He had his legion’s blasted legatus and their most talented engineer and only eight men plus himself to protect them if things went to shit.
You should have said no, a voice whispered inside his head. Felix would have backed you. Now if something happens, it’s on you.
A loud crash from behind sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins. Gladius in hand, Agrippa whirled around.
To find Rastag in a heap, his satchel of supplies somehow having landed half a dozen feet in front of him, his spectacles dangling from a bush.
“Rutting nightmare this is,” he muttered, moving back through his men to help the engineer to his feet. He dusted him off and handed him his spectacles. “You all right?”
“Quite well.” Color had risen to Rastag’s round cheeks. “Sorry for the trouble, Agrippa.”
Guilt immediately flooded through him, because it wasn’t the young man’s fault his eyes were weak. “You can make it up to me by building a catapult capable of launching me over Hydrilla’s walls.”
Rastag frowned. “I’ve already explained to you that to attempt such an experiment would be surely fatal, Agrippa.”
The explanation had involved close to an hour of listening to Rastag explaining mechanics and forces, all while scribbling calculations in the dirt. Agrippa had found it tremendously boring but had endured it for the sake of being polite. “We just need to aim it right so I land in something soft like a stack of hay. It’ll work, trust me.”
Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 11