Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire (16 page)

“We’re leaving at first light,”
 

Sextus shook his head. Some of the frenzy returned to his eyes. “No. You have to get away. Untie me, and go.”

“I can’t do that.”

Sextus looked at him, and seemed to master himself. He drew a shaky breath. “There are men in these ruins, Primus.”

“We saw no one.”

“They are here. You must not let them find you.” When Primus said nothing, Sextus began to fidget again. He seemed to struggle to remain calm. “They wear black, and their voices are terrible. They belong here the way the trees do.”

Primus’ face must have betrayed his thoughts.

“I’m not mad. Listen: I once told you that our gods can’t hear us in this place. Do you remember? I know better now: our gods are not real. We invented them to comfort ourselves. Real divinity cares nothing for us. Oh, gods, it hates us!” Sextus began to rock back and forth, whispering beneath his breath. Primus watched in horror, and remembered the strange chant of the hierophant at the citadel, and the voices at the edge of hearing. A shiver ran up his spine.

Primus shook himself. He gripped Sextus tight by the shoulders and held him still. “Listen to me. You are not well. I am going to take you out of this place, and...”
and you’ll be crucified for desertion
, Primus finished the thought to himself. “And you’ll get better. Just be still.”

Gradually, Sextus subsided. In time he opened his eyes and looked at Primus. “Why did you come here?”

Primus shook his head. Then, perhaps because he hoped it would bring his friend back to reality: “I killed Varro,” he said.

Sextus’ rocking eased. His eyes were pits of shadow in his face. “You killed him?”

“He went mad, Sextus. He tried to take revenge against us... against me, and my father. I thought at first that he wanted gold, but he only wanted to make us suffer.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sextus had stopped rocking entirely. Primus had his full attention. “General Marius sent Varro to the mine as punishment for your murder–with a sentence of death tacked on, come the spring. I guess they must have beat a confession out of him.” As he spoke, Sextus watched his face. The other men were silent lumps beneath their blankets. Primus did not care whether they slept or listened; he found suddenly that he could not carry it alone any longer. He talked about his days training with Titus, and the way he’d left things with the old man when he joined the scouts. He stumbled when he spoke of visiting Somnia in the temple, and did not describe the strange feeling of emptiness he had sensed when he looked at the statue of Jupiter.

Instead, Primus told about the Woade outside the mining camp, crucified where they could see their dead comrades, stacked beside the road. He told of the mine collapse, and of his disobedience. His voice was steady as he admitted his cowardice in facing Varro outside the mine. He did not keep their mission secret, but revealed the truth about the shipment of silver and gold. He told it all, hoping that it could bring his friend back to sanity. When he tried to describe his father’s death, he spoke past a lump in his throat. “I’ll never be that brave, Sextus. I could never face a thing like that and still do my duty. If that’s what it takes, then I can never be what my father was.” But even as he said those words, Primus remembered lying supine on the earth, frightened and hurt, while his father watched and did nothing.
 

“What happened?” Sextus prompted after a time.

“The Woade returned to sack the camp. I guess they came back for their crucified brothers. That’s what saved me–I got free while Varro was distracted. He... hurt me.” Primus touched the bandage on his face. “I killed him. But it was already too late. It’s my fault, Sextus. I’m not a real soldier. I pretended to be, just so I could see my father. But I failed him. He knew I would fail. When he saw me, he took one look at me... and... he knew.”
 

Primus stopped. Sextus shifted as though he would put an arm around him, but his hands were still bound tight behind him. After a time, Primus controlled himself. He drew a shaky breath. “Can you eat?”

Sextus nodded. Primus went to his saddlebags and found a hard biscuit. He hesitated a moment, then helped Sextus lean forward away from the wall. He untied his skeletal wrists, but tied them again in front. Sextus took the biscuit in both hands, and allowed Primus to soak it from his water-skin.
 

“Something I don’t understand,” Sextus said between tiny bites. He chewed as if his teeth pained him. “Why did Marius send Varro to the mine?”

