Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire (7 page)

Primus could not guess how six years had changed his father. “What do you think he’ll make of me?”

Titus swigged from his water-skin and passed it before answering. “The general’s a fair judge of character, most times. He’ll give you a chance, at least.”
 

Primus could think of little he could say to that. He sipped at the water-skin. His hand trembled slightly, wetting his chin. The water tasted of leather.

“He’s a good man, you know,” Titus added.

“Varro said that he was a hypocrite.”

“Varro’s a liar.”

“And we’re not?” Primus fingered the wooden stopper of the water-skin, not looking at Titus. “Sometimes people say things about my father. Things like Varro said... but it’s not just him. I’ve tried to ignore it for a while now, but I can’t anymore.” Primus didn’t know how to say what he was afraid of. He only knew that overhearing the name ‘Seneca’ in conversation put a lead feeling in his belly.

Titus took a very long time to answer him. The sun had reached its zenith; it threw the shadow of the citadel across their backs, and darkened the hillside below their feet. The sound of hammers echoed off the canyon walls. The Widowers and the Harpies had been tasked with dressing sections of the wooden palisade with stone; their shouts and genial curses drifted through the air above the river.
 

Finally, Titus drew a deep breath, and spoke carefully. “Back home, before all this started, a man’s reputation meant everything. You were never beaten while you still had your name, and you’d die before you sullied it. Well, we all talked that way at least; not everyone could really live like that. Those of us that didn’t have any reputation of our own wanted to follow a man who did. It was as if we could borrow some of his honor for ourselves. You see?”

Primus thought he understood. Being one of the Dead Men meant that people treated him differently: he always drew the toughest jobs and the hardest shifts, because command assumed that he could take it. So far they were right; Primus had never folded, and never once complained. Not even after Lepus.

Titus continued. “When Marius and Seneca refused to march against the Woade, they disobeyed a direct command from the Senate. That’s not just insubordination. It’s sacrilege. When they did that, they threw away our honor along with theirs. That’s how some people see it, anyway. There are some men who look at the whole war, and say to themselves ‘every piece of discipline these two ever handed out has been a lie. Look at what they do, when they don’t like their orders.’”

Primus thought about that for a while. “But they don’t call Marius a hypocrite. It’s only my father they talk about.” He had never admitted it out loud, but it was true.
 

“Well,” Titus said slowly, “it’s a bit easier to understand with the general. He came from the Woade; it’s natural he would refuse to help exterminate them. But Seneca is old Arcadian... your ancestor helped create the Senate. For your father it’s quite a turnabout, supporting Marius.”

Primus was uncomfortable talking about his famous ancestor. “What about Varro? What happened between them?”

He sighed. “That’s not my story to tell. Just remember: because a man is out here with us, it doesn’t mean he loves the general. Or your father. You keep that in mind, and you’ll be all right.”

Primus shook his head. More secrets. He knew then that the truth about his father was bad; if he’d done nothing wrong, Titus would’ve said so. “I am sick to death of secrets.”

Titus put a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s hard to hear, son. But your father doesn’t decide who you are. Only you do that. Let these old bones stay buried, and make your own reputation, if you can.”

Titus squeezed his shoulder for a moment more. Then he rose, the old man’s joints cracking as he pushed himself up off the damp and stony earth. “That’s enough practice for today,” he said, stooping to retrieve his weapon. He moved off slowly, leaving Primus alone in the shadow of the great stone tower.

***

The night before he was to leave, Primus lay on his bunk listening to the night-breathing of three hundred men who had been his brothers. The only light in the barracks came from a single oil lamp by the door. Maneuvering by touch, Primus untied his freshly packed kit and dug out his leather kit-bag. Tugging it open, he drew out a small stone of river-polished granite. The face on the stone was invisible in the dim light, but Primus saw it clearly in his mind. He ran a thumb across the portrait, feeling the sweep of the paint where his mother’s hair tumbled to her shoulder. It was the only personal token he owned; the rest of his kit was painfully regulation, from sword to sewing-needle. Even the stone had only been left to him by accident, discovered when Primus snuck into his father’s abandoned quarters.
 

