Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire

by James Gawley

  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.

  Primus stood there for a long time, staring after her. He could still feel the press of her lips on his cheek. Somnia had told him of the hierophant’s habit; she had not needed to tell him that he must keep it secret.

  For a time, Primus stood absorbed in thought. Auguries were frequent at the citadel, and they were always, always favorable. Did the gods truly favor their actions, or were the priest’s reassurances simply the price he paid to obtain his strange drug? Primus thought of the rattle of papyrus as the hierophant held a scroll open in trembling hands, while Somnia stood at his elbow. Did she stand at his elbow now, while he breathed in this poison?

  As he stood alone in the courtyard, the sound of raised voices reached him from within the temple. Primus glanced around, reminded that he was absent from his barracks without permission. But all was quiet in the camp; there was only the distant roar of the waterfall and the sound of voices from within the temple. Someone inside was shouting. He started back across the lawn, telling himself he did not intend to eavesdrop. He was not looking to learn secrets that didn’t belong to him; he only wanted to be sure that Somnia was safe.

  From the portico, he could make out the voice of the hierophant–his musical intonation was starting to crack with hysteria. “Shadows!” he shouted. “I see black trees, black hands, and fire beneath the mountain!” His voice dropped below hearing. Primus hesitated no more than a moment before he pressed his ear to the door.

  He heard Somnia’s voice, too low to understand. Soothing tones.

  The hierophant shouted her down. “No! I have seen their deaths–I see them now! You think he doesn’t know? He feeds these fools to the old gods like shoveling fuel into an oven. He’ll feed us all to devils!”

  Another voice, pleading. Primus thought it might be the acolyte who had met him at the door. Then the hierophant: “NO! I won’t let him use me anymore. I’m going to free us. DO NOT TOUCH ME!”

  There
was a crash, and Primus heard Somnia cry out in pain.

  He pushed against the door, but they had latched it from within. He put his shoulder into it, but the wood only groaned. Inside, both the hierophant and the acolyte were shouting. Somnia was silent. Primus took two steps back, and flew at the door, slamming his heel into the carved ash panel. There was a crunch, and the door groaned inward a few inches. Primus backed up and put his heel into it again, careless of the noise. The latch splintered beneath his boot, and the temple doors flew inward.

  Smoke billowed out of the temple the moment the doors were open. Primus coughed, waving a hand before his face as he edged inside. He recognized the hierophant, his back to the door as he stood over the brazier at Jupiter’s feet. Beneath one skinny arm he clutched a leather case the size of a marching drum; as Primus watched, the hierophant yanked a scroll from the case and held it above the brazier, waiting as it began to smolder. His hands were steady as he waited for the flame to take. Even as he rushed in, Primus remembered how the priest’s hands had trembled while he took auguries that morning. The hierophant dropped the scroll into the hammered bronze bowl where it sputtered, giving forth a thick and acrid smoke. The acolyte was watching this and wringing his hands. Somnia lay on the floor nearby, struggling to rise.

  Primus went swiftly to Somnia, one hand over his mouth against the smoke. The acolyte attempted to bar his way but Primus shouldered him aside. He fluttered ineffectually around Primus, tugging at the back of his tunic. “You must not be here,” he fretted. “You must leave, right now. You’ll draw the whole camp down on us!”

  A part of Primus wanted to obey the little man. But he knelt beside Somnia instead. Her lip was split, and blood was smeared across her chin. “What happened? Did he do this to you?” Primus looked up at the hierophant, ready to savage him with his bare hands. But the priest was ignoring them, chanting rhythmically in some strange tongue as he fed his sacred scrolls into the fire.

  Somnia shook her head, pushing herself up from the floor. “He’s not himself.” She let him help her, putting one arm across his shoulders as he lifted her to her feet. But when he tried to steer her toward the door, she twisted away from him.

  “Get out of here, now. You shouldn’t have come. I told you to go back to your barracks!” She pushed at him. Primus took a step back, but he did not turn to go.

  “I came back to help you. I came back because I knew you were hurt.”

  She only pushed at him harder. Her other hand she held close to her chest, as if her wrist pained her. “You can’t help me. You’re going to ruin us all if you don’t get out.” She coughed into her hand, and Primus saw blood on her fingers. She bent over against the smoke, and her hair fell away from her neck. Primus was suddenly entranced by the sight of smooth white skin above her collar. She limped back to the hierophant, and as he watched her go, Primus heard again the buzzing voices at the edge of consciousness. He looked to the brazier, knowing it was the source of the strange fog that suddenly gripped him. It’s a little bit like dreaming, Somnia had said. But that wasn’t it at all. He watched the flames dancing in the brazier, consuming the reed-paper scrolls, hissing out black smoke. Suddenly he realized what the hierophant was chanting: they were the same words that buzzed in his ears, the strange whispers in the corners of his mind.

  Primus stepped closer to the brazier. The voices grew clearer as he listened to the hierophant. The speech was harsh and guttural–a rockslide of words. Almost he could grasp the meaning, like a snatch of remembered music. Someone gripped his arm, and Primus looked down at Somnia. She was speaking to him. She looked frightened, but he could not understand her. It was as though his ears were stoppered with wax. He patted her hand, and peeled her grip off of him. He came to stand beside the hierophant, and watched the scrolls unfurl as flames consumed them.

  Only words, he thought. Scrolls were meaningless when you could hear the gods themselves. He looked up into the rough-hewn face of Jupiter. In the light of the flames he saw that the eyes were empty, simple pits in a face of stone. A shiver went through him. No god animated this statue. The chanting voices carried on, relentless.

