Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores)

by Danielle L. Jensen

  “You did not.” Agnes patted his cheek as she passed. “But who could blame you? Silvara, take mercy on the poor lad.”

  He heard Silvara laugh, the sound filling his ears and drowning out anything else, but as he turned to look at her, three of the Twenty-Ninth stepped into the laundresses’ tent. And at their head was Carmo.

  Agrippa scowled at the sight of the older primus, who only had the title because he was Hostus’s dog. Technically, Agrippa was supposed to be training under the older soldier, but given that the first lesson Carmo had given him was to break both of Agrippa’s wrists, he typically avoided the other man like the plague.

  One of the laundresses rose, her eyes wide. “Your clothing isn’t dry yet, dominus. Another hour—”

  “You think I’ve an hour to wait around, you lazy old hag!” Carmo kicked a washtub, flipping it over and spilling water everywhere. Then he threw an armload of dirty laundry at her. “Get me something clean, now!”

  “Yes, dominus.”

  The woman scuttled from the tent, and Carmo, turning to talk to his cronies, spotted Agrippa. “Why are you naked?” he demanded.

  Stretching, Agrippa said, “Agnes here is an artist. And I am her muse.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her muse,” Agrippa repeated. “Don’t worry, sir, no one will ever use the word to describe you.”

  Carmo’s mud-brown eyes regarded him with all the intelligence of a cow as he tried to determine whether he’d been insulted, eventually muttering, “Obnoxious Thirty-Seventh shit.”

  Beyond, Silvara had wisely discarded Agrippa’s cloak behind a pile of laundry, but as she rose, the motion caught Carmo’s eye. “Hello, pretty.”

  “Dominus.” Silvara lowered her head, but Agrippa saw the hate in her eyes. The way her hands balled into fists like she intended to pick a fight, though to do so would be lunacy.

  “This isn’t the tent you should be working in.” Carmo stepped closer to her, leering. “How’s about we escort you to a place better suited for someone with a face like yours.”

  Shit.

  Spotting the other laundress reappearing with a stack of folded garments, Agrippa said loudly, “You should really charge him double, love. I’ve no doubt it took twice the time.”

  Carmo turned to glare at him. “What are you blathering on about, Agrippa?”

  “Well, everyone knows about your lack of fastidiousness when visiting the latrines.”

  From the look on the laundresses’ faces, they had also noticed. But they were also taking advantage of the distraction to shove Silvara out the back of the tent.

  “My lack of what?” Carmo’s hands balled into fists, his skin purpling.

  “Fastidiousness. It means—”

  “I’ve no interest in lessons from you!” Carmo roared the words. “Just like I’ve no interest in your disrespect. Hostus is going to hear—”

  “Oh yes, I would like to be a fly on the tent wall for that conversation.” Adopting a low growling tone, he said, “Agrippa disrespected me, sir.” And then in a posh officer’s voice, he added, “What did he say this time, Carmo?” Another growl, “Told the laundresses I don’t wipe my ass after I shit, sir.”

  “You little…”

  Carmo lunged, fists flying, but Agrippa had already moved.

  He hooked the bigger man’s leg as he went past, sending him sprawling. But where he’d been given little in the way of brains, Carmo had been gifted mightily in brawn. Trapped by the other men, Agrippa had no room to move and Carmo caught him by the ankle. They went down in a twisting mass of arms and legs, Carmo clipping him in the cheek even as Agrippa kicked him in the knee, grinning as the man cursed.

  But then the other men dogpiled him, fists flying, and his forearms ached as he blocked blow after blow. Carmo rose, drawing back a foot with the intent of kicking Agrippa in the ribs, but before he could, Quintus and Miki exploded into the tent.

  “You stayed!” Agrippa shouted as Quintus slammed into Carmo’s side, sending him toppling into a washtub. “My truest of true friends.”

  “You owe us!” Miki snarled, arm around one of the men’s necks, choking him out. “For this, and for making us listen to you flirt.”

  “Add it to my tab.” Agrippa spit blood into the face of the third man, then balled up his fist and went to work.

  5

  Marcus

  “You all right?”

