Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores)

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Agnes came into the tent carrying the kettle, pausing to fill up Silvara’s cup before moving on to the other women. Agnes’s hands were red with chilblains from the inescapable cold and damp, and Silvara knew the old woman’s feet were bad enough that she was at risk of losing toes. She should be in a sturdy house next to a warm hearth, but Silvara knew the ancient rebel would never leave while Hydrilla was surrounded. Not with her comrades inside, including Silvara’s own father, whom she’d called friend for longer than Silvara had been alive. And certainly not while Silvara herself remained in this camp.

  As she watched, Agnes doubled over with a wet cough wracking her body. Hurrying to her side, Silvara took the kettle and filled Agnes’s own cup, pushing it into her hands even as guilt filled her. “You shouldn’t be here,” she murmured. “I’ll pay the next convoy to take you to Melitene and you can get work there.” The fortress was newly built and of Cel construct, which meant it would be warm and dry and full of endless men wishing to be served.

  Agnes spit into the dirt. “They’ll never hire an old hag like me. Unless,” she said slyly, “I came with a young thing like you.”

  “I can’t leave, Agnes. You know that. Not with my family trapped in those walls.”

  Taking a mouthful of tea, Agnes said, “Your father would be horrified to know you were here, girl. This wasn’t the life he wanted for you.”

  This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, and irritation flickered through Silvara as she returned to her washtub. “It’s not his choice, it’s mine. And maybe if he hadn’t been so bent on protecting me, I might actually be able to do some good.”

  The old woman opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Carina entered the tent, her eyes fixing on Silvara. “We’ve had a change of heart.”

  Silvara’s hands stilled in the washtub, anticipation filling her. “You’ll let me fight?”

  Carina huffed out an amused breath. “No. The primus might be of some use to us, and he’s clearly taken with you.”

  A sour taste filled Silvara’s mouth, and she didn’t answer. There were still signs of the brawl that had taken place yesterday—the ground a muddy soup from spilled washtubs, the canvas of the tent ripped in two places, and the splinters of a shattered bucket all mixed into the mess. She’d been pulled away before the brawl began, but she’d heard that it had been vicious and required an entire patrol of the Twenty-Ninth to pull the young men apart. That those involved had been dragged, bloody and cursing, back to the legion camp.

  And it had been because of her, even if that ugly bastard Carmo hadn’t realized it.

  “Hecktor has investigated further and learned that the primus is kept within the legatus’s circle of confidence, which means he’ll be privy to any plans they have to attack. Get close to him and learn what he knows.”

  That had been the reason she’d spoken to him yesterday—the hope he’d let something slip and that information would bring her back into Carina’s good graces. And that maybe the rebel leader would reconsider putting a weapon in her hand. “After what happened yesterday, the last thing he’ll want is anything to do with me.”

  Every laundress in the tent snorted except for Agnes, who gave Silvara a long look before saying, “It’s wrong of you to involve her this way, Carina. She’s only a girl.”

  Carina spit into the mud. “She’s the same age as the boys in the Thirty-Seventh, and the Senate spares not a thought for sending them to fight.”

  “You’ve sunk low indeed if the Senate is serving as your moral compass.” Agnes resumed her scrubbing, scrawny arms plunging in and out of the tub. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Silvara. This isn’t the Empire—we don’t force our children to serve.”

  Except she wanted to serve. Just not like this.

  “If our children don’t serve, very soon Bardeen will be the Empire,” Carina hissed, then twisted to catch hold of Silvara’s shoulders. “Your father and brother are in Hydrilla and they are starving. Do you mean to tell me that you’re getting cold feet because that boy took a few punches to spare your virtue?”

  It has nothing to do with that! “I—” Silvara started to say, but Carina wasn’t through.

  “He did it to impress you, you dumb girl! And not because he wants to court you and certainly not because he fancies taking a wife, but because he wants in your bed.” Carina’s lip curled up in disgust. “He’s a Cel legionnaire, and while he might use his pretty face and clever words to win you over rather than using force, he and Carmo want the exact same thing from you.”