“For your murder.” When Sextus only stared blankly at him, Primus thought he might have forgotten. He spoke quickly to keep his friend’s mind from wandering. “The story you and Titus came up with to explain your disappearance: Varro murdered you, and dumped your body in the river. Titus was a witness. We held a funeral for you
in absentia
.” He forced a laugh. “Furio over there was sure you were a ghost.” As he gestured to Furio’s indistinct form, Lucan stirred in his bedroll.

Sextus was shaking his head. “Titus gave me herbs to help me pretend I was ill. I told the commander I was in the infirmary, and I told the doctor that I felt better and was returning to the barracks. It was good enough to buy me a day or so.”

Lucan had risen from his blankets. Like Primus, he had slept in his armor. He stepped over the cold fireplace toward the prisoner. Sextus shrank back from him, and Primus stood. “Legionnaire. Why are you not on duty?”

“Sir.” Primus stood and saluted. There was nothing else to do but step outside. He had not made two circuits of the building when Lucan joined him.

“Report.”

“Sextus woke up,” Primus said simply. “I gave him bread and water.”

“Where has he been?”

Primus repeated everything that Sextus had said to him. The legate stared out at the night as he listened. Primus could not tell whether he had overheard it all before. “Perhaps we should take his advice and move on,” Primus said when he was finished. “He may be telling the truth. If there are enemies here...”

Lucan frowned. His arms were folded across his chest. “The road is too treacherous. I will not ride out in the dark unless I see these men of his with my own eyes.”

“You don’t believe him.”

The legate turned his glare upon Primus. “I think he’s stark raving mad.”

Primus did not give ground. “But we’ll take him with us.” After a moment, Lucan nodded.
 

“Your watch is ended, Legionnaire. Sleep while you can.”

Primus saluted again. Privately, he was glad that Sextus would have the night to rest. He went to check on the prisoner before seeking his pallet. Sextus was sound asleep. Primus settled into the warm spot that the legate had abandoned. He shivered as he looked up at the sky. The moon had set, and only a few stars shone through the clouds. It was as dark a night as there had ever been. Primus gave in to his exhaustion.

***

When he awoke, Sextus was dead. It was obvious the moment Primus looked at him: Sextus lay on his side in a pool of blood, already beginning to freeze. Gracchus stood over him, looking grieved.
 

“What happened?” Primus threw aside his cloak and came to Sextus’ side. “Did you do this?” He glared at Lucan, who was already saddling his horse. When legate looked at back at him, Primus turned away in fear. He crouched over Sextus, and saw the manner of his death.

It had been a mistake to tie his wrists in front of him. Sextus had chewed his own veins open during the night. Primus closed his eyes, sickened. Gracchus put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s at peace now.”

Primus stood and stumbled out of the shelter. Snow surged around his boots as he walked away from the road toward the trees. No one pursued him. In the shadow of a greatwood tree he sank to his knees.
Gone again.
Sextus had appeared like a gift from the gods, his friend restored to him. Primus would have sheltered him until he was strong again, talked to him until he remembered fully who he was. Now he was snatched away again.
 

Primus knelt for a long time in the snow, until his knees were stiff and his back ached with the cold. When he finally rose, he walked away from the others, out into the forest. He did not watch for wolves or Woade or strange men in black robes, but searched out everything that could burn. A few hundred yards from camp he found a deadfall, a toppled grandfather of the forest. He stripped from it everything he could carry.

He piled the wood in the center of the ruined building. It was not a true pyre, but just the same he untied Sextus’ wrists and ankles and wrapped him in his blanket and placed him on the pile. Every scout carried a bottle of lamp oil in his bags; Primus used nearly their whole supply to douse the body. Furio protested, but Primus ignored him. He went to Lucan’s horse and opened one of the money chests and took out two golden
aurei
. They were stamped with Marius’ face. Primus turned them so that the Arcadian eagle faced upward and placed them over Sextus’ eyes. Lastly he opened his wineskin, and poured the last of it out over his friend. Then he struck a spark from his knife, and stood back to watch Sextus burn.

Lucan came to stand beside him. “This is not wise.”

“No.”

“Sextus did not believe the gods existed. I doubt he believed in an afterlife.”

“Perhaps not.”

