by James Gawley
Primus looked into his porridge as he stirred it. “It was just a guess.”
The legate sighed. “I was trying to do you a favor, Primus.”
“I don’t... you and I don’t know each other very well.”
“It doesn’t have to stay that way. Doesn’t it strike you as unfair that the son of Marcus Seneca should spend his career in the infantry?”
“The Dead Men serve with honor. They were Marius’ cohort, when he was a legionnaire.” It was something the scouts seemed to forget: the man they served had risen from the infantry.
“And they hold the center whenever my father lines his army up for battle. Do you know why?”
“Because the Dead Men don’t break.”
“That’s right. They don’t break; they die where they stand.” The legate watched him across the flames. “Is that really where you want to serve?
“Think about it, Primus. If we were in Arcadia, you would be a legate yourself. At your age you’d be your father’s aid, but in a few years you might have a command of your own.”
For a moment, Primus allowed himself to imagine it. What would it be like to work with his father every day, to listen to his counsels, carry his messages... perhaps even discuss his tactics? He shrugged. “I never gave it any thought.”
Lucan smiled. “Serve with me instead. I’m a poor substitute, I know. But you’re more than ready.”
“Titus has been training me a little, to fight without the phalanx.”
Lucan nodded sagely to that. “No one better to learn from.”
“I suppose.”
Lucan raised an eyebrow. “You know that Titus was Legion Sword three times?”
Primus gaped. He had heard the others discuss the legion sword tournaments. They were brutal competitions to determine the best swordsman in the legion. The men fought with sharpened blades and no armor, and there was no prize but honor. Supposedly the tournaments were popular in Arcadia’s early days, but few generals allowed them now. Marius had encouraged them, before the war.
Suddenly old conversations began to make more sense to Primus: Sextus had often asked Black Titus whom he considered the toughest fighter among the veterans; other men often asked him if he would like to see a new tournament held at the citadel. Titus rarely answered any of them.
Primus shook his head. How could he have been so blind? “In all the time we practiced together, I never managed to strike him,” he confessed.
The legate smiled. “If you had, I’d be a little frightened of you. Black Titus was my father’s sparring partner, when his hair really was black. The old man used to say it was the only time he was grateful to be born a Woade; if he didn’t have the reach on Titus, he’d have started every morning off with a savage beating.” He chuckled. “Titus the Black Terror. You really didn’t know?”
Primus laughed, despite himself. “I had no idea.”
Lucan poked up the fire with a stick. “So what did you two talk about, if not the old days?” His tone was too casual. Distracted as he was, Primus still marked the way Lucan watched him from the corner of his eye as he stirred the coals.
Why would they want you? Primus heard the question as if Titus were whispering in his ear. All the camaraderie of the moment seemed to evaporate. Primus felt like a sleeper after cold water was thrown in his face. He considered the facts: the legate had selected him especially to join an elite company, though Primus had never been in battle. Within a day, he had invited Primus to ride beside him, even though he was ill. Now Lucan shared a campfire with him and chatted as though they were old friends. And he showed tremendous interest in Black Titus.
This recruitment was no personal favor.
Primus forced himself to smile. “You know Titus. Five words strung together is an epic poem.”
After a moment, Lucan smiled back. “So. Did you ever ask him about Varro?”
That confirmed it. He knows the truth. Or he suspects. He brought me here, away from Titus, to catch us out. “What about Varro?”
“About what he did to your friend. How he found him, why he couldn’t stop him. Did Titus ever talk to you about that?”
Primus’ mind was racing. What had made Lucan suspicious? Sextus’ body had never been found. They said that Varro confessed to the murder, but Primus assumed they tortured him first. Perhaps Lucan did not believe the confession. Think carefully. Does the legate think I was involved? Is he after both of us, or just Titus? Primus shoveled a spoonful of porridge into his mouth to buy time. Lucan had gone to great length to draw him away from Titus. He wanted a confession.
