by James Gawley
“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.
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 si
lver 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.
