Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores)

by Danielle L. Jensen

  She turned back to Agnes and unfastened the first button on her dress before her hands froze. She deserved to be put into the earth with dignity, not stripped naked for all to see. “He told me he won’t come see me anymore. That I’m here might be the reason why he’s not.”

  She could feel silent communication going on over her head, then Quintus sat next to her, legs dangling into the grave. “Silvara, I’m not sure if telling you this is going to make you feel better or worse, but he does care. He cares a lot, and that’s the problem, right? You know as well as anyone that we’re not allowed relationships outside the legion. And if he gets caught, he’ll be punished. It could tarnish his reputation.”

  Fresh hurt flooded through her that she mattered less than his reputation, but on its heels came anger at herself for caring so much. She was a spy and he was her mark, and she’d bungled everything by being overambitious. By getting caught, even if Agrippa hadn’t guessed her intent.

  Blood boiling hot, she unbuttoned Agnes’s dress, stripping the garments from the old woman and handing them off to the other laundresses. She stood silently as Quintus and Miki lowered her into the grave, then began shoveling dirt into the hole, filling it.

  Feet thudded against the ground, and abruptly Agrippa was standing next to her. “To Agnes!” he shouted. “And to the rest of the fallen who made all our lives a little better though we give them nothing but coin in return.”

  “To the fallen!” the legionnaires roared in response, fists hammering against chests in salute.

  “Pack up,” Agrippa shouted. “And move out.”

  “Agrippa!” She called his name, her fury at his selfishness rising hot and fast, but he was already moving. Walking swiftly toward the trail in the company of his men, abandoning the followers to get themselves back to camp.

  “Asshole,” she hissed under her breath, then she blinked, seeing for the first time what the legion had left behind. Dozens of felled trees, none of them redwood and all small enough to reasonably be brought back to camp.

  Which was exactly what her people were doing, working together to drag them toward the trail.

  An act of kindness.

  She bit at her bottom lip, then joined those at the front of group, helping to drag the tree back to camp. Enough firewood that no one would freeze tonight.

  “What’s that ahead?” one of the men in the group asked, pointing.

  Lifting her head, Silvara peered into the distance, seeing a still form sprawled across the trail. “It’s a deer.”

  Dropping the tree, she walked swiftly down the path, seeing how the legionnaires had parted rank to go around the animal. Dropping to her knees without care for the blood, her eyes latched on the arrow jutting from its chest, the familiar fletching stained red.

  Perhaps his reputation wasn’t worth so much after all.

  22

  Marcus

  Over Felix’s shoulder, Marcus watched as wagons loaded with supplies trundled into the camp. Then a sharp pain lanced across his forearm, making him curse and nearly drop his practice weapon.

  “You’re not paying attention,” his second admonished him. “And you dropped your guard. Again. You really need to practice more.”

  “In all my spare time?”

  “Make time. It might make the difference between you living and dying. And while you’re at it, eat more. And sleep more. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  Marcus made a noise like a clucking hen, then said, “Yes, Mother,” laughing when Felix gave him a disgusted look. But his moment of good humor fell away as his eyes tracked up to Hydrilla’s walls, to the hundreds of people standing on the battlements watching the supplies roll in. Only enough to supply the ten thousand men for two weeks, but to those who were starving, it must look enough to last a lifetime. Part of him felt sick about manipulating them this way, but for the sake of his plan, it was necessary. And if the rebels took the opportunity to see reason and get their children out while they could, so much the better.

  But first he needed to get permission to give them that opportunity.

  “He’s watching,” Felix muttered under his breath. “Put some effort into it.”

  They began to fight in earnest, and it took all his effort as Felix pressed him hard, his best friend twice the fighter he’d ever be. Sweat rolled down his skin and his body ached from the half dozen blows Felix had landed on him when Grypus finally strolled out of his pavilion, armor glinting in the sun.

  “Hooked him,” Felix murmured, then both of them paused their fight to stand at attention as the proconsul approached.

