Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire (15 page)

Primus took a final look at the shivering figures huddled together in the snow. He wondered if the Woade would find them before they died of exposure. If they did, would the barbarians take them as chattel or simply kill them? He pulled his cloak tighter about himself, and rode on.

Soon after that, they left the road.

Primus had never traveled through the forest before. He recalled the words of Sextus, on the night he slipped out of camp and deserted them.
There’s something in this place that’s even older than our gods. Something that doesn’t want us here
. Primus shivered, and tried to put the thought from his mind. The farther they went from the road, the more still and silent the forest became. At first, the tracks of animals crossed their path: the splashing leap of northern hares, the plodding steps of wolves. But eventually there was only a smooth white blanket, and the pillars of the earth. Then the ruins began.

Primus noticed them as lumps beneath the snow. At first he mistook them for deadfalls, buried by winter after winter. But they were too regular, and too many. Finally he saw a row of granite slabs peeking up from the white, and he knew that these were the bones of an ancient city, now reduced to its foundations. There was little left to see, but once he knew what he was looking at Primus recognized the pattern of buildings laid out between the trees. Finally they came to a broad clearing, a smooth flat space free of ruins. In the center of the clearing stood the Arbor.

The tree was twisted and black, like a rotten arm thrust up through the earth to clutch at the sky. It was as wide as a greatwood, but stunted and obscene. As he stared, Primus felt a familiar buzzing behind his eyes. He blinked and shook his head. The buzzing receded, but he could not help thinking of the temple, and the strange chanting of the hierophant.
No one to save you from what’s coming
, the mad priest had whispered in his ear. Primus shook his head again, and slapped himself lightly to clear his mind. The throb in his cheek flared red hot, but he could think no clearer.

“We should rest,” Lucan was saying. “And build a fire. The horses are weary and no Woade has ever come within a league of this place.”

“So far as you know,” Furio reminded him. “We have no fuel for a fire, and I mislike the idea of cutting down...” his voice trailed off, and suddenly he drew his sword. Lucan pulled free his weapon and Gracchus did the same.

“What is it?” Lucan hissed, and Furio pointed with his blade.

“There. At the base of the tree. It’s a man.”

Primus started. He had looked so intently at the tree he had not seen what huddled between its roots. It was indeed a man, in ragged black. He was curled over on his knees but he was definitely alive, for he rocked back and forth unceasingly. As Primus listened, he could make out strange, rhythmic muttering in the still air.

Lucan gestured for them to fan out, and they moved forward slowly. No one spoke, but the snow creaked as the horses’ hooves packed it down. Primus slid his weapon free. As they surrounded the ragged, skeletal man Primus tried not to listen to his muttering. It was a chant he was sure he already knew.

“Identify yourself.” Lucan’s voice broke the stillness and the stranger jerked upright and twisted to face them. Furio sucked in a breath and made the sign of the evil eye. Lucan swore beneath his breath. Primus leapt down from his horse.

He waded through ankle deep powder toward the starveling man. The poor wretch’s hair bristled ragged and thin around his head, and his eyes were burning with fever despite the cold that had blackened his fingertips. He was still muttering his strange chant.

“Sextus?” The starved man’s eyes locked on Primus, and there was something in them of recognition... and of shame. “Gods beneath us, what has happened to you?”

Primus came forward to embrace his friend, but Lucan got there first. He strode up behind Sextus while his attention was fixed on Primus and cracked the flat of his blade across the back of his head. The poor wretch dropped facedown into the snow.

“What the hell are you doing?”
 

Lucan only glared at him across the crumpled form of his friend. “Tie him to a horse,” he growled. “We’re moving on.”

My father knew of the citadel from childhood tales. All the Woade are raised to fear the ancient places; even their bravest warriors shun them. We sought to take advantage of the clansmen’s superstition. We thought we knew the real faces of the gods. The world will pay the price for our arrogance.

