Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire (6 page)

Primus knew that he should step forward. He could clear Varro’s name, and save his life...
 
but if he revealed what he knew, they would track down Sextus and crucify him for desertion. And they’d probably nail Primus up as his accomplice. Maybe Varro deserved his punishment, even if he wasn’t guilty; after all, he had threatened to murder one of his brothers. He probably would have done it, if Sextus had not fled. Then they would’ve hanged him, just the same as they were doing now–the only difference was that this way, Sextus got to live. Primus squeezed his eyes shut.
I am a coward
, he told himself. But he did not move.

They lit the funeral pyres, and the smell of lamp oil wafted across the field. Black smoke stained the morning sky, and the general stood to attention with the rest of them as the flames consumed the flesh of one comrade and the effigy of another. When the sun stood high overhead and the fires had burned down to little more than embers, the general turned away, and climbed down from the platform. His escort followed, dragging Varro between them. The hierophant’s assistants fetched pitchers of wine to bathe the ashes and the cohort fell out, dispersing slowly to barracks or breakfast or duties. Primus lingered with a few of the others, watching the last flames. Some of the men were talking in low voices about the murder.

“Who was it that caught Varro in the river? Do you know?” Primus looked into the embers as he spoke, and tried to sound numb rather than curious. One of the others glanced at him.

“It was Black Titus. Pity the old man couldn’t catch him before he’d done the deed.”

Primus nodded, and listened to them talk a while longer. As he turned from the ashes and began to climb the hill toward the barracks, he started to piece it all together. In order for the story about Varro to work, Titus had to be sure that Sextus wouldn’t suddenly turn up at the gates in a day or two. So he knew Sextus had deserted, and believed he stood a good chance of success. Earlier, Primus had wondered how Sextus slipped past the camp sentries. Now he knew: he’d had help.
 

He found Black Titus at his bunk, packing up his kit.

He unfastened each strap of his armor before stacking it, and unsheathed his sword to check the edge before stowing it in his chest. He grunted when he saw Primus. “Hail, little Seneca. Sad business, eh.”

Primus clasped wrists with him briefly. “Lepus I was expecting,” he said simply. “Sextus I was not.”

Titus looked at him sideways as he rolled up his neck guard and pushed it into his helmet.
 
“Well. Varro will suffer for it, before he hangs. Word is he’ll go to the mines.”

“Is it bad there?”
 

“It’s bad,” Titus agreed. “They bring in more slaves from the coast every year. To keep up with mortality.” He finished putting away his kit, and closed the chest.

Primus drew a breath. “Titus, I need... I mean, are you going to the kitchens?”

Titus looked at him. “Change out of your armor, if you’re coming with me.”
 

The wind was blowing from the falls as they climbed the hill. Primus pulled his cloak closed against the icy mist. Winter came early to the citadel; soon the hearths that warmed the barracks would be lit. The engineers had not been able to move the greatwood from where it had fallen along the bank. Their plan to float the tree downriver had failed; now teams of workers were laboriously hacking off sections of the trunk and dragging them overland down to the citadel. Many wondered if they could put by a sufficient store before snow and ice made the river road impassable.

Primus and Titus got hard rolls from the kitchen, and water from the well. Titus led them past the officer’s quarters and the latrines, all the way around the side of the hill to the rocky slope that faced the falls, and chose a slab of wet grey rock for their bench. It was far colder on this side of the hill, but at least no one would bother them. Primus broke his loaf, pinching out a bite of the soft interior. It was coarse, and heavily salted. He tipped his water skin to his lips and drank. From their perch, they could see over the top of the wooden palisade. Upriver, sheets of green water thundered over the falls, bearded by foam.

“How do you know if you’re a coward?” Primus asked. If Titus was startled by the question, he didn’t show it. He tore another chunk off of his bread, and looked thoughtfully at the cracked millet.

“There are no cowards in the legion. You know how the phalanx works. When it comes to a battle, I’ll be right behind you, with my shield against your back. I won’t let you run. It’ll be fight or die, and you’ll fight. I promise.” He spat out a hard black seed, and swigged water. For a moment both men were silent.