  Marcus turned from his appraisal of Hydrilla to find Felix coming along the top of the camp wall toward him. His second had his helmet off, the sun reflecting off his dark blond hair, his blue eyes furrowed with concern. “Cluck, cluck,” he said by way of answer. And when Felix cast his eyes skyward, he added, “You mother me worse than Amarin, although at least he can honestly claim it’s one of his duties.”

  Amarin had been gifted to Marcus by the Senate when he’d been sworn in as legatus of the Thirty-Seventh. Given Marcus had been only twelve at the time, Amarin had seen his role not just as a servant, but as a surrogate parent. Marcus’s protests that he needed no such attention had fallen on deaf ears, and over the years, he’d given up trying to temper Amarin’s behavior. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: A split lip isn’t going to kill me.”

  “Grypus deserves a beating.” Felix leaned against the railing next to him, elbow bumping against Marcus’s. “Of all the senators we’ve been saddled with, he’s the most obnoxious.”

  “Hostus might oblige him if he isn’t careful.” Marcus rubbed at his temples, a headache setting in. “Though having a proconsul murdered in our camp would not improve our circumstances.”

  “Unless Hostus was convicted for the crime,” Felix said. “Then our circumstances might improve greatly.”

  “He’d make it look like it was rebels or an accident. The Senate would give him the harsh side of its tongue for allowing it to happen, and life would carry on. Hostus doesn’t get caught.”

  Which they knew all too well.

  After the Thirty-Seventh had graduated from Campus Lescendor, they’d been assigned to the Twenty-Ninth to complete their training under Legatus Dareios. Dareios had been clever and fair and Marcus had learned a great deal from him. But not long after they’d joined the older legion, Dareios was found skinned and staked out in the snow, his eyes and tongue missing, and his escort, which included his second- and third-in-command, all hanging from trees.

  The murder had been blamed on a crime syndicate the legions had been in the process of bringing to heel. All of the members were rounded up and hanged, but everyone knew the truth. Knew the truth as Hostus rose from primus to legatus, replacing every officer in the Twenty-Ninth with his feral dogs and turning them loose on anyone who didn’t fall to command. Marcus especially knew the truth, because Hostus had made him watch as he’d eaten Dareios’s eyes and tongue after the Senate had ratified his command of the Twenty-Ninth, promising Marcus the same treatment if he ever crossed him.

  But if the Senate knew the truth, they didn’t so much as blink; it mattered little to them who stood at the helm as long as the legion delivered results.

  And with Hostus holding a knife to the Thirty-Seventh’s throat, Marcus had spent the last three years ensuring the Senate was never disappointed.

  Pulling his eyes from the fortress, he watched as his men dragged corpses from the tunnel they’d spent months digging under Hydrilla’s walls. The Bardenese had already barricaded it with debris, though they must have lost dozens doing it with the poisonous smoke they’d choked the tunnel with still in the air.

  Surrender, he silently willed those patrolling the towering fortress walls. This is a war you cannot win.

  “Sir!”

  A shout from below caught their attention, both of them turning to look down into camp, where one of Agrippa’s men, Uther, stared up at them. “Your presence is required, sir,” he shouted. “There’s been an incident at followers’ camp.”

  “What sort of incident?”

  Uther looked away, rolling his shou
lders uncomfortably. “A brawl, sir. Between Thirty-Seventh and Twenty-Ninth. Those involved are being brought back now.”

  “This day grows worse with every passing minute,” he muttered under his breath, then strode to the steps leading down to the camp, Felix on his heels.

  Uther led them through the camp, though Marcus could’ve found his way to the source of the problem based on sound alone, as insults flew back and forth between the two sides. The crowd of onlookers parted for him and Felix, revealing six bloody and battered legionnaires.

  One of which was Agrippa, who, for reasons unknown, wasn’t wearing any clothes.

  “Sir,” he said, teeth chattering as he saluted, Quintus and Miki doing the same where they flanked him. “Sorry to drag you away from your business. Was just a friendly squabble.”

  That friendly squabble had left all three of them with swelling eyes and split lips, Miki’s nose streaming blood. Obviously having fought naked, Agrippa had taken the worst of it, his sides marked with red blotches that would turn to impressive bruises and his swollen knuckles dripping blood.

