Which shouldn’t matter. Agrippa had broken legion laws—laws Marcus was bound to uphold—and the punishment was standard. To not have punished him would have shown favoritism, and it would’ve encouraged others to engage in similar behavior. A hundred reasons ran through his head for why he shouldn’t feel guilty, and yet the sentiment remained. Annoyed with himself, he said, “I want to get this over with, so speed would be appreciated.”
“Yes, sir,” was all Agrippa said, passing the order to the fifty of his men riding escort. The party broke into a fast canter, heading south.
The speed of their travel made conversation impossible, everyone focused on keeping their mounts steady on the muddy road even as they watched the surrounding forests for opportunistic rebels. Even so, Marcus found himself grateful when the walls of Melitene appeared through the trees, for he’d spent the majority of the ride stewing over whether he should say something in an attempt to ease the friction between him and Agrippa.
The gates to the fortress opened, men of the Ninth saluting him as he passed into the familiar interior. The centurion on duty approached as Marcus was handing off his reins. “Legatus? We were expecting the proconsul.”
“He’s occupied and sent me in his stead.”
A faint smile rose to the older man’s face. “I’ve heard of what occupies him. Virile old bastard.”
Marcus knew he should reprimand the man for speaking so of a senator, but he was in no mood for it. “Has she arrived?”
The man shook his head. “Not yet. But one of her servants came through the xenthier already and informed us she’ll be here within the hour.”
A thousand things to do, and he was going to spend his day waiting on a senator’s wife. Exhaling, Marcus strode into the fortress, Agrippa following at his heels, having said not a word beyond orders to his men since they’d left camp. His silence was disconcerting in its rarity, and Marcus found himself wishing the primus would crack a joke or say something inappropriate, even if it was at Marcus’s expense. Because anything would be better than this.
They passed through the inner gates, and his eyes went immediately to the black stem of crystal jutting out the side of a large outcropping of rock. About as thick as his arm, three feet of it was exposed, and it glittered in the faint sunlight. A dozen men of the Ninth stood on guard around it, weapons facing inward, for this was a terminus.
Stopping outside of the perimeter, Agrippa at his left, Marcus again debated if he should say something.
You could apologize. He dismissed the idea the second it materialized, because one did not apologize for deserved discipline.
You could tell him it was past time someone commented on Carmo’s stench. He tossed that idea aside with equal speed, for it would only encourage a repeat of events, and that was the last thing the legion needed.
You could tell him you heard it was a good fight. He frowned, that idea having merit given Agrippa’s endless quest for reputation. But it felt off, because he knew that impressing his fellows hadn’t been the reason Agrippa had picked the fight.
Nothing Marcus came up with felt like the right thing to say. So he settled on stewing in silence, breathing in the breeze that emanated from the xenthier crystal. It was scented with dust and heat and Cel cooking. Smells from a fortress a thousand miles away transported by the xenthier just as it did anything else that touched its tip. It smelled like home, despite it having been years since the Thirty-Seventh had been in Celendor itself for any length of time, yet Marcus felt no nostalgia. All his demons lived in the heart of the Empire, and life was better far away from them.
“Sir?” Agrippa said abruptly, and Marcus twitched, startled. “Yes?”
“Might I ask a question of some importance?”
Marcus’s stomach dropped at the seriousness of Agrippa’s tone. And mentally, he prepared a dozen responses to defend his choices after the brawl. “Of course.”
Agrippa frowned at the xenthier. “Do you think that if someone on guard duty at the genesis farts that we’d smell it here?”
The question was so unexpected that Marcus found himself lost for a response. “I… I… I suppose it would stand to reason, though I’ve never seen it documented. Certainly, there have been complaints of other foul odors emanating from other terminus stems.”
Agrippa pursed his lips, giving a slow nod. “Would have to be sustained, I imagine. No one is going to report a passing whiff.”
Marcus struggled not to laugh. This was Agrippa’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness—the ability to read a moment and know exactly what to say to diffuse tensions, even if it was an inane conversation entirely inappropriate for two legion officers to have. “Agreed. Sustained and concentrated enough to note, else the fortress’s commander would be inundated with endless reports on smells.”
“Would make an interesting experiment. The collegium is always interested in our discoveries, after all.”
Marcus huffed out a breath of amusement, imagining submitting that report. “You giving up on military fame in favor of publication?”
“Never.” A slight smirk rose on Agrippa’s lips. “But my prose is good enough that the world deserves to read it, and it would impress the girls to say my findings were kept in Celendrial’s Great Library. I’d be willing to include your name too, sir, if you’d give the order for men to participate.”
“I am not giving that order.” Marcus’s eyes flicked to one of the Ninth on duty, the older man fighting a grin. “But if the men on duty were to eat an abundance of beans in advance of their shift, it isn’t as though I’d be able to stop them from passing wind.”
“Fair.” Agrippa shifted his weight. “Of course, there’d be one idiot who’d get too enthusiastic and sit on the stem, which would result in him having to explain to those who’d endured the stench for however long just what the Thirty-Seventh was up to.”
“And I’d have to pay for his transport back.” Marcus stopped trying not to laugh, his shoulders shaking. “And then I’d have to listen to the explanation of what happened and come up with a punishment. A punishment that would need to be documented and submitted. This is a flawed plan that you propose, Agrippa.”
The primus looked sideways at him, hazel eyes gleaming bright. “So we’re doing it, right?”
“It would put the Thirty-Seventh in the running for the best prank of the year.” Marcus rubbed his chin. “Who is the current leader?”
“Thirty-First, I believe. They rigged a false floor in Senator Saturinius’s private latrine, though it came back to haunt them. They were on water rations, so they were stuck with his stink for close to a week. Thankfully the senator apparently still believes himself the victim of termites.”
“Good, but unoriginal.” Marcus eyed the xenthier stem, his mind filling with possibilities. “I think we can trump it.”
They returned to silence, but it was no longer uncomfortable as they waited in the cold air, inhaling the smells of home.
Then a man appeared from nowhere. He stumbled away from the stem, blinking wildly, then his eyes focused on the legionnaires facing him and he straightened. “The domina is ready to travel,” he said. “We will begin with her personal effects so as to be prepared to receive her in comfort.”