Primus realized that this was his chance to clear Varro’s name. It had been weeks since Sextus left the camp. Even if Primus confessed it all, they would never catch up to him. Primus could pretend that Titus had confessed to him, to disguise his own involvement... he might even drop hints and let the legate draw his own conclusions. If he did it right, he could lead Lucan to the truth and still plead ignorance. They would release Varro, and probably put Titus in his place. That would be justice, would it not?
Primus looked the legate in the eye. “I never asked Titus about Varro. And he never did tell.” After a long moment, the legate nodded.
When the fire burned low, Primus bedded down on the hard stone road, looking up at the streak of winter stars between the treetops. Titus had been right. There were liars everywhere. And he had made Primus into one of them.
This is an outrage. Anyone can see that this man’s motives are personal. Pursuing his rights? He is pursuing revenge. I will not be bullied or persecuted. This suit is pure harassment, and if you allow it to happen simply because his name is ‘Seneca,’ then you are as guilty as he. I will pay my debts in good order–I am no reprobate. But I will not be ruined simply because this man could not control his wife. If he were a man of character, my daughter would never have humiliated him.
–Testimony of the Defendant,
G. M. Seneca vs. T. P. Qyrianus
SILVERMINE
They were still twenty miles from the mining camp when they saw the smoke. The trees had thinned after they crossed the river on the fifth day. The bridge was built of rough-cut timber, and it perched on the bones of a more ancient highway whose massive granite slabs had been tumbled into the river in some distant past. As they continued west on the other side, the outriders began to return more frequently from their rangings. By the set of the legate's shoulders, Primus guessed their news was not good.
Primus had not traveled alongside Lucan since the first day. Lucan had made it clear that he was welcome, stopping to pass a few words with him each morning before they set out. Each morning Primus mounted up beside him, but by the time the sun was clear of the horizon he would drop back to ride at the rear of the company. He knew why Lucan wanted to befriend him, and he didn't care to be manipulated.
He watched as scouts brought reports back to their leader and rode forth again into the forest. When Lucan glanced back at Primus for the third time, he knew there was some news about the mining camp. He wanted to hear the reports–he wanted to kick his horse to a gallop and ride right past them all, and see for himself what had become of his father. Instead he stayed where he was, and tried not to let his feelings show on his face. Finally, when the trees were thin enough that they could see the column of black smoke that stood like a pillar against the mountainside, Lucan reined in his horse and waited for Primus to catch up to him.
The legate did not force him to ask. "Right now we know that the Woade have been through this area in force," he said. "Based on their spoor, it looks like they were a very large band. Add to that the smoke, and it's a good bet the camp has been attacked."
Primus nodded. "Thank you," he managed.
"An attack doesn't necessarily mean disaster, Primus. The Woade don't seem to like coming close to the citadel, but raids on the mining camp are not unheard of. Your father is well prepared."
"How many were there?"
It was a moment before Lucan answered. "H
undreds."
Primus said nothing to that. They both knew that the garrison at Silvermine was now a single cohort, the Luckless. Their brothers the White Wolves had been sent south–Primus was not privy to the reason. They continued on at their steady pace; the legate informed Primus that to hurry now would invite disaster, since it was impossible to tell whether the Woade were still in the area. "Discipline is crucial," Lucan warned him. "Sometimes the Woade try to draw us out by leaving a few of our comrades alive. If we become swept away in the rescue, we expose our backs to the enemy."
Warmed by that thought, Primus watched the forest give way to a field of snowy stumps. The forest had been cleared for perhaps half a mile around the mining camp, so that the enemy must cross that space exposed to slings and arrows from the camp before he could assault its walls. The camp's fortifications were built of stone up to the height of a man; a palisade of sharpened, fire-hardened stakes crowned the wall. Two gatehouse towers, broader and taller than those of the citadel, were manned by men in red cloaks. Primus' relief was curdled by disgust, as he saw the crosses lined up outside those gates.