  Silvara cringed, knowing full well what men like Carmo were capable of. Everyone in camp did.

  Seeing her reaction, Carina’s voice softened. “I know it’s hard, girl. But you have the chance to save our people. To be a hero to Bardeen and the rebel cause. Remember that and it will put steel in your heart.”

  What she wanted was steel in her hand.

  The wind chose that moment to blow, gusting the tent flaps open, and Agrippa stepped into the tent, backlit by the dawn light. “Agnes, but you are a sight for sore eyes!”

  He stood alone, one eye swollen nearly shut and his lip split, his knuckles bruised and scabbed. And Silvara doubted that was the extent of his injuries.

  “Not so pretty anymore,” Agnes said. “I’ll need to find new inspiration.”

  “That,” he leveled a finger at the old woman, “really hurts. I thought we had a connection, Agnes, but apparently your feelings are so fleeting that you’ll cast me aside rather than endure a couple weeks of me not at my finest.”

  Even with the bruises, he was easily one of the most attractive boys Silvara had ever laid eyes on, though she was loath to admit so about an Empire boy. Agnes had told her that the trio from the Thirty-Seventh had come out ahead in the brawl, and part of her wished she’d seen it.

  An even larger part of her wished she could have done the fighting herself.

  “I’m too old to wait on things,” Agnes said. “By the time your face heals, I might be dead.”

  Agrippa twitched, his smile falling away. But only for a heartbeat, then he grinned. “An outlook on life we share. Now on another note…”

  “You’re wanting your clothes?”

  “Patrols would be rather chilly without and my men already grow weary of my complaints.”

  A sharp pain in her ankle had Silvara looking sideways at Carina, who had kicked her, and the woman gave her a meaningful look. “I’ll get them,” she muttered, going to the laundry line. They wrote the men’s legion numbers in chalk on the garments, but she knew where they were because she’d hung them herself. Taking them down and then retrieving his cloak, which was folded on one of the shelves, she approached him.

  You’re going into battle, even if you aren’t carrying a sword, she told herself. Show some courage.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, her fingers cold though her cheeks flamed. Keeping her eyes fixed on the 37 on his breastplate, she handed his clothes to him, a shiver inexplicably running through her as their fingers brushed.

  “Thank you.”

  She managed a jerky nod, then rushed back to her washtub, blindly setting to work on the garments within.

  Coward, she silently chided herself. Can’t even look a boy in the eye.

  “Better put those on in here where it’s warm, lad,” Agnes said. “There’s a bitter wind today.”

  “If you want me to take my clothes off, Agnes, you need only ask.”

  “Hah!” was the old woman’s response, to which Agrippa laughed.

  Silvara forced her eyes to remain on the water, but she could hear the click of metal as he pulled off his armor on the opposite side of the tent.

  Don’t look.

  She lifted her head.

  He was in the process of pulling the woolen leggings the legionnaires wore over the muscular bottom that had been as much discussed as the brawl itself. Except that wasn’t where her eyes went but rather to the three livid lashes acr
oss his back.

  He’d been whipped.

  As if sensing her scrutiny, he turned his head, hazel eyes locking on hers. A flush rose to his cheeks and he swiftly bent to retrieve a tunic and pull it over his head. Donning the rest of his garments and armor with equal speed, he buckled his weapons and then stepped over to Agnes. “You do good work, lovely,” he said, handing her some coins. “And my apologies again for the trouble yesterday.” And without another word, he left the tent.

  “Go!” Carina pushed on Silvara’s shoulders. “Talk to him.”

  Given the speed of his departure, he’d obviously had his fill of her. But that meant she only needed to try harder. Lifting her skirts, Silvara hurried out of the tent, catching sight of his retreating form. “Agrippa!”

  He stopped and turned, ignoring the comments of his men waiting beyond, who nearly all appeared tremendously amused except for one, who stared at her with cold, flat eyes. “Did I forget something?”

