Gilded Serpent, page 52
“If you’d wait a moment, sir,” Carmo said, “I’ll see if the legatus has time to see you.”
Marcus didn’t answer, only scratched at his cheek, expression furrowed with annoyance. A crowd of soldiers had gathered now, none of them saying anything as they watched on, but there was a feral quality to their eyes that made Teriana’s pulse race faster. They shouldn’t be in any danger from these men, and yet …
Carmo stepped back out. “He’ll see you now.”
While the camp itself was identical to that of the Thirty-Seventh, it was like stepping into a different world inside this commander’s tent. The furniture was heavy and ornate, the chairs well-padded, and the ground layered with thick carpets in vibrant colors. Rather than maps spread across the table, there were platters loaded with food, the plates porcelain and the flatware polished silver. Crystal decanters of wine were set among the platters, and lamps of colored glass illuminated the scene. It was like being in the tent of a king or a senator, nothing like the spartan furnishings Marcus kept in his own command tent.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
Teriana’s eyes shot past the laden table to the large chair on the far side of the tent. Though to call it such was a misnomer, because it looked to all the world like a throne.
A man dressed in a red tunic and legion armor lounged on the chair, one leg slung over the arm, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. Judging from his golden skin, this legatus was Cel by blood. His white-blond hair was shaven almost to the scalp, his eyes a vivid emerald green, and his face not at all hard on the eyes.
“Hostus,” Marcus said, his expression bland. But his fingers flexed at his side and his hair was darkening with sweat at the temples, both of which betrayed to her his nerves. “It’s been a long time.”
“Did you miss me, my little apprentice?”
“No.”
The man laughed, and Teriana struggled not to take a step back, though she wasn’t entirely certain why. There was something about him that screamed danger. As she glanced again at Marcus, she saw a bead of sweat roll down his cheek and realized that he wasn’t just nervous around this man. He was afraid.
Apprentice … The word rolled through her mind, and it dawned on her that this was the legion that had trained the Thirty-Seventh after they’d left Lescendor. That this was the man who’d trained Marcus.
“Aren’t you supposed to be conquering the Dark Shores in the name of the Empire?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Oh, but you know me, Marcus.” Hostus took a drink from his glass. “I’m endlessly curious.” He gestured at one of the men in the room. “Pour the boy a drink. Let’s see if he holds his wine better than he did at sixteen.”
The man splashed crimson wine into a glass and held it out to Marcus.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Drink!” Hostus screamed the word with such fury that Teriana stumbled backward, nearly falling.
Marcus stood his ground. “I don’t have time for power games, Hostus. My presence is required in Celendrial, so while your hospitality is as pleasing as I remember, we will be on our way.”
“We?” Hostus rose from his chair, and for the first time since they’d entered, his gaze settled on Teriana. She forced herself to meet his emerald eyes, tracking his progress around the table. “Of course. This is the Maarin girl you cut a deal with.” He made a tsking sound. “Always negotiating when you should be taking; did you learn nothing in our time together?”
“Did you?”
Hostus huffed, then his lip curled up. “Aren’t we brave now that we’re all grown up.” He stopped next to Marcus, leaning close enough that his lips were practically brushing his ear. “But I still remember the sound of your screams when I beat you bloody on the floor of this tent, boy.” He swayed from side to side. “Like music. Like poetry.”
Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Then in a flash, the older man reached out and caught Teriana by the back of her shirt, dragging her sideways and forcing her to her knees.
“Let her go!” Marcus snarled, reaching for his weapon, but the other men already had theirs out and leveled at him.
Hostus slid his hand under her scarf, fingers catching her hair. Then he twisted his hand, pulling her head back to reveal her throat, and she clenched her teeth at the sight of the knife in his hand.
“Neither Cassius nor the Senate will be pleased if you kill her,” Marcus said. “Satisfy your pleasures elsewhere.”
Chuckling, Hostus pressed the tip of the knife against her throat, scoring a burning line in her skin as he slid it down to her collarbone. “Cassius will be just as happy to see this one dead, and what the Senate doesn’t know, they can’t gripe about. I’m willing to bet a fair bit of gold that no one knows that you’re even here, Marcus. And I think we both know that Cassius wouldn’t weep to learn you’d met an untimely end.”
He was going to kill them. Or more likely, torture them and then kill them. They needed to escape, but how was that even possible in the middle of a camp ruled over by this man?
“I think it will be you who does the weeping if Cassius discovers you killed me and therefore lost his chance at learning the location of the xenthier stems leading to the Dark Shores. And the stem leading back.” Marcus’s smile was cold. “We two are the only individuals with that particular piece of information. It will be hard to claim Titus’s glory if no one ever learns of it.”
Hostus shifted his weight, his blade digging into her flesh and then easing up again. “Here’s the thing, boy. I heard a little rumor that you couldn’t stomach this one”—he pulled harder on her hair—“being put to the question the first time. So I think you’ll tell me everything I want to know if I get to work on her. Am I right?”
Marcus shrugged. “You’ll only kill her anyway.”