There were twelve of them, nailed up by wrist and foot. Someone had added the pedal-peg that allowed victims to stand up on the cross, so long as they could take the pain of it. Standing meant getting a breath of air–for hanging by the wrists made it difficult to breathe–and a pedal-pegged victim could live for weeks upon the cross, if his will was strong. If they brought him water to prolong his suffering. Of the twelve men lined up before the gates, three were already dead. All were bearded, long haired, and filthy, with blood caked to the fur hides about their shoulders and the rawhide breeches that clad their legs. As he crossed the open field, Primus could hear them weeping. From their perches, they could look down on their dead brothers.
Barbarian corpses were stacked like cordwood beside the road, hardening in the weather. A crew of ten men in grey tunics with the eagle on their chests were digging a mass grave. The Woade did not practice cremation, and the legion respected the customs of its enemies. Alive, a barbarian was theirs to torture. Dead, he belonged to his gods.
At the gates they received the ritual challenge, and Lucan announced himself and his company. He included Primus in his formal declaration, an apparent honor. Privately Primus wondered if this would be the first news his father received of his journey to the camp. The gates creaked open and the scouts rode two by two between the towers.
Silvermine was part military installation and part slave labor camp; the roads within were laid out on an orderly grid, with the ancient highway forming the main thoroughfare. The slave barracks were long, low structures of wood, built directly on the frozen ground. A single door was covered by a bear skin or deer hide, and every door was guarded. There were dozens of slave-barracks. The smoke they'd seen rose from one of these, and the stench of burned meat and human excrement assaulted Primus nose. The shale roof had collapsed, and one wall had tumbled outward into the yard. Primus glimpsed white bones among the ash, and looked away.
The commander met them at the center of camp, where stood a handful of stone buildings. He rode in from the opposite gate at a gallop, drawing rein just a few paces in front of Primus and Lucan. Marcus Seneca was a man of fifty years, with a strong chin that Primus knew he shared, and hair now gone completely white. He returned their salute almost brusquely, and immediately dismounted, handing off his reins to a man in a red cloak and commander’s crest whom Primus did not recognize. Lucan gave his men the signal to dismount, and climbed down to clasp the general’s wrist. “Do not let your men get comfortable,” the general said. “You’ll be leaving again within the day.”
Lucan’s expression betrayed his surprise. “Are we prepared, then? I thought it would take the week to–”
“Not here.” The general turned his attention to Primus. “I see that Vulpes at the gate had it right: you’ve brought my son.”
Primus did not know whether to salute, or clasp his father’s wrist, or embrace him. For his part the general made no move at all, but only ran his eyes over Primus. Lucan spoke into the silence: “Infrequent as communication is between us, a message would’ve arrived no sooner than ourselves.” Seneca accepted that with a nod.
“You’ve grown up a bit,” he observed.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You look more and more like your mother.”
“I think he takes after you, sir,” said the commander at Seneca’s elbow.
The general grunted. “Well. Let’s get these men off the road. Fulcer, take them to the barracks-yard and see that there’s a fire; they can fill their water skins, but they’ll have to refresh themselves on their own supplies. Lucan, you come with me.” And with that, he left them standing in the road, while he himself strode off toward a small stone building whence rose a thin column of black smoke, and the metallic tang of sulfur.
Lucan put a hand on Primus’ shoulder. “I’ll be sure you get the chance for a few words with him before we leave,” he said. Then he was gone after the general, and Primus was left to lead their horses in the opposite direction, toward the twin barracks-halls that stood at right angles to one another, a fire pit centered in the yard between them. He told himself he had envisioned no tearful reunion, had not expected to be instantly taken under the general’s wing. Lucan was a legate, and privy to all their leaders’ plans. A legionnaire should feel lucky to be present at all. He had no cause to feel ashamed.
No cause at all.