Now Primus was leaving behind even less: just a vacant cot and an empty chest. He wondered who would miss him when he was gone.
Titus
, he told himself. But he could not make himself believe it. For all his kindness, Primus was just a burden on the old man’s time. Lepus would have missed him. Despite his mockery, Lepus had been a friend, before the accident at least. And Sextus... he pushed the thought out of his mind. Sextus had abandoned his brothers. Primus would waste no tears on him.

Suddenly the room full of sleeping men was nightmarishly crowded. Primus rolled off of his bunk to pull on his boots, and crept to the door. The quartermaster let him past on the excuse that he was headed for the latrine, and Primus escaped into the stinging cold air of the night. There were no clouds overhead, and the stars hung low over the river canyon. Primus walked quickly up the path, his boots crunching softly in the frost. The camp was silent; he could hear the creak of the wood as the guards walked the palisade. The hour was later than he had realized.
 

The hierophant had taken auguries that morning, to measure the gods’ opinion of their coming journey. Primus was no student of religion; he could not follow as the priest traced the complicated signs that supposedly augured well for their task. Instead he had spent the ceremony watching Somnia, who stood at the hierophant’s elbow on the speaker’s platform, managing his scrolls as he marshaled his scraps of prophecy. She wore robes of pure white, and silver ribbons adorned her hair at the temples. The edge of her robe was drawn up over her head, a sign of humility before the gods. She never glanced at Primus though he watched her steadily; in fact she gave him no sign of recognition at all... any more than she had at a dozen ceremonies before. He knew she was wise to show him no recognition. In a camp like theirs, a careless smile from the general’s daughter would be enough to cause a scandal. But Primus was tired of propriety. He was determined that at least one soul would be sorry to see him depart in the morning.

The temple was small, by Arcadian standards, but it was built of substantial blocks of stone, unlike the simple brick-and-mortar barracks halls. Situated near the crest of the hill, its construction had been an early priority when the Arcadians came north; without a home for their gods, they could not have survived a single winter in the Boreal forest. Legion engineers were not artisans: their temple featured a simple, peaked roof and columns of undressed stone. Primus climbed the brief temple steps and stood before the doors, staring at their carvings, seeing nothing. He glanced back down the hill; his footprints stood out dark against the frost. If he crept back to the barracks now, no one would wonder where he’d been. He raised his fist and pounded on the doors. The sound echoed against the stillness within.

He was on the point of turning back down the hill when the huge brass hinges ground in their stone divots, and the door cracked open. An acolyte peered up at him. The man looked only a little older than Primus, but his shoulders were round where Primus was square, and the softness of his hands was obvious where he gripped the door.

“Yes? What is it?” The acolyte’s hair was neatly combed, and he did not speak like a man shaken from his sleep. A good sign: Primus had feared that the temple would be as quiet as the barracks at this hour.

He tried to sound confident. “Somnia Venator. I need to speak with her.”

The acolyte blinked at him. “Right now?”

“Immediately.”

“And you are?”

“I am Primus Seneca. What is your name?” The acolyte’s eyes widened. Primus could see him weighing the consequences of disturbing Marius’ daughter against the risk of annoying Seneca’s son. A soldier would have known that regardless of rank, the nearest officer was always the biggest threat. The priest did not.

“Wait here,” he said, and left the temple door ajar, disappearing into the gloom within. Primus stood on the portico, looking out at the silent camp, wondering when some sentry would happen past and demand to know his business. The priests might be impressed by his name, but to the soldiers he was just Legionnaire Second Class Primus Seneca. The acolyte had left the door cracked open behind himself. After a moment’s hesitation, Primus slipped inside the temple.