–
Lucan Venator,

Testimony before the Senate

LEGIONNAIRE

The simple porridge sat like sawdust in Primus’ mouth. Across their modest campfire–the first Lucan had allowed them since the mine–he watched Gracchus try futilely to spoon porridge into Sextus’ mouth. There had been no tearful reunion when Sextus awakened from the blow to his head. The
extrordinarii
had moved him from the black tree where they found him to the eastern edge of the ruined city, where a highway emerged from the snow. It was treacherous with ruts and scattered cobblestones, but the scouts promised it would lead them to the coast.
 

Where the highway began, they found modest shelter in the corner where two walls of a ruined building leaned together. The horses crowded close to the walls. Primus wrapped Sextus in a blanket from his saddle-bags while Furio ripped a scrub-pine tree out of the rotted mortar where it had twined its roots. The gnarled, resinous wood made a small, bright fire and for a time Sextus lay unnaturally still beside it.

Primus sat beside him, staring at the desolation of his body. He had been a big man, if not a tall one, broad across the shoulders and heavy around the waist. Now his skin sagged from his face and his hands were withered to claws. His bony shoulders gave him a shrunken, crabbed look. His armor was gone, and his weapons. There was no sign of the plain gray cloak he’d worn when Primus last saw him. In its place was a worm-eaten robe of black wool.

Sextus’ eyelids fluttered, and Primus leaned over him. He came awake with a groan, and glanced wildly around. Primus began to speak, to tell him he was among friends, but Sextus scrambled to his feet and began to shuffle toward the stone doorway that still protruded from the sagging wall.
 

“Stop. You need to sit down,” Primus said. It was painful to see Sextus walk on frostbitten feet, for his boots had largely rotted away and his toes were black and nailless. He came around in front of Sextus, a hand on his shoulder to ease him back down to the ground.
 

Without warning, Sextus leapt at him.

Primus stumbled backward, shocked by the savagery of the attack. Sextus clawed at the skin of his throat with black fingernails, leaning forward in an attempt to bite him. Primus gave a shout and shoved him backward.

Sextus collapsed. As frenzied as he’d been before, now he was just as still. He was so frail from his privation that for an instant Primus was sure he’d killed him. He watched, frozen, while Sextus lay crumpled on the paving stones beside the fire. The others were silent. It had happened so fast that they still held their tasks in hand–Gracchus, seeing to the horses, looked heartsick at the sight of the Sextus’ rib bones showing through his ragged black robe. Furio was kindling his fire. He looked revolted. Lucan stared at Primus, and anger tightened the line of his jaw. Finally Sextus moved, rolling himself onto knees and elbows. Primus came to his side and knelt, but the poor wretch began worming past Primus’ feet. His eyes were fixated on the highway outside–the road that led back toward the terrible black tree.

In the end they had little choice but to restrain him, binding hands and feet to keep him still. Gracchus tied him and Primus gave over his blanket; no one else was willing to touch him. Furio kept the fire between Sextus and himself, as if he thought the poor man was diseased. Lucan stood with arms folded just outside the tumbledown wall, staring out at the snow that blew down from the treetops in the wind.

Sextus had subsided the moment he was restrained. All the strength leaked out of him, and he slumped against the wall, eyes wide and unseeing. When the stirabout was heated, Gracchus took a bowl and tried to spoon some into his slack mouth. The grey porridge dripped down his pallid skin, sticking in his beard. Primus looked away. It was as though his friend were not there at all.

“We camp here,” Lucan announced brusquely. “Gracchus takes the first watch. Primus is second, then Furio. I’m fourth.”

“What about him?” Gracchus asked. He had wiped the mess from Sextus’ chin.

Lucan scowled at their prisoner. “We’ll carry him as long as he lasts.” It was plain the legate did not expect that would be long.
 

Primus made up his pallet beside the dying embers of the fire. He slept with armor on, despite the discomfort, for the sake of warmth. His cloak he draped over himself; his blanket still covered Sextus’ shoulders. He looked up at the shadows of the treetops framed by the building’s ruined walls. Wind siffled loose powder off of the bricks to hiss across the bare stone floor. Outside the walls, Gracchus’ slow steps crunched down snow. Primus thought back to the day the tree had come down on Lepus. At the end, Lepus would not let himself be touched. Whenever Primus came close, he snarled and spit and fought like a demon. Primus had known that he was mad with fear and pain and blood-loss. It hurt him anyway, to be so hated by his friend. Tonight, Primus knew he should feel pity for Sextus. Instead he felt betrayed. Sextus should have recognized him. Lepus should have been grateful to him. He’d been trying to help.