They were silent for a time. It was obvious that Sextus would not burn completely. A proper funeral pyre would’ve ensured that there was nothing left of him but ash.
 
“You knew he was alive,” Primus said. Lucan did not respond. “You weren’t surprised to see him at the tree. Not like Furio.” The other scout had reacted with terror, then revulsion. He had been sure Sextus was dead. Gracchus had not been so shocked, but then Gracchus had never known the dead man.

“You weren’t surprised either.”

“No.”

Another silence fell. Then: “I knew he was alive,” said Lucan.

“Tell me why.”

Lucan sighed. “It’s complicated, Primus. The world does not balance on your personal sense of right and wrong. Varro was planning to mutiny. He knew the gold and silver were nearly all collected, and he wanted that for himself.”

Primus shook his head. “Why not execute him?”

“Preserving a legion in a place like this requires a constant balancing act. If we arrested Varro and executed him before he’s had the chance to act, then every man who has grumbled about the cold weather and short rations would start to think that he was next. But even an unsuccessful attempt at mutiny would be disastrous. Remember also that Varro was a very popular man. So we needed to discredit him and remove him in such a way that even his followers would believe he was guilty. His vendetta with Sextus made the murder very plausible.”

“How did Titus come to ‘witness’ your murder?”

“He was caught helping Sextus to desert. We made him an offer: if he went along with our plan, we would let Sextus go. If not, we would hunt the boy down and crucify them together.” What had Titus said to him?
I’m sorry he brought you into this. I warned him not to.

“And you beat a confession out of Varro.”

“Perhaps we should have. It might have cowed him some. But we thought we could make a deal with him instead. In fact we would not have hurt him at all, but he was... tenacious. In the end he took our offer.”
 

Primus did not have the stomach to ask. Lucan indulged him anyway.

“Varro would go free when we took the legion east. We did not plan to take the slaves with us. Varro probably could have taken over the mine, knowing him. He could have ruled a little kingdom and dug silver out of the mountainside to his heart’s content. We thought that would satisfy him. It should have been enough.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No. It wasn’t.” Together they watched Sextus’ body burn down to bones, black ashes drifting down to darken the snow.
 

When the flames began to gutter, Lucan insisted that they mount. Primus still needed help climbing onto his horse, for his leg was stiff and sore where Varro had stabbed him. The road was treacherous even in the morning light, and they rode single-file. Primus rode behind the legate, staring at his back. Lucan’s iron cap was dented, and his fine white cloak was soiled from sleeping on the earth. The chests of gold clinked with the motion of his horse.
 

Primus could not believe the weight they had let him carry. The lie that sent Varro to the mine, that led to his father’s death–all this time, Primus had thought it belonged to Titus and himself. But it was really Lucan’s lie, and the old man’s... and probably his father’s too. General Seneca must have known the truth.
Why did he let them do it?
Primus asked himself. He had been so proud of his father’s courage... but the elder Seneca had let himself be dragged along by the Venators, the same as his son. Primus vowed that he would not be used the way his father was, to serve the ends of ambitious men. Primus would cleave to his honor, no matter what the cost.

High above, the wind skirled through the branches of greatwood trees that had stood for centuries, mocking the tiny vows of men.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book began as a single-sentence writing exercise. The assignment was to craft a compelling opening line without any particular story in mind, then to build on that line and ‘see where it takes you.’ That was ten years ago.
 

If you are going to try this exercise, I urge you to proceed with caution.

My dedication to this material for the past decade is not the result of single-minded perseverance. The fact is that I had an audience from word one: a devoted group of friends and fans who eagerly devoured each and every chapter the instant it was finished. They have watched this world grow from a single sentence to... whatever it is now. They will continue to watch as I build on this foundation and explore new characters and new facets of Arcadia. They are my personal heroes, and their names deserve acknowledgement.

Joseph Kassab is my oldest friend. When we were children, he spent so much time at my house that for years I thought we were cousins. I’m still not completely convinced that we aren’t. From the first page of Exiles, Joey instantly grasped what I was trying to say. He understood what this project was before I did. For a writer, that kind of recognition is a powerful drug.