  “You boys have inspired me to get my blood moving and to keep my skills sharp,” Grypus declared. “Never know when one might find themselves in the thick of it. You’ll oblige me, Tribunus?”

  The proconsul had more than a passing fondness for Felix, seeing him as the ideal legionnaire. Which Felix was, but more importantly, it allowed Marcus a way to influence the vainglorious bastard.

  “It is always an honor to spar with you, Proconsul. It was the legions’ loss you weren’t born second,” Felix said, and, predictably, Grypus puffed up like a peacock, taking the wooden blade from Marcus before replying, “I confess, my youthful self always wished it had been me, not my younger brother, who went to Lescendor. But my intelligence would have been wasted in the legions, so it’s right and just my path was to the politics.”

  “Couldn’t give it up entirely though?” Felix lifted his weapon and shield, his stance perfect. “You’ve got the fight in your blood. I see it.”

  Grypus’s golden skin flushed with pleasure. “Won my fair share of brawls in my day. You’d be surprised how often debate in the Curia turns to fisticuffs.”

  Felix laughed. “Beat them with words and then with your fists, right?”

  “Made me popular with the women. Still does.” Grypus jerked his chin toward his pavilion, where his fur-wrapped women were dutifully watching. To Marcus’s eyes they looked cold, bored, and miserable, but then Felix winked at them and all four smiled, one of them going so far as to flip her hair over one shoulder and wink back.

  “Ha! Ha!” Grypus laughed, clumsily attacking Felix, who easily blocked. “You’ll get them all fired up, a young buck like you. But it’s to my benefit, you remember that.”

  Marcus struggled not to roll his eyes and watched them spar for a few moments, allowing Felix to get the old man’s heart pounding and his head full of visions of himself in battle before interjecting. “Proconsul, I’m of a mind to offer the fortress an opportunity to surrender their children.”

  “Eh?” Grypus turned to look at him, dropping his guard, and only Felix’s quick reflexes kept him from stabbing the man in the throat. “What nonsense is this? I said we’d offer no more quarter.”

  “And in knowing this, they’ll fight far harder when we attack. We might save ourselves some casualties by showing them mercy.”

  “Mercy! Ha! Sounds like you trying to make this fight easier on yourself. Are you hearing this dross, Felix?”

  Grypus attacked Felix in a flurry of strokes, which his friend blocked with ease. Felix allowed one to bounce off his forearm, inclining his head to Grypus in acknowledgement before glancing at Marcus. “With respect, sir, it is dross. They can fight as hard as they want—once they don’t have their walls to hide behind, they’ll fall to our blades. I don’t need my victories handed to me.”

  “That’s the fighting spirit!” Grypus said, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hammered his weapon against Felix’s shield. “Good Cel boy, you are, Felix. Would that there were more like you in the ranks.”

  “You might want a good fight, Felix,” Marcus said. “But you’re not the one who needs to answer to the Senate.”

  “Would you shut your mouth and let me fight?” Grypus shouted. “I’m sick of listening to you try to wheedle your way out of a proper battle.”

  Felix laughed. “Make them bleed, right, Proconsul? Besides, they don’t commission statues in the
Forum of those who win easy fights?”

  “No, they do not!” Grypus was gasping from exertion, beads of sweat that were probably half wine pouring down his brow.

  “Neither do they commission them for child killers.” Marcus crossed his arms, scowling. “So if that is your aim, perhaps you might reconsider your stance on mercy. Both of you.”

  Felix stopped in his tracks, lowering his weapons. “That the truth, Proconsul?”

  Wheezing, the man wiped his brow. “It’s an old tradition and one that should be changed, for it’s nonsense. War is war.”

  “Idiocy,” Felix muttered. “Suppose getting my handsome face immortalized will have to wait for the next war.”