The cold made Primus cheek throb. Gracchus had made him a poultice to draw out infection. “I think it will heal,” he’d said as he worked. “But it’ll scar. Won’t be any disguising it, either. Someone took a bite out of you.” Lying beside the dying fire, Primus shuddered. He did not want to think about his fight with Varro. His eye still watered, but he could see through it if he squinted. He wondered if all men turned into animals when they fought.
My father died with honor
, he reminded himself.
He died like a man
. Suddenly pride touched Primus where the pain could not, and he wept. The others lay still, pretending to sleep through his grief.

He was still awake when Gracchus came to wake him for his watch. He rose silently, shaking the crystals of snow off of his cloak. Across the fire-pit, Sextus looked to be sleeping. Primus wrapped his cloak around his shoulders as Gracchus helped himself to the warm pallet he had left behind.

Primus paced slowly in Gracchus’ footprints, staring out at the gloom. The clouds had blown away, revealing a crescent moon. There was little to see outside except the deeper shadows of the greatwoods. He tried not to think about what might be watching him from the darkness. Halfway through his watch, a sound made Primus freeze where he stood. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he stretched out with all his senses, waiting. It came again. It was the sound of something scraping against the wall of the ruined building.
 

Primus hesitated an instant before he crept back to the intact doorway and peered inside. Sextus was awake. Hands and feet bound, he was inching his way upright, his face pressed against the stone wall. Primus stepped fully inside and Sextus froze. For a moment they stared at each other.

“Primus?” The voice was dry as old bones, but it was Sextus. For all that his body and face and even his clothes had changed, the voice was still the same. Relief rushed through Primus; he fairly dove for his saddlebags and dug out his water-skin. His hands shook as he fumbled the cork out and tipped it into Sextus’ mouth. When he coughed, Primus lowered the water-skin and lifted the edge of the blanket to wipe his mouth.
 

“Where...?” Sextus tried to look around, but leaning against the wall of the building he could only move so far.

“I’m not sure, exactly. A very old city. We found you...” Primus realized that he did not want to remind Sextus of the black tree. It had some hold over his friend that he did not want to refresh. “We found you yesterday. You were sick. We feared you would hurt yourself. Can you eat?”

Sextus hesitated. “I’m so thirsty...”
 

Primus lifted the skin again for him. As he drank, Sextus seemed to come slowly back to himself. Primus thought of waking Lucan, but he knew that the legate would immediately interrogate the poor man. Let Sextus recover some piece of his strength first.

“Can you untie me?”

Primus knew how Lucan would react to that. Releasing a prisoner, no matter how weak, in the midst of three sleeping men was gross negligence. And he remembered the frenzied way Sextus had tried to bite him, and the sudden calm that came over him after being bound. “Do you remember attacking me?” Sextus shook his head. Even in the darkness, Primus could sense his fear. “Sextus. You need to tell me what has happened. Why are you here? Why didn’t you make for the coast?”

Sextus fidgeted in his bonds. Primus helped him settle himself against the wall, but he did not untie him. “I tried to head east,” he finally admitted. “It was harder than I expected. I didn’t have enough food. I saw tracks, but I’m no hunter. I wasted days tracking deer. Stupid.” Primus held the water-skin again, and Sextus drank. “Food got low. I stopped chasing deer and headed east. Wolves found me.” He coughed, a rattling, phlegmatic sound. “I lost track of where I was. The wolves started following me in daylight. Watching. I found a building. Old, but it had a second floor. No staircase. I climbed up. That’s where they came for me.” Sextus leaned his head against the wall and shut his eyes as if resting.

“Who came for you? Sextus?” Primus gripped his shoulder. The bones beneath were sharp despite the blanket and robe that covered them.
 

Sextus opened his eyes slowly and lifted his head, waking from a dream. He looked around. “Are there only four of you? Are you on horseback?”

Primus wondered uncomfortably if it were wise to answer that. “Tell me who came for you.”

Sextus shuddered. “You shouldn’t stay here.”