“Do you remember her?”
“No.” A lie, because he did remember his mother. Remembered her large brown eyes and long dark hair. Remembered the sweet sound of her voice when she’d sang to him. Remembered how he’d screamed and cried for her when his father’s men had taken him away, dumping him without ceremony at Lescendor’s gates. “But I’ve been hit on the head a lot, so my memory isn’t the best.”
They reached the large tent where the laundresses worked together, and he passed Silvara the buckets. “You better carry these in. I don’t do this for just anyone and I don’t want to stir up jealousy. Dissension in the ranks is never good.”
One dark eyebrow rose. “In the ranks of laundresses?”
“To underestimate them, and the destruction they might cause, would be folly. I will not be the cause of the Thirty-Seventh having to march naked.”
“A valid point. Winter is coming.” Taking the buckets from him, Silvara marched into the tent. Agrippa started to follow, but Quintus caught hold of his wrist, pulling him back.
“You’ve had your fun,” his friend said. “Let’s go back to camp.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do. To sit in the damp around a campfire, knowing that it was only a matter of time until Grypus had his way. Having to keep that information to himself while surrounded by his men. By his friends… “You two go. I’ll come back in a bit.”
Quintus and Miki exchanged looks, the latter pulling off his helmet to scrub a hand through his short red hair, freckles bright against his pale skin. “That’s not a good idea, Agrippa. This is the Twenty-Ninth’s territory. They catch us messing around with their followers—especially the pretty ones—and we’ll pay for it.”
“The Twenty-Ninth can kiss my ass.” He was sick of being stuck under their control. Sick of the older legion dragging them down when they were supposed to be teaching them how to survive. “You two do what you want. I’m getting my laundry done.”
Turning his back on them, Agrippa stepped into the dim interior, the smell of lye soap slapping him in the face.
“Take a wrong turn, boy?” an old woman with a face like a prune asked, emaciated arms plunging up and down into a washtub filled with crimson fabric.
“He needs his clothes washed.”
Silvara reappeared from the entrance at the opposite side of the tent, and Agrippa caught sight of a small fire burning precious fuel, a kettle over top. She was still shivering violently, which was no wonder given it was almost as cold within as without. He opened his mouth to say that needs was a strong word that implied he was dirtier than he was, but the old woman said, “He’s Thirty-Seventh, girl. They do their own washing.”
“His coin spends as well as the Twenty-Ninth’s,” Silvara replied. “So quit griping, Agnes.”
“Oh, ho!” The ancient Bardenese woman cackled. “Silvara’s got fire on her tongue today. All right, boy. You want your clothes washed, hand them over.”
The realization that he’d not thought this plan through dawned on him, but he was committed now. Agrippa unfastened his cloak and swung it around Silvara’s shoulders, covering her like a tent. “If you could hold this for a moment.”
She frowned, but he didn’t fail to notice how she pulled it tight across her chest. Or how her shivers ceased.
The eight women in the room—each old enough to be his grandmother—stopped their scrubbing, smiles rising on their faces as he unbuckled his armor and carefully put it aside.
“You’re putting on quite the show, boy,” Agnes said. “Maybe we should be paying you.”
“Consider it a gift.” His cheeks were starting to burn, but he caught the hems of both the tunics he was wearing and pulled them upward and over his head. “A ray of sunshine on this dreary day.”
Agnes only whistled at him.
Freed of the garments, he found Silvara standing in front of him holding out a hand. “Give them over, then.”
Staring at the fabric, which was marked with sweat and dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood, Agrippa decided that this had not only been a bad plan, but potentially his worst ever. “Ahh, no. I’m afraid I’m really rather particular, so I’m going to err on the side of experience. Agnes, would you do me the honor?”
He held out the garment, but the old woman only pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’m busy. We’re all busy, ’cept the girl. Give it to her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” His teeth started to chatter. “Some of those stains are stubborn and they’ll require skill.” He eyed the old woman’s arms, once again engaged plunging a garment up and down in the tub. “And…vigor. A quality you seem to have an abundance of, Agnes.”
“Such a sweet boy.” Agnes grinned, revealing teeth that were rotting where they weren’t missing. “Must still have some of my charm. All right, I’ll do it. But it will cost you double.”
Given he’d lost most of his money playing dice the prior night, Agrippa winced but nodded, digging the coins out of his belt pouch and handing them over.
“Now give me the rest of it.”
“Rest of what?”
“Your clothes, you daft child.” Agnes cast her eyes skyward. “Mercy, Silvara, but looks only go so far—this one’s a simpleton if I’ve ever met one. You could do better.”
“Undoubtedly,” Silvara agreed, and Agrippa turned in time to watch a smile grow on her face, her fingers burrowed into the fur of his cloak. “But he does have a few charms.”
Agrippa felt his heart speed a little faster, the thought of keeping that smile on her face worth potentially freezing his balls off. He unfastened the armor buckled over his shins and dropped it onto the pile with the rest, then pulled off his footwear. Hooking his thumbs over the woolen leggings he reluctantly wore in this cursed cold province, he tugged them off, and handed them to Agnes, his whole face on fire.
“It’s a bit brisk,” she said, giving him a grin and dropping his clothes into her washtub.
“Would you like your cloak, Agrippa?” Silvara asked. “While you wait?”
“No need.” His teeth were chattering so hard he swore he was going to crack them. “I’m quite comfortable, thanks.”
The women all cackled loudly as he retreated, leaning against a tent pole, watching the old woman do a far better job at his laundry than he ever did. She hung his clothes up to dry near the fire, which sadly raised another lack of foresight in this dreadful plan. “I’m not sure I really thought this through.”
“You did not.” Agnes patted his cheek as she passed. “But who could blame you? Silvara, take mercy on the poor lad.”
He heard Silvara laugh, the sound filling his ears and drowning out anything else, but as he turned to look at her, three of the Twenty-Ninth stepped into the laundresses’ tent. And at their head was Carmo.
Agrippa scowled at the sight of the older primus, who only had the title because he was Hostus’s dog. Technically, Agrippa was supposed to be training under the older soldier, but given that the first lesson Carmo had given him was to break both of Agrippa’s wrists, he typically avoided the other man like the plague.