“And what about off the battlefield?” Primus asked. “How do you know when you’re making the right choices? The brave choices?” Primus thought of Varro cursing his father while he stood there motionless, of Lepus struggling beneath his knee, of Marius condemning an innocent man while he said nothing.

Titus seemed to weigh his question for some time. “The best thing I can tell you, boy, is this: don’t make any choices. Leave the hard decisions to the commanders. Your job is to obey. Being brave is about not letting your brothers down, no more than that. If your superiors don’t tell you to do something, then don’t do it. You stick to that and you’ll stay out of trouble–and no man can call you a coward.”

“But you haven’t stuck to that.” Primus did not make it a question. Titus looked at him, but Primus met his stare and eventually the old man dropped his eyes. He kneaded a pinch of his bread idly between his fingers.

“No. I haven’t.”

Primus knew better than to ask exactly what had happened between him and Varro, for the old man would never answer him. He supposed they were better off without Varro–he
knew
they were–but the thought of Titus manufacturing such a lie was hard to stomach.

“Why?” he asked, and he let the one word carry all his disappointment. Titus squinted out over the falls.

“It’s like you said, son. Off the battlefield, it’s hard to know the right choices.” He picked apart his loaf, dropping the bits between the stones. “Lately, every choice I’ve made feels cowardly.”

Primus shivered. He did not want to know that Titus was unsure of himself. That he couldn’t say what he’d have done in the old man’s place only made it worse. Hadn’t he wished to be rid of Varro, just hours before?
The lie of it all
, he thought to himself.
Everyone sees, but no one says.

Titus was watching him. “I’m sorry he brought you into this.” Primus glanced his way. The lines around the old man’s eyes and mouth looked deep. “I warned him not to.”

It wasn’t much. Just a simple acknowledgement of everything that had happened, everything they couldn’t talk about. Somehow, it helped. Primus lifted his feet up onto the stone, and hugged his knees to his chest. “Was it always like this?” he asked.

“No. It was simple, once. A long time ago.”

“Is it ever going to be simple again?”
 

Titus didn’t answer him; he just sat for a time, watching the falls, and then got up. He left Primus sitting on the damp slab of rock, daydreaming of a place far away to the south: a villa where the sun warmed the paving stones in the summer, and fields of grain bowed in the wind. The sun was low in the West and the shadows long across the hillside when Primus rose and walked slowly back to his barracks.

My father never showed any desire to discover who built the citadel. That the Woade so stringently avoided the place was to him not a mystery, but a tactical advantage.

–
Lucan Venator,

Testimony before the Senate

AUGURIES

His arms burning with weariness, Primus lifted his blade again, only to have it smacked aside. He leapt back as Titus stabbed at his belly, but quickly regained his balance, planting his feet as he’d been taught and driving his blade overhand at Titus’ head. The older man was not there. He’d stepped around as Primus was setting his feet, and Primus turned too late to follow the movement. Pain erupted between his ribs and he clutched his arm to his side. He staggered sideways, sweeping his blade across at Titus, but the old man swatted the cut away almost lazily and rapped Primus on the head with the flat of his blade. Primus sat heavily on the stony hillside, and dropped his sword to clutch at ribs and head both. Titus stood over him, breathing deeply but not hard.

“Did the drillmaster really pass you for combat?” Titus asked.

Primus looked up at him darkly. He could already feel the lump rising on top of his head. “Nearly a year ago. As you know.”

Titus frowned at that, deepening the lines around his mouth. “You want more seasoning.” It was an observation, not an insult. But it stung.

“You aren’t fighting right,” Primus complained.

Titus simply looked at him.

“You’re making me fight without a shield! It’s no wonder you keep hitting me.”

Titus grunted. “No wonder, because you don’t bother to defend. Do you notice I’m not fighting with a shield either? How many times have you struck me today?”

Primus said nothing to that. They’d been drilling all morning–at Titus’ insistence–and Primus hadn’t landed a single blow. Still, he was insulted that Titus didn’t think him ready to be a soldier, after everything that had happened. “The drillmaster told me to trust in my brothers. He told me that discipline is what makes the legion unstoppable, and nothing else.”