The antechamber was large, so that lines of columns were needed to support its stone roof. At the far end of the chamber, opposite the doors, sat Jupiter’s likeness. When the priest invoked his god, Jupiter would possess the statue in order to hear his pleas and receive his offering. A bowl of hammered bronze was placed at his feet, and the coals within were the only light. The god was crudely formed, his beard vague and eyes cavernous. The coals hissed in a draft from the door as Primus stepped inside, and the red light cast upon Jupiter’s face grew stronger. Primus moved slowly into the room, peering at the god’s face. The eyes seemed to flicker as he watched, the shadows moving in their pits. At the edge of hearing there came a sound like flies buzzing–or like many people whispering at once. Almost, Primus could make out words; but the voices rose and fell, teasing him. He noticed for the first time that tendrils of smoke hung in the air, wreathing the pillars, crowning the temples of the god. They shifted as he stepped forward, swirling in the wind of his passage.

“Primus.”
 

He startled, forgetting for an instant why he was there. But when he turned, Somnia stood near the doorway. She was frowning. He glanced back at the coals, watching the tails of smoke rise upward, twining as they climbed. There was a heavy, spiced scent to the air.

“Come away from there.” Somnia spoke reasonably, just as if he were a child playing too close to the river. He felt her touch his hand, and a tiny thrill of fire raced through him. He turned from the coals and watched her as she lifted his hand, drawing him away. She wore her white robes still, but the silver fillet was gone from her temples, and her hair hung unbound to her shoulders, catching the fire from the coals.
 

Outside, the cold air was like a slap.
 

“Better?” Somnia was watching his face. He nodded.

“What was that?” His own voice sounded strange in his ears, as though he were under water.
 

“An herb. The Woade call it
chyurda
. Not everyone is sensitive to the effects.”

Primus shook his head, and breathed deeply of the fresh air. With each breath, he felt clearer. “Why do you use it?”

“I don’t,” she said flatly. By the set of her mouth, he knew she would say no more. “Was there something you needed?”

He felt suddenly awkward, recalling his purpose. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow. With the scouts.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I just... came to say goodbye.”

She took a long time to answer him, and Primus felt steadily worse as the silence grew. “I see,” she finally said.

“It’s just that you and I were close once. When we were children. And it’s been so long since we’ve talked. I just thought... maybe we could be friends again.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry, Primus. This just isn’t a good time.”

“But I’m leaving tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “I am sorry. Truly. But I can’t talk about this right now.”

He nodded, his face burning.
 

“Primus...” She put her hand on his shoulder, and the sympathy in her voice made him want to sink into the earth. Moments ago he’d believed that he had nothing to lose by coming here. Now he could not believe how stupid he’d been. He turned away without a word, and strode back across the temple grounds toward the road. She caught him halfway across the yard.

“It’s the hierophant,” she said. He stopped.
 

“What?”

“The herb you saw burning in the temple. The hierophant uses it. He’s using it right now.”

Primus remembered the sound of voices at the edge of hearing, buzzing like flies. “Why?”

“You know that back home, people sleep in the temples to commune with the gods.”

He nodded. “Like your father, the night before he decided to disobey the Senate. Jupiter came to him in his dream.”

The ghost of a smile flickered across her lips. “Yes. Well, the Woade use
chyurda
in a similar way. It’s a little bit like dreaming, for them. It brings them closer to their gods.”

“Are you saying the hierophant uses it to help him pray?”

Her smile was grim. “At this point, he can’t pray without it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the open door of the temple. “He’s been using the herb for a very long time now. And the more he uses it, the more dangerous it becomes. He can be... self-destructive, sometimes. When he’s in its throes, it’s very important that I be present to help him through it.” She looked back at him. “That’s why this is a bad time.”

“I don’t understand. The hierophant prayed with us just this morning. He took auguries.” The priest had helped them seal a pact with Jupiter to safeguard their journey. He had not seemed
 
drugged, or dangerous to himself. “He promised us Jupiter’s blessing.”

She just looked into his eyes. She looked guilty. “I really have to go now, Primus. And you must go too. But I wish you luck on your journey.” She clasped him by both shoulders, and stood on tiptoe to plant a swift kiss on the side of his jaw. “Be safe,” she whispered. Then she was gone, dashing back into the darkened temple, the hem of her white robes bunched up in one hand.