  Which explained the state of the other three.

  Two of the Twenty-Ninth were sitting in the dirt, eyes glazed, faces swollen and bleeding. Primus Carmo was standing, but his nose was broken and he clutched what looked like a fractured wrist. If it weren’t for the fact that this was going to cause him incredible grief, Marcus would have been rather proud that his men, despite being smaller and years younger, had dominated the brawl. “Get him something to wear before he loses anything critical to frostbite.”

  Though on second thought, losing that particular part might prevent a repeat incident, for Marcus could easily guess why Agrippa was naked. He had a way with girls, and if Marcus were a betting man—which he was—he’d say that the girl who’d dumped water on his feet hadn’t resisted Agrippa’s charms for very long.

  Someone handed Agrippa a tunic and cloak, and he mercifully managed to get them on before Hostus appeared. The legatus took one look at the scene, then spit in the dirt in front of the injured men. “If you’re going to brawl with the stupid little shits, at least win the fight. This is an embarrassment.”

  Underneath the blood and bruises, Carmo purpled with anger, and Marcus struggled not to wince. “They jumped us, sir.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Quintus open his mouth, but Agrippa kicked him in the ankle. Unfortunately, Hostus saw it, too. “You saying it happened differently?”

  “Couldn’t rightly say, sir,” Agrippa answered. “Took a few knocks to the head and everything is a bit foggy. Last thing I remember clearly was getting my laundry done.”

  Hostus narrowed his eyes, then looked to Carmo.

  The older primus made a face. “Weird little bastard was sitting naked in the laundresses’ tent.”

  “They can’t wash your clothes while you’re wearing them, apparently,” Agrippa said. “Learn something new every day.”

  Marcus ground his teeth even as Hostus snarled at Agrippa, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I appreciate your concern, sir. Thanks for inquiring.” Agrippa gave Hostus an earnest smile. “It was a fungus, but Racker dosed me with one of his smelly tonics, told me to be more cautious of my company, and now I’m right as rain.” He glanced at his knuckles. “Mostly.”

  “Rutting idiots.” Hostus’s color was rising. “Carmo, what did he do? And if you lie to me again, I’ll have the skin stripped from your hide.”

  And he meant it.

  Carmo’s face drained of color. “He disrespected me, sir. Couldn’t let it stand.”

  “What did he say?”

  Carmo’s eyes moved over the crowd of onlookers. “He…he told the laundresses that I should pay more.”

  Marcus bit down hard on the insides of his cheeks, seeing where this was going. And wanting to slap Agrippa up the side of the head for running his mouth. Again. But more than that, he wanted to scream at Hostus to just give out the punishment and be done with it, because the truth was going to make the situation a thousand times worse.

  “Maybe you should pay more,” Hostus snarled. “You’re twice the size of any man in the camp. And I fail to see how that’s disrespect.”

  “He…” Carmo took a step toward his legatus, but Hostus screamed, “You don’t get to whisper it in my ear, you fool! Spit it out or I’ll get my knives and carve the words out of you.”

  Terror filled the primus’s eyes and he blurted out, “He told the women I don’t wipe my ass.”

  Silence filled the camp for a heartbeat, then the crowd of men around them burst into laughter. Marcus lifted a hand and those of the Thirty-Seventh immediately silenced, but the damage was done. Now all he could do was try to keep Hostus from murdering Agrippa where he stood. “Respectfully, sir, you yourself have taken issue with how badly Carmo stinks, so this shaming is only to your benefit given your own fastidiousness.”

  Hostus turned to stare at him, and Marcus was reminded of the dragons that the Empire used as its symbol. How the little reptiles would stare their prey down, deliberating whether they wanted to take a bite. But as much as he was a sadist, Hostus was equally a narcissist, and the flattery tempered his wrath.

  “Carmo, you and your men will have three lashes each,” the older legatus said. “And you will use this moment to contemplate your personal upkeep.” Then he pointed a finger at Marcus. “Deal with your men or I will. And if it’s me, I’ll cut out that one’s tongue.”

  Agrippa shifted uneasily, not even his bravado immune to Hostus’s threats, but Marcus only said, “I will deal with them accordingly, sir.” Then he motioned to the trio to follow, leading them deep into the Thirty-Seventh’s half of the camp.

