Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire (11 page)

“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.

Fulcer 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.

Primus watched him go, almost embarrassed at the rush of gratitude he felt. He dug out a handful of oats for his horse, and stroked her mane as she ate. He didn’t know much about Commander Fulcer, but he would bet that there were no legendary senators in Fulcer’s family history. Yet the commander was utterly self-assured… and totally confident in Primus. What was more, he’d put into words something Primus had always believed:
there’s something to be said for winning it for yourself
.
 

Primus smiled a little, and scratched the mare behind her ears.
A real man wears red
. He decided that even if he were invited to become
extrordinarii
, he would decline. The Dead Men were where he belonged. Having made the resolution, he immediately felt better. He looked around at the others, talking in groups. No one glanced his way, but for once Primus was not bothered by that. He composed himself to wait patiently for the legate to return.

He felt the impact before he heard the sound. The air itself seemed to punch him in the chest, and Primus sucked in a painful breath–then came the thunder. The sound nearly deafened him, and Primus clapped his hands over his ears too late. The earth leapt beneath his feet, and his horse took a few shambling steps sideways, crashing into Primus and nearly knocking him over. He gripped the saddle-cinch to steady himself and the animal shied away from him, on the edge of panic. Primus reached a hand to soothe it. Then the sky grew dark, and a shadow fell over them. Primus looked up to see a black cloud spreading over the west end of the camp. As he watched, stones began to rain down, slapping into the dirt all around him.
 

Primus yanked on his helmet and secured it, then regained his bridle and tried to calm his horse. The others were doing the same. A stone pinged off of his helmet and Primus was grateful for the protection. The mare whinnied as another stone slashed her flank, parting the hide so that blood ran down her leg. It lasted but a moment or two more, then the falling rocks petered out, and smoke rolled across the camp. Covering his mouth with the edge of his cloak, Primus quickly realized that it was not wood smoke but dust, fine particles of stone blown so thick that they blotted out the light. He squinted, his eyes tearing up against the grit that stung them. There was a stench to the air, a damp mildew smell that reminded Primus of the stone quarry at the citadel.

He could see only a few feet in front of his face. Men were coughing, horses neighing, and there was shouting in the distance. Primus sensed running feet passing by on the road. He focused on calming his animal, and gradually the air began to clear, so that the other scouts became shadows in the grey light, then silhouettes, until eventually Primus could see normally, though the air was still grayed by hanging dust.
 

Soldiers were emerging from the barracks, perhaps fifty of them. They formed up swiftly in the yard, and a captain strode among them, shouting out his orders. Some he sent to the mine, to assess the situation. Others ran to the walls, to guard against possible attack. And some few went to the slave quarters, to keep the labor penned inside. Primus called out to the soldiers as they ran past on their assignments, but no one answered him. He caught the eye of Furio. The older man shook his head. “We were ordered to wait,” Furio said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “So we wait.”

Primus craned his neck, looking as far down the road as he could see. In truth there was little to look at. Neither the general nor the legate were anywhere in sight. Men were scrambling up the ladders to the guard towers. Others traversed the wall-walks, looking out over the palisade for danger. But none of them shouted the alarm.
 
Primus was tempted to climb into the saddle to get a better view, but he wasn’t sure how bad his horse’s cut was. He was trying to clean the animal’s wound with a wet rag when a man came racing up to the barracks-yard on foot, his face almost black with stone-dust. He was wearing legion armor and boots, but his cloak was gone.

“We need help at the mine,” he said the moment he reached them. Primus handed him his water skin, and the man drank gratefully. When he wiped his mouth, he cleared a streak of dust from his face.

“What’s happened?” Primus asked.

“The tunnel collapsed,” the soldier caught his breath. “The buttressing went, I think. The tunnel mouth came down, and some of our men are trapped inside. I need help to dig them out. I need all of you. We have shovels up at the mine, just come with me. Come now.”

But the scouts did not move. “Whence come these orders?” Furio asked.
 

The soldier gaped at him. “You say orders?”

“General Seneca commanded me to stay right here. Do your orders come from him?”

“No. No, damn you. I’m asking you for help. My brothers are trapped in that hole. I can’t take men off the walls, there’s so few of us left. We can’t use the slaves, because there’s not enough men to control them anymore. You’re the only ones in camp with nothing to do.”

Furio shook his head slowly. “I have a task.”

The soldier stared at him for a long moment. “But we can hear them, inside. They’re banging on the water pipes to let us know they’re alive.” When Furio merely folded his arms, the soldier’s lip curled into a sneer. He spat in the dust at Furio’s feet. “Coward. All of you, cowards. I hope you die upside-down on a cross.” The scout just looked at him.

“Is Commander Fulcer up at the mine?” Primus asked quietly. It was a moment before the soldier broke off glaring at Furio to answer him. “Is the commander alright?”

“The commander. No, he was inside the mine when it happened. He’s trapped in there with the rest of them.”

Primus caught the warning look that Furio shot him. But he did not hesitate. “I’ll go.”

“Just you?” The soldier looked around at the others. Some of the
extrordinarii
looked hesitant. A few looked shamed. But none moved. Furio strode forward and grasped Primus by the arm."

"Prove to me you’re not as stupid as the rest of the hatchet-swingers.”

The soldier spoke quietly. “It’ll be dark in there. The torches will have gone out with the collapse. There’s air, but not forever.”

Primus thought of the blistered burns on Fulcer’s neck.
He tried to save them, even though they were only slaves
. He pulled free of Furio’s grip. “Tell my father I’m sorry.”
 

His poor mare crab-footed to get away as he gripped the saddle horn, but Primus hauled himself up anyway and she took his weight. He reached down to help the soldier up into the saddle behind him. “You’ll know where to find me.”

Furio said nothing. His face was unreadable as Primus tapped his horse’s flanks. The poor beast set out at a halting trot, bearing them toward the west gate.
 

“Is there anyone else we can rally?” Primus asked. “Perhaps a small number of slaves could be controlled...” But even as he spoke, he saw a group of soldiers struggling to contain a slave-barracks by the gate. Two of the men stood outside the barracks’ doorway, mercilessly cutting down the slaves who tried to rush past them. Two more soldiers stood behind the first pair, spears ready to impale any bondsman who managed to escape their swords. Yet the slaves kept coming. It looked like they were being pushed out from behind.

“Ride on,” the soldier urged Primus. “They don’t need our help.”

Primus needed no encouragement. He had no urge to join in that butchery. He pressed his injured mount for more speed, and they passed through the gates. Outside the walls the path continued straight and comparatively level; on either side the mountain rose, forming a narrow valley with the camp at its mouth. There were bodies of Woade here as well, stacked like cordwood as the others had been.
 

“My name’s Cusca,” said the man sharing Primus’ saddle.

“Primus Seneca.”

“Seneca?”

“The general is my father.”
 

“Huh. I thought that might be you. Word spreads fast in a camp like ours. You’ll want to take this cart path.”