Titus dropped his practice blade to the earth and sat beside Primus, his elbows across his knees. “Well, the legion might be unstoppable,” he observed mildly, “but you’re not.”

For a little while they both sat in silence. The wind was strong today, and the mist was freezing into tiny crystals as it flew downstream. Everything was covered in hoarfrost on this side of the hill, but Primus wasn’t cold. In fact he was sweating through his wool tunic, making the material itch. This view of the falls was becoming familiar; Titus had sat here with him often, since Sextus had deserted. Primus wondered if the old man felt guilty over letting Sextus go, or over blaming Varro for his disappearance.

They had kept Varro in camp for two days before they sent him to the mine. Cascius, one of the Red Harpies, let Primus climb the gatehouse tower to watch him leave. Four of the general’s own bodyguard rode out on horseback, and Varro walked in manacles between them. He still limped, though they’d taken the leg irons off of him. “I’m sorry you won’t get to see him hang, son.” Cascius had put a hand on his shoulder. “After what he did to your friend, they should hang him here.” There had been nothing to say to that. If Cascius knew the truth, he would probably want to see Primus hang in Varro’s place. So he turned away from the older man’s sympathy and climbed back down the ladder to the camp.

Whatever he felt, Titus would not speak of the events of the past month. Most often he did not speak at all, but simply sat and watched the falls, and ignored Primus’ questions. Sometimes he talked about Arcadia; he had seen most of the Republic during his service, and Primus was only too eager to hear him describe the white cliffs of Fal Razad, or the endless grasses of the Far Roane. He visited those places in his mind, conjuring the wild tribesmen in their horse-leather tents, or the shrewd merchants of the reeking dockside markets. But lately what Titus wanted to do most was drill: they fought with blunted weapons until Primus’ limbs were on fire and his sword was made of lead. No matter how he tried, Titus was never satisfied with his performance.

Primus kicked a pebble loose from the dirt, and watched it bounce downhill. “Were you a lot better, when you were my age?” he asked.

Titus grunted. “When I was your age, I was a launderer’s apprentice.”

“I’ll get better,” Primus said.
 
“I just need time.”

“I hope you get it, lad. I truly do.”

Primus glanced sharply at him. “What does that mean?”

“Never mind. I just wish I knew why you’re being sent away.”

And there was the heart of it: Primus had been picked to join a special detachment–the cohort commander had informed him a few nights past, and at the same time told him bluntly that he considered it a mistake. A raw recruit was no sound choice for special assignments, not before he’d been tested in combat. But the general did not ask his opinion on personnel decisions, so in a few days Primus would leave his cohort and travel to the camp at Silvermine, where his new unit would receive their complete instructions. Rumor was that the garrison at Silvermine was weak, and wanted reinforcement. Primus hardly cared what the errand could be; this was going to be the first time he’d left the citadel in ten years. The days before their departure seemed to stretch out infinitely long, and Titus seemed determined to fill them up with training.

“You don’t think I’m up to it,” Primus accused him.

“That’s not it at all, boy.” Titus glanced at his face, and sighed. “I know you want the chance to prove yourself. But whatever this assignment is, it isn’t what they trained you for. Do you know the other men you’ll be traveling with?” Primus could only shrug. Titus shook his head. “Most of them are
extrordinarii
–light scouts. You should know their reputation.”

Primus nodded. The scouts wore little armor and rode swift horses. They were the only ones who ever ventured off the paths and into the Boreal forest. It was their duty to track the movement of the Woade in the area, so that the legion would never be taken unawares. They traveled on their own for weeks at a time, and when they were in camp, they ate and slept separate from the other men. “Perhaps they think I could become one of them.”

“That might be.” Titus sounded skeptical. “But this has the feel of something coming down from above.”

“My father is in the mining camp,” Primus said quietly. “Maybe he asked for me.” Primus had not seen his father in six years. He’d only had two letters in that time. By now the general must be eager to see his son, to find out what kind of soldier he’d turned out to be.

“Well. That might be so.” Both men fell silent once again.