Negotiating with this bastard was a waste of time, and Teriana knew it. The commander of the Twenty-Ninth wanted to kill them far more than he feared the consequences of doing so. There wasn’t a chance of him letting them go.
“That’s true,” Hostus replied. “But I think you’ll tell me what I want to know anyway. Carmo, get me my tools.”
Taking a deep breath, Teriana envisioned Felix’s instructions.
And she moved.
92
MARCUS
Teriana reached up and caught hold of Hostus’s wrist, and Marcus’s stomach plummeted. Because Hostus was trained, and Teriana—
She dragged his arm down, pressing it against her chest and then twisted, pushing the blade into Hostus’s chest. It clanked against the metal of his breastplate, but it was enough to startle him backward. Teriana hooked his ankle with her own, Hostus landing hard on his ass.
Hostus cursed, but Teriana was already behind him, blade against his throat.
“This is how it’s going to go.” Her voice was cool and composed, but the wild waves of her eyes betrayed her fear. “You lot step away from Marcus. Then you clear a path out of this camp, or your legatus is going to find himself bleeding out all over his fancy carpets.”
“If you kill me, they won’t let you go.” Hostus spoke to Teriana, but his eyes fixed on Marcus, the rage terrifying in its familiarity.
“Won’t make you less dead.” Teriana pressed the knife harder. “How much farther do I have to slice to hit your jugular? Not much, is my bet.”
Hostus didn’t reply, only stared Marcus down. Because they both knew this wouldn’t work. The older legatus was devoid of fear but flush on pride—he’d die before conceding. Marcus and Teriana would both have a dozen crossbow bolts embedded in their backs before they were halfway across camp, and if she slit Hostus’s throat as she fell, it was a risk the other man was willing to take.
There was no way out.
“What is going on here?” a familiar voice barked from behind him, and it was all Marcus could do not to twist around and give a smart salute.
“Commandant.” Hostus didn’t give the order for his men to stand down. “I’d salute, but the girl here has me in a delicate position.”
“One you no doubt earned.” Commandant Wex circled in front of Marcus, his eyes widening in recognition. “Get your weapons off him, you bloody fools! And sheath them while you’re at it.”
“Yes, sir,” they all responded, sheathing their weapons. Wex rounded on Hostus and Teriana. “Put down the weapon, lass. Whether the fool earned the cut or not, you kill him and you’ll hang.”
Teriana didn’t move, her eyes flicking to Marcus. He nodded. “It’s fine.”
For a heartbeat, he wasn’t certain she intended to listen. Then she skipped away from him, moving to Marcus’s side. “Nice blade,” she said. “I think I’ll keep it.”
Hostus said nothing as he rose, but his eyes promised death.
“I’m no small amount surprised to find you here, Marcus.” Wex crossed his arms, looking him up and down. Mostly up, because the commandant of Campus Lescendor was a good head shorter than Marcus, his hair brilliant white against his dark brown skin. But what he lacked in height, he made up for in undeniable authority.
“I succeeded in the first stage of the mission to the Dark Shores,” Marcus answered. “I’m here to give a report to the Senate.”
“Yourself? Alone?”
“Not by choice.”
Wex frowned. “I’m sure that’s a story to tell.” His attention went back to Hostus. “And for what reason was he not given an escort to Celendrial?”
“Look at him, sir. We thought—”
“Oh, be quiet.” Wex spit an impressive glob onto the Bardenese carpet. “I know the answer, and I’m not interested in your lies.” He stared at Hostus, then shook his head. “I need to have a discussion with you about other matters, but it will have to wait in favor of this.” Then he offered Teriana his arm. “Come along, lass.”
She blinked, then slipped her arm through his, allowing him to lead her out of the command tent.
“There will be a reckoning for this,” Hostus hissed, his eyes full of hate.
Marcus didn’t look away, only allowed his own demons to rise to the surface. “Yes, Hostus. On that, you can count.”
Outside, ten boys wearing armor stamped with a 51 waited, and they all fell into step around Wex and Teriana as he escorted her through camp, Marcus following. He could feel them looking at him out of the corners of their eyes, curious who he was but too well-trained to overtly show it. They passed through the perimeter of the camp, where the group’s horses waited.
“Now which two of you lads fancy a walk back to Lescendor?” Wex asked. “I’m afraid we are in the need of some speed, so I’ll be taking your mounts.”
Teriana’s eyes widened in alarm, and having seen her on a horse, Marcus said, “Better Teriana ride with me.”
Taking the reins, he swung into the saddle, then reached down and hauled her up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed against his back, and Marcus had to force down the ache that rose in his chest as he remembered what he’d been on his way back to tell her when they’d been caught by the Twenty-Ninth.
It didn’t matter now. The choice was out of his hands.
“Lescendor first,” Wex said. “We need to talk.” Then he frowned. “And you need a haircut.”
Not answering, Marcus dug in his heels and headed down the Via Lescendor at a gallop.
93
TERIANA
She clung to Marcus with a death grip as they rode at what felt like reckless speed down the road, the horses’ hooves leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Her neck stung from where Hostus had cut her, but that was the least of her concerns.