  Primus realized that the hierophant was watching him. Clammy sweat stood out on the priest’s sharp cheekbones, and wild terror seized his dark eyes. He leaned close to Primus. His breath smelled rank, even above the pungent smoke. “Just a rock,” he said, tipping his head toward the statue. “Nothing but empty promises.” He drew another scroll from his case and raised it to the brazier. “No one to save you from what’s coming.”

  The chanting in his ears crested like a wave, and Primus’ dread turned to terror. He sank to his knees. He heard his name, distantly, and turned his head. Somnia was standing over him. In her hand she held the rod of Jupiter, taken from the statue’s shapeless grip. She tried to pull him up, but nameless fear held him in place. He watched her lips move as she spoke to him, but he could not force meaning from the words. Suddenly she placed a hand atop his head, and leaned over to kiss his brow. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and for an instant Primus heard her clearly. Then she raised the iron staff of the god high above her head, and swung it down. Light exploded before Primus’ eyes.

  The world turned black.

  It was my father’s notion to steal the prophecies of the Sybil from the Capitoline vault. With them, he could bind an army more firmly to his purpose; without them, Tiberius would find Arcadia a little harder to control.

  –Lucan Venator,

  Testimony before the Senate

  EXTRORDINARIUS

  Primus watched the treetops pass by, filtering the weak afternoon sunlight through their branches. His head throbbed in time with the clop of his horse’s hooves upon the cobblestones, and his stomach roiled, empty and angry. Twice he’d tried to eat something to settle his stomach, and twice he’d been forced to climb down from his mount to vomit beside the elevated roadbed. The extrordinarii ate in the saddle, rolling along at a steady canter, and they had no mercy for Primus’ aching head and delicate stomach. Each time he stopped to vomit, he was forced to kick his mount to a gallop to catch up with the others, compounding his headache.

  He had been shaken awake that morning by Black Titus, who frowned over him as Primus looked around, trying to remember where he was. He lay on his back on a flat stone slab, in the center of an unfamiliar room. Neatly labeled clay pots and colorful glass bottles crowded the shelves that lined one side of the room. The opposite wall was hung with tools, black iron and shining bronze. He was in the infirmary. He was lying on the slab where Lepus had died.

  Primus sat up with a start and the world spun around him as his vision dimmed. He would have fallen if Titus had not caught him by the shoulders. “Easy,” the old man said. “You’re still in one piece.” He waited patiently while Primus recovered himself. “I woke you twice before. You didn’t seem to know me. Can I ask what happened to you last night?”

  Primus thought about it. He remembered slipping out to visit the temple and his conversation with Somnia. He cringed, remembering how he’d kicked down the temple doors. Beyond that, nothing seemed clear. He shied away from the memories. “What time is it?” he croaked. Titus passed him a cup of water from the surgeon’s bench.

  “It’ll be dawn soon. I relieved the surgeon about an hour ago.”

  “The scouts?”

  “They’re assembling on the martial field.”

  “Then I can still catch them,” Primus said, pushing himself off the slab. Titus steadied him as his feet found the floor. “Thank you for waking me.”

  “Slowly, lad. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Primus stooped carefully to pull on his boots. “I’m not going to miss this.”

  “Oh, you’re fine? I suppose this is nothing, then.” Titus pressed his finger against Primus’ temple, and pain exploded behind his eyes. Primus cried out and dropped to his knees.

  “The surgeon says it might be fractured. Even if not, it’ll be days b
efore you can return to duty.”

  Primus clutched at his head, feeling linen bandages and beneath them, the bulge of a damp poultice. He focused on simply breathing until the pain and nausea receded. Then, moving gingerly, he began to drag his boots onto his feet. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll never get this chance again.”

  Titus sighed. “You don’t know that.” But Primus kept on fumbling with his bootlaces, not even looking at the old man. “What do you think will happen if you fall out of your saddle on the road? Do you think the extrordinarii are going to nurse you along?”

  “That won’t happen.” Primus decided his boots were tight enough. He gripped the edge of the table and pulled himself laboriously to his feet. After a moment, Titus made a disgusted sound and helped him up.

  “Stop and think, boy. This is an opportunity. Just lie back down. The surgeon will tell them you are unfit; with that head, no one will accuse you of shirking. You can return to the Dead Men, and no shame upon you.”

  Primus was suddenly furious. “This again. You’re so convinced that I won’t be able to handle myself. Are you afraid I’ll bring shame to the cohort, or to you?” Primus steadied himself against the table. Blood pounded in his ears. “Tell me something: if you aren’t here to help me, then why are you here?”

  “Damn it boy, I am trying to help you. I’m trying to protect you. I’ve been telling you for days now to ask yourself why they chose you for this mission–”

  “I heard you, old man. You don’t think I’m ready to be a legionnaire, let alone a scout. Believe it or not, I don’t care what you think of me. You’re not my father. You’re just a sad old man. You lied to get rid of your enemy, and now you see liars everywhere. But they aren’t there, Titus. It’s just you. Now get out of my way. My brothers are waiting.”

  Titus stared at him a moment, looking more sad than angry. It unnerved Primus, but still he brushed the old man aside and made unsteadily for the door. That was how they left it; Primus found his kit and armor in the barracks, and removed the poultice from his bandages in order to pull his helmet on. No one made any comment when he arrived on the martial field, except to ask whether he could ride a horse. So Primus fixed his pack behind the saddle of the mount they gave him, and they rode through the gates while stars still shone in the lead-grey sky, a chill wind biting at their backs.