Commander Fulcer led them to the barracks yard, and sent servants scurrying to build a fire. The scouts did not unsaddle their horses, but tethered them to long wooden benches and stood talking amongst themselves in groups of three and five. Primus considered his father’s second-in-command: Fulcer wore no armor beneath his cloak, only a thick tunic padded heavily at the shoulders. Primus saw that bandages wrapped the palm of his right hand and three of his fingertips. There were more at his neck, and when he lifted off his crested helmet, Primus glimpsed the edges of a terrible burn beneath the linen, still oily with salve. His helm tucked beneath one arm, the commander looked Primus up and down. “So what’s your colors, legionnaire?”
“I’m with the Dead Men, sir.”
The commander grunted. “We could’ve used a few of you boys last night. My Luckless had a hard time of it."
Primus stood a little taller. “We saw your smoke almost down to the river.”
Fulcer nodded. “They came during third watch. Maybe five hundred of them–attacked both gates at once, and pressed us hard. A few came over the walls while we were occupied.”
“And they set fires.”
“They might have overrun us, if they’d gone straight for one of the gates. But they wanted to destroy instead. They got the granary first. Then they went for the slave barracks.”
Primus thought of the white bones he’d glimpsed amongst the ashes. He looked again at the black, blistered flesh that peeked from beneath the commander’s bandages. Perhaps someone had tried to save those people, slaves or not. He wondered how it would feel, to attempt something like that and fail. Then he thought about Lepus and he knew. “Slaves don’t deserve that.”
“No one deserves that.” The commander’s eyes were wet. Primus looked away quickly from his face.
“You stopped them there, though.”
Fulcer nodded. His voice was hoarse as he continued. “We crucified them. That’s who you saw outside the gates.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. With the granary burned, we’re on half rations since last night, and a quarter for the labor, gods help them.”
“You mean the mine is still open?” Primus asked, incredulous.
“It’s dangerous to let slaves idle. Especially since they outnumber us so badly now. And after last night…”
Primus dug out a couple of strips of venison from his saddlebags. Fulcer accepted one gratefully, and pulled a wineskin from his own bag, offering it as trade. “How bad do they outnumber you?” Primus asked.
Fulc
er shrugged. “We were almost even numbers before the Wolves went south. That cut us in half. And last night we lost almost a third of the cohort; against that, there were a hundred bunks in the barracks that burned. So I’d say there’s five slaves left for every one of us.” The commander’s voice was cold, but when he considered the strip of dried meat in his hands, he looked sick. He did not return it, but opened a pouch at his belt and tucked the meat away. He took a long pull from the wineskin, wiped his mouth with the back of a gauntleted hand. “About your father,” he said. “It isn’t my place, but... I’ve got children of my own. Two girls. They’re with their mother’s people back home. Their mother’s family went for Tiberius during the war.”
The commander paused. Primus nodded, not quite seeing the connection to himself.
“All that’s to say, I’m glad they’re not here with us. I miss my girls, but seeing them would only make all this so much harder.” He paused again, and drew deeply from the wine skin. As he passed it, he seemed to consider Primus’ face. “You do look like your mother, you know. I wouldn’t say so to the general, but it’s true. I’ll wager he can’t look at you without thinking of her.”
“I never knew my mother,” Primus said. The wine was warm from resting against the horse’s flank. It was red and strong. “I don’t remember her at all.”
Fulcer only nodded, as though that weren’t news. “What I’m saying, Primus, is that it’s not your fault. Maybe you don’t want to hear it from me–hell, I know you don’t. But it’s true. What the general wants and doesn’t want has got nothing to do with you or anything you did.” He took a final pull from the wineskin and replaced it in his small saddle-pack. He smiled at Primus and clapped him on the shoulder. “Lucan seems to like you. I’d say he’s a fine judge of character.” He climbed onto his horse, and reached down to clasp wrists with Primus. “A legate is a powerful shepherd to have in this army. Stay close to him–and remember, there’s something to be said for winning for yourself what they won’t give you. And never mind what these scouts tell you: don’t you dare trade that legion cloak for anything. A real man wears red.” With that, he put heels to his horse and rode back the way he’d come, toward the camp’s western gate and the mine.