Marcus said nothing, and neither did the tiny old man who galloped next to him, their escort riding ahead and behind. The young boys couldn’t have been more than thirteen, though judging from the number stamped on their armor, they’d already graduated. Children, and yet for all they were skinny and speckled with pimples, half of them probably still devoid of facial hair, she knew they were dangerous. Trained killers, even if they’d yet to take a life.
They rode for close to an hour, and then in the distance, a massive fortress loomed out of the countryside, the ground for miles around it nothing more than churned-up dirt. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of children stood in neat lines in the field, men on horses watching from the rear. She heard the familiar whistles and horns, the boys changing position, following the orders of their commanders as they played at war.
Yet as her group passed, and someone recognized the banner they carried, the ranks all turned as one and the thunder of salutes filled the air.
They approached the gates to the fortress, the towering walls patrolled by more children, their expressions serious as they watched. One of the boys in their escort shouted a code, and a heartbeat later, the portcullis rose, a deep horn bellowing from within.
Relaxing her grip, she looked upward as they passed into the long tunnel, seeing the murder holes in the ceiling and wondering if they were armed. Likely, she thought, for it seemed Lescendor conducted itself as though it were in the heart of enemy territory, not within the heart of the Empire.
And she was about to see the inside.
The gates at the far end of the tunnel swung open, and they rode back out into the sunlight.
The buildings were all columns and elaborate porticos, everything carved in swooping patterns and scenes of battles throughout history. Fountains depicting famous commanders spewed water to either side of the group as they rode down the wide lane, which split at the end, circling around a gleaming gold fountain carved in the shape of Celendor’s dragon. On the far side, a large domed building stood, crimson-and-gold banners flapping from poles that jutted out from the base of the dome itself.
There were boy children everywhere, all seemingly engaged in various sorts of training overseen by either older boys or men with silvered hair. All of them stepped into neat lines as they passed, small fists hitting their chests in salute.
“How many children are in training here?” she asked, wishing she wasn’t the one to break the silence.
The commandant turned to look at her, his grey horse frisking beneath him. “Thirty-five thousand at present. And the Fifty-First remains, and they have 5,197 legionnaires in their ranks.”
An army larger than nearly any other, and that was just those in training.
Stopping in front of a large building with towering columns holding up a wide portico, the commandant dismounted, handing his reins to one of his escort. Marcus let go of the reins and gently tugged her hand free from where it clutched his stomach, lowering her to the ground, then dismounting swiftly himself. They followed the commandant up the steps and into the shade of the building, six of the boys following suit.
The interior was as fine as any senator’s home, the tiles polished and the tables holding delicate glass vases filled with flowers. Marble busts depicting young men graced the alcoves, and when Teriana looked up, it was to find the ceilings painted with a battle scene, dead and dying littering a burned field with Celendor’s banners rising above it all.
The commandant led them up several flights of stairs, then down a hallway, pausing next to a door. “Teriana, you can get washed up in here. A medic will be along shortly to see to the injury to your neck, and we’ll also see if we can’t find you some fresh garments.”
“I want two of you with her at all times.” Marcus’s voice cut the air, the first thing he’d said since they left the Twenty-Ninth’s camp, and Teriana twitched at the tone of his voice. “Under no circumstances is she to be left alone, understood? The other four of you will remain outside her door.”
The young centurion frowned, clearly aware that Marcus was someone important, if not of his precise identity, but at the commandant’s nod, the boy answered, “It will be done, sir.”
Without saying another word, Marcus and the commandant strode down the hall to the next room and disappeared inside.
“This way, miss,” the centurion said, swinging open the door, and she stepped inside.
Judging from the furniture, which included a narrow bed, this was sleeping quarters of some sort, but it was devoid of any personal items, the linens tucked tight around the thin mattress.
“What’s your name?” she asked the boy.
“It’s centurion Pullo, miss,” he answered. “This here is Norin.” The other boy who had entered bobbed his head, his eyes skipping to her chest and then back to her face. “Miss.”
Gods, but they were young. “You can call me Teriana.”
An older servant woman entered carrying a jug of water, which she set on the table next to a basin, along with a cloth and a small piece of soap. “I can get you a dress,” she said. “If that will suit you, miss.”
“My own clothes are fine, thank you.”
The woman departed, and after she shut the door, Pullo blurted out, “Who’s that man with the commandant?”
“The one ordering you about, you mean?” She winked at him, as much to diminish her own nerves as his. “Not rightly sure if I’m supposed to tell you.”
Holding the silence and enjoying the way they clearly wanted to press her, but were refraining, she said, “That’s Legatus Marcus of the Thirty-Seventh Legion.”
Both boys’ jaws dropped. “You can’t be serious,” Pullo finally said. “That’s the Thirty-Seventh’s legatus?”
“Why?” she asked. “You heard of him?”
“Have we heard of him?” Norin demanded, his voice cracking. “He’s only the most famous—”
Pullo gave him a shove. “She’s teasing, you dunce.” Brow furrowing, he said, “The Thirty-Seventh’s supposed to be conquering the Dark Shores. The Maarin—” He broke off, giving his head a shake. “Thought I recognized your name. You’re the girl who was supposed to show them the way.”
