“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.
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.”