Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (24 page)

Indeed, the incident with the magistrate had made him realize that he had been only one sudden hand movement away from ordering his men to slaughter five men whose only crime had been to arrest two murderers and attempt to bring them to justice.

Though the men and the other tribunes still called him Clericus, he now found it hard to believe that he had ever thought he might be fit for the Church. He was no longer a scholar, and still less was he a man of God. He had become a man of blood like his father and his father’s father. He tried to keep up with his writing in the evenings, but often it was easier to join Lucius Volusenus, Gaius Trebonius and the other tribunes not on duty, to share the day’s wine ration with them and spend the evening telling stories, jokes, and lies.

One night, too well fortified with wine, he’d even accompanied Aemelius Petrus to a whorehouse in Caprotae. But thoughts of what Caitlys might think of that had ultimately deterred him in a way that thoughts of soiling his body and soul did not. He spent an indecisive, tortured hour drinking with the madame and two of her least attractive girls, then had had to listen to Aemelius for most of the ride back to the legionary fort rhapsodizing about size of his whore’s large white breasts and how they’d spilled over his hands.

How big were Caitlys’s breasts? He couldn’t recall. He suddenly wasn’t sure that he had ever even noticed if she had them or not. Of course she did—she must! Elfesses did have breasts, didn’t they? But when he thought of her, all he saw was her perfectly sculpted face, her inhumanly high cheekbones, and the bright intensity of her emerald eyes.

It was madness, he knew, to be so utterly obsessed with the thought of an elf maiden. And not merely a maiden but an outright sorceress, one whom the Michaelines would kill and the Church would burn on sight. And yet, there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

There was no shortage of women in the sizeable army of camp followers that straggled along behind the legion as it marched, and there were girls pretty enough to draw appreciative remarks from the legionaries in almost every village, town, or city they rode through on their way toward Cynothicus. But none of them, no matter how attractive, could possibly compete with Caitlys Shadowsong. In comparison to the elven princess, they were a herd of indistinguishable, thick-waisted, stump-legged cows.

He heard a noise outside the door, and a moment later, Gaius Trebonius entered.

“The legate has finally deigned to rejoin us,” he announced a little breathlessly. “And with him arrived some news that I expect will be of no little interest to you, Clericus.”

“Out with it, if you already know it.”

“Your father didn’t arrive with the legate because he isn’t coming this fall. He’s going to stay in Amorr to contest the election.”

“He’s declared for consul, then?” Marcus wasn’t entirely surprised. He was also a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to face his father anytime soon, since he still wasn’t sure how he felt about Fortex’s execution. What had seemed so horrific and excessive at the time seemed a little more reasonable now that he had a better understanding of how difficult it was to keep the men in any reasonable semblance of order even when they were only marching from one point to another. He was beginning to understand the importance of discipline to the legion, but the execution still struck him as an unnecessary evil. “Who opposes him?”

“They say one of the Falconians was already running, but I don’t remember which one. And one of the more vocal auctares has declared as well. He wouldn’t matter, except that it’s said Severus Patronus is backing him.”

“He would.”

“Well, you can’t expect him to take the thought of another Valerian ex-consul lightly.

Marcus shrugged. “The Senate wouldn’t have appointed Corvus as Consul Suffectus if they didn’t intend for him to lead the fight against the Cynothii. That doesn’t mean the People will follow their lead when it’s time for the vote, but I can’t imagine they’ll turn down a Valerian with a province on the boil.”

“Especially not when the alternative is a filthy Severan puppet.” Trebonius smiled. “I suppose you know he declared for the Eagles.”

“What else?” Marcus stood. “I’m filthy from the ride this morning, and you look as if you haven’t bathed for weeks. What do you say we visit the baths and get cleaned up while you tell me about anything interesting that doesn’t involve my family in any way.”

It took them an hour to get permission to leave the fort, obtain a new horse for Trebonius, and canter the four leagues to Gallidromum, which was a moderately sized town of around fifteen thousand inhabitants about a two day’s march from the provincial border with Cynothicus. Fortunately for them, whatever sympathies the townspeople might have had for the nearby rebellion had completely vanished with the arrival of the legion last week, and both the officers and men of the legion had been given the run of the town when off duty.

As they rode, Trebonius brought Marcus up to date on the latest events in Amorr, which included news that the college of electors was still locked in an electoral standoff between the two rival cardinals vying for the sacred chair. In the arena, the Reds had claimed an unexpected victory in the last great gladitorial event of the season. And it seemed that one of Gaius Maecenas’s freemen, a Larini named Guiberto, had scored a triumph in the theatre with a popular comedy that poked fun at three haplessly rural Utruccans, a Caeligni, a Silarian, and a Vallyrian, each of whom happened to arrive in Amorr on the same day.

The baths were larger and of better quality than Marcus would have dared to expect so far from Amorr. The pillars were made of granite rather than marble, and the tilework was crude and childlike in comparison with the art that decorated the Amorran baths. But, having been constructed over three natural hot thermal springs, they were a draw for invalids and tourists alike. They weren’t what one would call crowded by Amorran standards, but they were considerably more popular than any of the baths he had seen in the provinces before.

They tied up their horses, which as branded legionary mounts were about as likely to be stolen as the legionary fort itself, and entered the complex. Entrance cost one denarius apiece, which struck Marcus as exorbitant, so he paid the balneator for Trebonius as well.

“You don’t need to do that,” Trebonius protested, fumbling at his near-empty purse.

“I invited you. And besides, you know perfectly well that you’re practically a pauper. You can pay for our clothes if you want.”

“Practically?” Trebonius’s laugh was hollow. “One centurion’s medal has more silver in it than I have in the aquilifer’s chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if Castorius has more money than half the patricians in the Senate!”