  “No.” She slid to a stop in front of him, staring at his throat as her mind raced for words. Because he wasn’t a village boy who’d caught her eye, but her enemy. “I…I only wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For intervening on my behalf.” Just saying the words made her angry, because she hadn’t wanted him to defend her. She’d wanted to defend herself. “Carmo has a…a bad reputation in this camp. And I know you were punished for fighting, and I wanted you to know that I feel awful for causing the conflict.”

  “Oh, it had nothing to do with you.”

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “But…”

  “Fighting over a girl is poor form but shaming a smelly unrepentant bastard like Carmo is worth a dozen lashes.”

  His voice was serious, yet as Silvara lifted her face, it was to find his eyes glinting with humor. “You’re mocking me again.”

  “Teasing, Silvara. And you keep falling for it.” He smiled, then winced and pressed fingers to his split lip. “I was keeping up a strong face to impress Agnes, but I’m in a world of pain.”

  Guilt flooded her. “I’m truly sorry, I—” Then he started laughing and she squeezed her eyes shut, cheeks burning. “Are you ever serious?”

  “I’m sure it’s happened once or twice.” His shoulders were shaking with mirth. “But it rarely gets me what I want.”

  Carina’s words repeated in her head: He and Carmo want the exact same thing from you. “What do you want?”

  “Agrippa!” one of the young men waiting shouted. “Let her kiss you and be done with it! We need to go!”

  A hundred retorts rose to her lips, but all ran counter to her cause. And as it was, she didn’t have a chance to voice any of them because Agrippa took a quick step back, holding up a hand in mock defense. “Banish the thought from your mind, Silvara. I am a virtuous young man and I can’t be seen kissing girls in shadowy alleyways. It would ruin my reputation.”

  Your reputation as a killer? she wanted to shout, but instead she lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Fear not, for being seen kissing an Empire boy with a reputation for having kissed half the girls in the camp’s brothel would ruin my reputation.”

  Inclining her head, she murmured, “Good day and good fortune to you, Primus.” Then she turned and started back toward the laundresses’ tent, praying to the spirits that she’d not misjudged how best to lure him in.

  “Wait!”

  Relief flooded her, though she kept walking.

  “Silvara!”

  Giving a sigh, she turned. “Yes?”

  Pulling off his helmet, Agrippa scrubbed a hand over his hair. “Do you play cards?”

  She lifted one eyebrow.

  “I suppose dice is out, then,” he muttered, then said, “Drink?”

  Given she needed to keep her temper in check, that seemed a poor plan. “Not with Empire boys.”

  “Wise.” He exhaled a slow breath, his eyes searching hers. “Do you want to…uhhh…talk?”

  “You want to talk?” She crossed her arms under her breasts, tilting her head. “I can’t say I trust your intentions, Agrippa.”

  “What if we invite Agnes?”

  He took a step closer and her heart flipped as he smiled. He’s your enemy! Quit allowing yourself to see him otherwise!

  “If I’m being honest,” he said, “all of this is just to make Agnes jealous so that she takes me back.”

  “Not until the bruises fade, boy! Your face looks like a cart drove over it,” the old woman’s voice filtered out from the tent, and chagrin passed over Agrippa’s face.

  A laugh tore from Silvara’s lips and she pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle it. Not because it was loud but because it had been genuine. Except Agrippa caught her wrist, his hand warm through her sleeve as he tugged her fingers away from her lips.

  “You should laugh more,” he said, and for the first time, his eyes were as serious as his voice. “You deserve to have more to laugh about.”

  With her family’s survival hanging by a thread and her nation on the brink of being conquered by the Empire, the last thing she should be doing was laughing.

  Put steel in your heart, Carina’s voice whispered inside her head. Be a hero for Bardeen.

  “Be here at dusk,” she said. “And don’t be late. Agnes is a stickler for promptness.”

  He grinned. “On my honor, I’ll be here.”

  7

  Marcus

  “Ah, there you are, Legatus.”