  Grypus frowned, and Marcus watched the wheels turn as he considered that this might be the only chance to have himself immortalized in the Forum. Then he shrugged. “Wouldn’t want to deny you that honor, Felix. Marcus, see it done. Children only, mind you. If nothing else, it will allow me to fight without listening to your endless chatter.”

  “It will be done, Proconsul.” Turning on his heel, Marcus strode to his tent, retrieving his cloak and helmet.

  In a matter of minutes, he was walking over the broken ground toward Hydrilla’s walls, a spear with a white cloth hanging from it held in one hand. His pulse roared as dozens of arrows were pointed at him, but he allowed none of his fear to show as he jammed the butt of the spear into the mud. “The Empire allows you one final opportunity to surrender your children to its care, thus sparing their lives,” he shouted up at them in Bardenese. “Word is given that they will be cared for and be provided the opportunity to work themselves free of the indenture your actions have forced upon them.”

  Then he waited.

  Faintly, he could make out shouts and cries emanating from the fortress as those who wished to take this chance to save their child’s life warred with those who’d see them martyred to the rebel cause before ever surrendering.

  Let them go, he silently willed. Give them the chance to live.

  There was commotion, shouts turning to screams, the sound of steel crashing against steel.

  And then it fell silent.

  A man climbed up onto a parapet, a bow in one hand. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he aimed it at Marcus.

  From behind, Marcus heard his men panic. Heard them racing toward him, but they were too late. The arrow shot through the air, striking the ground right before his feet.

  He didn’t so much as flinch, because it wouldn’t be him who suffered for this decision.

  Inclining his head once, Marcus pulled the spear out of the ground and retreated down the slope.

  Ignoring the admonition of his escort, he made his way behind the blinds that had been constructed that morning and into the tunnel, where he found Rastag. “Well?”

  “It is as you predicted, sir,” the Thirty-Seventh’s engineer answered. “They’re expanding the barricade, filling in their end of the tunnel.”

  To keep the legions out. And to keep their people in.

  “It’s loud enough to cover your work?” he asked.

  Rastag nodded. “For now, although more cover would be to our advantage.”

  “Then start digging.” Striding back out into the open, he moved in front of the waiting lines. “Make the walls shake.”

  And the noise began.

  23

  Agrippa

  “I didn’t think things could get worse,” Quintus groaned, and in the faint light, Agrippa saw his friend bury his face in a blanket, hands clapped over his ears. “This was Marcus’s shitty idea, wasn’t it?”

  After digging the graves the day prior, they’d returned to thousands of men shouting and stomping their feet and beating their weapons against shields, the noise deafening.

  And ceaseless.

  It was to cover the sound of their digging so the Bardenese wouldn’t guess their true intent, but Agrippa suspected that half the legion would fall on their own blades, driven mad by the ceaseless racket, before the battle began. Conversations needed to take place at a shout to be heard, and sleep? Sleep was next to impossible. Exhaustion weighed upon all of them like a pall.

  Though even if it had been deathly quiet, Agrippa doubted he’d have been able to sleep with the way worry was coursing through his veins. Winter had descended with a vengeance, the air cold enough that even with a good tent and heavy clothing and thick blankets, he was still shivering on his bedroll. Which meant it was a hundred times worse for Silvara.

  The wood he’d had his men cut would be long gone by now, the deer nothing but a memory with hundreds upon hundreds of mouths in followers’ camp to feed, and the wind was powerful enough tonight to shake the tent walls. She’d be freezing, and the thought that she might not make it through the night had left his guts hollow for hours.

  You can’t see her anymore, he silently chided himself. You’re getting too attached. Making mistakes. You need to stay away.

  Except the desire to sneak out of camp to check on her felt almost like a compulsion, biting at him and refusing to give him any peace as he tossed and turned and fretted.

  You need to focus, he told himself. You need to be at your best.

  Because it would be him and nineteen of his handpicked men who’d soon be crawling into the belly of the beast. Twenty men against thousands, his job to open the door for the rest of the Thirty-Seventh to come pouring in. Not all of them would survive. It was possible none of them would, and it was his duty to select who’d be undertaking the mission.