In the apodyterium, they stripped off their armor and weaponry, as well as their underlying tunics and small clothes.

Trebonius gave the bearded capsarius two quadrans to watch their possessions, and two more to polish their mud-spattered armor. “If you steal anything, we’ll have your head,” Trebonius warned him.

The slave only grinned and shook his head. Bath slaves were notorious for absconding with the personal items they were supposed to watch, but few were stupid enough to vanish with a legionary’s possessions. The clothing was too easily identified, and it was not the sort of crime that, if caught, a man could be commit twice.

Being already chilled from their ride and the cool wintry air, they didn’t linger in the frigidarium, but merely jumped in the water and clambered quickly out, prompting complaints from a group of men they’d inadvertently splashed.

Next they moved to the tepidarium, which was large, but the mosaics on the floor were crude, and Marcus found the yellow walls to be overly bright. It did not appear that the good citizens of Gallidromum went in much for contemplation. It was not the sort of place that invited it, and they were the only ones there besides the slaves armed with pots of oil. They sat on the wooden benches, amusing each other by pointing out the incompetence of the art. As they were being oiled by the unctores, Trebonius drew his attention to one particularly comical section of the mosaics, wherein what was apparently supposed to be a fearsome minotaur more closely resembled an emaciated dog with horns.

The oiling didn’t take long, and soon they entered the caldarium, which Marcus was pleased to see was not overly crowded. The air was heavy with steam and the scent of minerals. The thermal springs produced water that was every bit as hot as the furnaces of the great Amorran baths. Perhaps even a bit hotter, Marcus thought happily as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of the warmth penetrating all the way through to his very bones.

There was no sound except for a few murmured voices, some soft splashes, and the occasional hiss as a slave poured cold water from the ladrum over someone’s head. No more cold. No more riding. No more mud. No more shouting and being shouted at. It was more than peaceful—it was glorious.

“You lads are legion, aren’t you?”

Someone speaking Utruccan with the atrocious northern accent heard in these parts intruded upon his blissful reverie. Marcus refused to open his eyes. Perhaps the wretch would take the hint and go away.

“Hey, I knows an Amorran when I sees one. You can’t mistake those noses, that’s what I says. Even without your armor and all, I knows you.”

No, he would not. Oh, by the Undefiled Mother. Marcus wished he had his sword with him. Or better yet, a centurion armed with a vine staff and a bad mood.

Grudgingly, he opened his eyes.

He saw about what he expected in the only now mentioned dim light of the caldarium. The voice belonged to a middle-aged provincial man, balding, no doubt possessed of an expanding paunch below the waterline, and betraying the all-too-familiar avaricious gleam of the trader in his eye. Marcus sighed. While the rest of Selenoth rightly dreaded the Amorran legions and the death and devastation that so often followed in their wake, merchants everywhere seemed to view them as huge herds of milk cows, where the milk was all but free for the taking.

“With all due respect, sir, my colleague and I have no need for food, equipment, wine, jewelry, female companionship, or anything else you, or anyone you know, is likely to have for sale. We merely seek to worship in blessed silence at this holy altar of cleanliness. As you are no doubt a God-fearing man yourself, I bid you respect our devotions.”

Trebonius snorted. Unfortunately, the provincial took neither offense nor the hint. Instead, he laughed, as if he and Marcus were old friends given to jesting with each other. Marcus, in response, wondered if Julianus would come to his rescue if he gave in to his impulse to strangle the annoying old man.

“Aye, I’m a merchant, laddie, but I won’t tries to sell you nothing. I gots nothing to sell! I solds it all to a bunch of your lot not two weeks ago in Saenott.”

Saenott? Where was Saenott? It couldn’t be too terribly far from here if the merchant had been there only two weeks before. But what legionaries could he have sold anything to, if the nearest legion was in Clusium? He sat up and turned to face the merchant.

“Do you mean Cynothicus?”

“Aye, that’s what you lot calls the province. Allus gots to be sticking an extra syllable or two on there, you Amorrans.”

“I suppose we do. So, you were selling to Amorrans in Cynothicus? Were they traders, these Amorrans?”

The man laughed again. “Traders? No, when I said you lot, I meant soldiers. You know, legion boys like you two lads.”

“Of course, of course,” Marcus nodded affably, mainly to keep the man from noticing his suddenly intense interest. “What were you selling?”

“Had two carts of good Cortonan wine. They took it all, they did. Got me a good price for it too! The victucustos said they was short on meat, so now I’m looking for a likely herd of cows or pigs. I figures there must be some farmers about that wouldn’t mind saving on the winter feed if they haven’t butchered yet.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Marcus said approvingly. “The victucustos…what legion was he with?”

The merchant shrugged. “I don’t know. A legion is a legion, right?”

“More or less,” Marcus agreed, disappointed. “But they were in Cynothicus proper?”

“Hey, now I remembers something.” A triumphant smile lit up the balding man’s face. “They had these lightning things all over the place. A symbol, like. Do you know what I mean?”

Marcus looked at Trebonius and could see from the expression on his face that he had been listening too. Trebonius nodded slowly. Yes, they knew exactly what he meant. But what they did not know was why Legio III, also known as
Fulgetra
, would be in Cynothicus. And Marcus had the distinct impression that it might have something to do with the fact that Legio III was one of the two legions belonging to House Severus and controlled by one Aulus Severus Patronus, his uncle’s chief rival in the Senate and the head of the auctares faction.

“Back to the fort?” Trebonius asked. He too was suspicious.

Marcus nodded. Then he turned back to the merchant. “What is your name, man?”

“Why, Clautus of Medonis,” he answered, surprised.

“Well, Clautus of Medonis,” Marcus told him as he reluctantly pushed himself out of the steaming water, “if ever you bring your wares to any of the Valerian legions, I guarantee you will get a very good price for them.”