  “Get Servius,” he said to Felix. “And keep everyone busy. I don’t need spectators.”

  Reaching the open ground in front of his own tent, he rounded on the three, who formed up in a neat line, backs straight.

  “Explain yourselves.”

  “With respect, sir,” Agrippa stepped forward, “Quintus and Miki didn’t cause the fight. They only came to my defense under my orders. I’m solely responsible for the brawl and punishment should fall on my shoulders.”

  Only two of the three statements were the truth, but Marcus allowed the lie to slide. “No.”

  Servius approached. The third most senior officer in the Thirty-Seventh, Servius hailed from the province of Atlia and also had the honor of being the biggest man in the legion. Tall and wide, his arms were the size of most men’s legs, and his chest was so broad he needed clothes and armor made specifically for him rather than the standard issue everyone else made do with. But for all his size, Servius was almost devoid of temper, nearly always to be found with a smile on his face.

  But not today.

  Today, he carried a bullwhip held loosely in one hand, displeasure written all over his brown-skinned face. This was one of his duties, but there wasn’t a man in the Thirty-Seventh that wasn’t aware exactly how little he enjoyed it.

  “Three lashes to each and half wages for the week.”

  “Give me the lashes, sir. And take the amount from my wages.”

  Typical. For as long as they’d known each other, Agrippa had sought reputation, his penchant for risk-taking driven by the desire for notoriety and, recently, the accolades that came from his name mentioned in missives to the Senate. But for all he sought fame and recognition, he had no tolerance for getting his men hurt in the process.

  Quintus and Miki both looked ready to argue, but Marcus held up a hand. “Your friends being punished for your choices will do more to prevent a repeat of this behavior than me giving you a dozen lashes.” And he needed Agrippa functional in the coming days, not laid up in the medical tent. “Now explain yourself.”

  “Nothing to explain, sir. I don’t like the bastard and I ran my mouth. Carmo and his men came at me, and I thought it better to give them a taste of Thirty-Seventh fists than to run away with our tails between our legs.”

>   Another partial truth. Agrippa was a master at pushing those he disliked to the brink, but never past. “It was an idiot move. Already tensions between us and the Twenty-Ninth are high. You’ve gone and made them a hundred times worse. They’ll retaliate, and whatever happens is on you.”

  Agrippa’s jaw tightened. “Yes, sir.”

  Glancing at Servius, Marcus said, “Proceed.”

  The big legionnaire typically gave a speech about how miserable punishing men made him. How it was cruel of the perpetrators to put him in such a position. The speech was—given he was arguably the most beloved man in the legion—considered by many to be worse than the lash. But today he only watched silently as the trio stripped down, then motioned for Quintus to turn.

  Without preamble, Servius snapped the whip, the sound of it striking flesh turning Marcus’s mouth sour. Quintus hissed in pain but didn’t cry out for any of the blows as crimson stripes marred his back. Miki did the same. Then Servius moved on to Agrippa.

  Circling round so that he was facing him, Marcus said, “Your duty is to the Thirty-Seventh.”

  Crack.

  “Yes, sir,” Agrippa said between clenched teeth.

  “Your loyalty is to the Empire.”

  Crack.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And for the sake of your brothers, you will forsake all others.” Because he knew what Carmo had done to provoke Agrippa.

  Crack.

  They stared at each other, sweat running down Agrippa’s face to mix with the blood before dripping onto the muddy ground. But finally, the primus looked away. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go to medical and have yourselves seen to.” And before he lost control of the nausea rising in his stomach and puked his guts out in front of them, Marcus strode away. But as soon as he was out of sight, he heard the chant rising from the men.

  Agrippa.

  6

  Silvara

  Silvara’s stomach growled painfully and she paused in her work to drink a mouthful of tepid tea, hoping it would ease the sensation. She’d had a few mouthfuls of porridge before dawn and would see no more until this evening, the precious supply of grains she kept with her at all times nearly exhausted. Soon, she’d have to venture out into the wilds to forage, which, given there was every chance of coming across a legion patrol, was as terrifying as the prospect of starvation.