  Marcus looked up, his back cracking from hours bent over Hostus’s desk while he did the older commander’s paperwork. Grypus stood in the tent, looking as ill at ease as Marcus had ever seen him. “I’m surprised to see you here, Proconsul. Was your wife not anticipated in Melitene today?”

  It was putting the cart before the horse, in Marcus’s opinion, but in anticipation of soon holding Hydrilla, arrangements had been made for Grypus’s wife to join him. Which, given he currently resided with four significantly younger women, might explain Grypus’s consternation.

  “Yes, a truly joyful day,” Grypus answered, his tone conveying the exact opposite. “But I find myself buried beneath the weight of duties and I fear taking the time to ride to Melitene and back will have consequences.”

  Given Grypus had no duties besides writing the occasional letter, this seemed unlikely, but Marcus gave a sympathetic nod.

  “And as it is, Legatus, I fear Lucretia will insist on returning with me to camp.” Grypus gave a long sigh. “She is a loyal woman with a strong sense of wifely duty, which may overcome her good sense. She doesn’t understand the hardships she’ll have to endure in a legion camp, and I don’t wish to upset her fragile constitution.”

  “You speak reason,” Marcus answered, struggling to keep a smirk from his face. “It is no place for a woman of quality.”

  “I knew you would understand.” Grypus swatted him on the shoulders. “You will find the words to convince her that remaining in a good Cel fortress like Melitene is the better choice.”

  Understanding smacked Marcus in the face. “You wish me to go? Surely she’d be distressed not to be greeted by her husband?”

  “An unfortunate sacrifice that must be made, I’m afraid.” Grypus started to the front of the tent, then paused. “Legatus…”

  “Yes, Proconsul?”

  “Don’t make me regret trusting you with this task.”

  Marcus waited until he was gone, then grimaced, wanting nothing to do with this particular errand, but there was no helping it. Abandoning the stacks of paperwork and hoping—foolishly—that Hostus would be understanding of why it wasn’t complete, he went to his own tent to change, passing Felix on his way. “Fancy a gallop to Melitene and back?”

  His friend frowned. “To what end?”

  “Convincing Lucretia Grypus to remain there rather than to come here and disrupt her husband’s activities.”

  Felix laughed. “When we were studying at Lescendor, did you dream of such venerable duties?”

&n
bsp; “Nightly. There is no greater honor than facilitating a senator’s infidelity.”

  “You could bring her back.”

  Marcus feigned cutting his own throat, staggering sideways and then laughing. “I’m not going to kill my career just yet. Get an escort ready.”

  Felix shook his head. “I’ve drills to oversee—the men are already in the field. But Agrippa’s back from patrols. He can arrange it.”

  Annoyance ran through Marcus, though it was unjust. Serving as Marcus’s bodyguard was Agrippa’s job, not Felix’s. “Tell him to run drills instead. I’d rather you came with me. A good showing of rank might temper the domina’s anger at her husband’s absence.”

  Felix gave him a long look. “It wasn’t the first time you’ve ordered him whipped and it’s unlikely to be the last. Avoiding each other will only make things worse.”

  Marcus crossed his arms, glowering at his friend. “I’ve no reason to avoid him.”

  “And yet you are. And judging by the speed with which Agrippa skuttled out of camp this morning to go on patrol, he’s avoiding you.” Stepping closer so he wouldn’t be overheard, Felix added, “I know I don’t need to tell you this, but the men seeing you two at cross-purpose is divisive. A nice gallop through the country is an excellent way to mend your fraught relationship, which is to the benefit of the Thirty-Seventh.”

  Marcus wanted to argue, to give voice to the hundred reasons he could think of why it would be better if Felix rode with him instead, but the amusement in his friend’s eyes silenced them all. “Fine. Tell him to ready an escort. And someone get me my horse.”

  In typical legion fashion, his escort was ready in minutes, and by the time Marcus was dressed, Agrippa was already waiting outside with his horse, petting the animal’s nose. But at the sight of Marcus, he said, “To Melitene, sir?”