  Choose your best, Marcus had told him. I trust your judgment.

  An honor that felt like punishment.

  Rolling over, he stared at the spot where Yaro should have been, the hollowness in his core growing. Dead before his time. Dead because I messed up. Dead because we were all dealt a shitty hand.

  He rolled back the other way, pulling his cloak up over his head, the fur soft against his cheek. She doesn’t even have Agnes anymore. She’s all alone.

  He rolled again, pulling his knees up to his chest, trying to ward off the chill.

  Quintus and Miki were his best. Everyone would question him if they weren’t chosen. But what if they didn’t make it out alive? What if he made another mistake that got them killed?

  He rolled back the other way and received a sharp kick in the shins.

  “Stop it,” Quintus grumbled. “You’re worse than the noise.”

  “Sorry.” Sitting upright, Agrippa dug around in the darkness for his gear and quietly put it on.

  Only to turn to find Quintus also upright and watching. “You can’t keep doing this,” his friend said softly. “If you get caught, the punishment will be bad.”

  “I won’t get caught.”

  “Agrippa…” Quintus caught his arm. “If you keep seeing her it’s only going to make the moment you have to stop a hundred times worse.”

  “I know.” He stood. “But I can’t let her freeze. I just… I can’t.”

  A long exhale, then, “Fine. I’ll cover for you tomorrow with Felix. Pick you up when we head out on patrol, all right?”

  “Thanks.”

  Carefully refastening the tent to keep the wind out, Agrippa made his way through the camp, rising the walls and striding along them until he found one of his gambling companions, Aviticus, who was shouting and stomping his feet to add to the din. “I need a favor.”

  “Oh?” The other centurion ceased stomping, though his eyes didn’t move from the open space below, searching for threats in the blowing snow.

  “There’s something I need to do. Can you get me out?”

  Aviticus turned his head. “You’re joking, right? You want to go out in this misery? Why?”

  “Too noisy. I’m going to find a cave to sleep in.”

  Aviticus lifted one eyebrow, unconvinced, so Agrippa added, “The why isn’t part of the deal.” He pulled out a handful of coins. Aviticus loved to gamble but was shit at cards, so he was constantly broke. “Get me out and they’re yours.�
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  “Not back in?”

  Agrippa shook his head. “Got that covered.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Aviticus lifted a hand, the rest of the young men guarding this stretch of wall watching his signals. All of them nodded, then went back to shouting and stomping their feet.

  Agrippa climbed on the edge of the wall, the wind sending his cloak billowing around him. Aviticus grasped his hand then braced himself, lowering Agrippa down. “You good?”

  “Yeah.”

  They both let go, and Agrippa dropped the last ten feet, rolling as he struck the ground. On his feet in an instant, he strode between the torches illuminating the space, heading down toward the other camp.

  Only a few tents glowed with light, the slum dark and silent as he wove through until he reached the laundresses’ tent. Inside, several women huddled together around a single candle, all of them looking up as he came in. “Where is she?” he asked loud enough to be heard over the noise.

  The one called Carina answered. “Her tent.”

  He held up a coin. “Show me where it is.”

  The older woman led him through the maze, eventually stopping at a dead end. She jerked her head at what looked like a thin sheet draped between two proper tents, a faint glow shining through the fabric. This was where she slept?

  “Thanks,” he said, handing over the coin. He waited until she was gone, then stepped closer. “Silvara?”

  Silence.

  His stomach plummeted with the certainty that he’d come too late. That she’d frozen to death while he’d warred with himself. Then, over the noise, “Agrippa?”

  Shifting aside the rock holding down the edge of the sheet, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside.

  What relief he’d felt that she was alive disappeared as he took her in. Wrapped in her cloak and a thin blanket, she sat shaking next to a small candle, the brazier nearby cold. “What are you doing here?” she asked.