Sipping from the cup, the proconsul said, “You told me this would work. For two months, I’ve suffered through the misery of living in this camp while you tunneled like rats under Hydrilla’s walls because you hadn’t the balls to attack them like real men.”
Grypus’s misery was a massive pavilion with every luxury that gold could buy. He had eight servants, a personal chef, and four women to keep him company while he was absent from his wife. It had required multiple wagons to bring all of it from the xenthier stem at Melitene to Hydrilla, his bed alone so large it had taken four of Marcus’s men to carry it inside.
“A frontal assault would result in heavy casualties,” Hostus answered. “They have the high ground and they are well prepared to defend against a siege. The tunnel was the better strategy and if not for that smoke, we’d have been victorious.”
“And yet,” Grypus sneered, “I still stand in this stinking filthy camp, drowning my sorrows over this embarrassing defeat instead of toasting my victory.”
The hatred in Hostus’s eyes caused a bead of sweat to roll down Marcus’s spine, every instinct in him screaming danger. How Grypus couldn’t sense it, he didn’t know, because the Twenty-Ninth’s legatus was clearly visualizing the proconsul’s murder. And when Hostus killed, it was never quick.
“And you.” Grypus rounded on Marcus. “Don’t think you’re excluded from this, boy.” Draining his cup, he tossed it on the table, then closed the distance between them, looking up at Marcus. His breath reeked of garlic and wine, and Marcus blinked as his eyes watered.
“I didn’t even want the Twenty-Ninth for this job but the commandant said you came together or not at all.”
Hostus’s face twisted with fury where he stood behind the proconsul, a knife appearing in his hand, but Grypus was oblivious.
“I wanted you, Marcus. The Prodigy of Lescendor.” His voice dripped with mockery. “The brightest mind to ever have graduated, they said. Undefeatable, they said. A strategic genius, they said. Well I say you’re a useless piece of shit!” Grypus screamed the last, bits of spittle striking Marcus in the face, but he didn’t react. Only kept his expression blank and his eyes on Hostus, ready to intervene if the other legatus lost his temper.
Even though it would cost him.
“Prove your worth!” Grypus screamed at him. “Justify the gold I’ve spent supporting you and your legion of boys when I could’ve had any legion in the Empire at my service. Give me a strategy to take Hydrilla or I swear on my family’s name I’ll have you gutted and left out for the crows to feast upon.”
Behind him, Marcus sensed Felix tense, heard Agrippa murmur under his breath, “Steady.”
But Grypus heard. Leaning around Marcus, he said, “You think that I can’t? You think that I won’t?” He laughed. “The Senate owns your lives, boys. You are its property to do with as it wills. And in Hydrilla, my voice is the Senate’s voice. My fist is the Senate’s fist. And if I decide to strike you down, that is my prerogative. Understood?”
“Yes, Proconsul,” they both answered. Seeming not to notice that Marcus had remained silent, Grypus said, “Now that we are clear, give me a strategy.”
Marcus’s strategy had not changed.
“Hydrilla is the last significant piece of the Bardenese rebellion,” Marcus said, watching Hostus as he spoke. Seeing amusement replace the anger in his eyes. “Taking them by force will result in catastrophic losses of life on both sides, that’s true. But perhaps of more significance is that the Bardenese will see those who died in Hydrilla as martyrs to the cause, which is likely to cause a surge in rebellion across the entire province. Far better to force Hydrilla to surrender, which will break the spirit of the rebellion, hopefully for good.”
“We offered them a chance to surrender months ago,” Grypus snapped. “I believe their answer was to catapult the head of the messenger into the center of this camp.”
“And now they’ve spent months entirely cut off from supplies,” Marcus answered. “That fortress is full not just of warriors but of families. Children. And if they aren’t starving yet, they will be soon. We can wait them out.”
“That’s the advice of the prodigy? To wait?” Grypus grabbed Marcus by the front of his armor, shaking him violently. “I didn’t bring you here for you to tell me to wait, you useless lazy pissant! The Senate will hear of this, boy. They’ll hear about your lazy strategies, your desire for them to pay for you and yours to lie about waiting.”
Marcus let the man shake him, watching Hostus lean against the table, his shoulders vibrating with silent laughter.
“With respect, Proconsul,” Marcus said. “It will be a far better thing for you to justify the cost of feeding two legions for another month than for you to justify the choice to send two of the Empire’s most valuable assets to their deaths for the sake of a fortress of little worth. Especially when it spawns a rebellion that will require more legions and more gold to quell, at which point the Senate will most likely offer the governorship of Bardeen to someone other than yourself.”
“Why you little—”
Grypus swung his fist, catching Marcus in the mouth, one of the man’s rings slicing his bottom lip. Pain lanced across his face, but he’d experienced far, far worse, so he only looked down at the little man before him. “My duty is to give you the best advice to achieve the Empire’s goals, Proconsul. But the decision of what to do is not mine to make.”
“A small mercy,” Grypus hissed. “Else I’d forever be remembered as the man who sat on his ass and starved children rather than as one who fought for his prize with blood and steel.”
You’ve never fought for anything in your life, Marcus thought, but he only nodded. “I await your orders.”
Grypus turned on Hostus. “I want this fortress mine before winter. See it done.”
Hostus smiled and nodded, then said, “Marcus, since you’ve voiced your advice on this matter, perhaps you might direct your prodigious mind to the troubles in the followers’ camp. I’m told the whores are hungry and they are little good to my men if they starve to death.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus saluted him, then turned on his heel and strode out of camp.
2
Agrippa
“My voice is the Senate’s voice.” Agrippa lowered his tone to imitate that obnoxious tit Grypus. “My fist is the Senate’s fist.” Then he laughed. “Apparently the Senate punches like a ten-year-old girl.”
Marcus spit a mouthful of blood into the mud, then looked sideways at him. “Would you at least curb your tongue until we’re out of earshot?”
Shrugging, Agrippa gave his commander a saucy grin. “I’m afraid my humor refuses to be so constrained, sir. It bursts forth like the bosoms of a barmaid in a too-tight dress.”
“Your humor is going to be the death of you. And me.” Marcus wiped at his chin, then frowned at the blood on his hand.
“You all right?” Felix asked. “Do you need to go to medical?”