One of the laundresses rose, her eyes wide. “Your clothing isn’t dry yet, dominus. Another hour—”
“You think I’ve an hour to wait around, you lazy old hag!” Carmo kicked a washtub, flipping it over and spilling water everywhere. Then he threw an armload of dirty laundry at her. “Get me something clean, now!”
“Yes, dominus.”
The woman scuttled from the tent, and Carmo, turning to talk to his cronies, spotted Agrippa. “Why are you naked?” he demanded.
Stretching, Agrippa said, “Agnes here is an artist. And I am her muse.”
“Her what?”
“Her muse,” Agrippa repeated. “Don’t worry, sir, no one will ever use the word to describe you.”
Carmo’s mud-brown eyes regarded him with all the intelligence of a cow as he tried to determine whether he’d been insulted, eventually muttering, “Obnoxious Thirty-Seventh shit.”
Beyond, Silvara had wisely discarded Agrippa’s cloak behind a pile of laundry, but as she rose, the motion caught Carmo’s eye. “Hello, pretty.”
“Dominus.” Silvara lowered her head, but Agrippa saw the hate in her eyes. The way her hands balled into fists like she intended to pick a fight, though to do so would be lunacy.
“This isn’t the tent you should be working in.” Carmo stepped closer to her, leering. “How’s about we escort you to a place better suited for someone with a face like yours.”
Shit.
Spotting the other laundress reappearing with a stack of folded garments, Agrippa said loudly, “You should really charge him double, love. I’ve no doubt it took twice the time.”
Carmo turned to glare at him. “What are you blathering on about, Agrippa?”
“Well, everyone knows about your lack of fastidiousness when visiting the latrines.”
From the look on the laundresses’ faces, they had also noticed. But they were also taking advantage of the distraction to shove Silvara out the back of the tent.
“My lack of what?” Carmo’s hands balled into fists, his skin purpling.
“Fastidiousness. It means—”
“I’ve no interest in lessons from you!” Carmo roared the words. “Just like I’ve no interest in your disrespect. Hostus is going to hear—”
“Oh yes, I would like to be a fly on the tent wall for that conversation.” Adopting a low growling tone, he said, “Agrippa disrespected me, sir.” And then in a posh officer’s voice, he added, “What did he say this time, Carmo?” Another growl, “Told the laundresses I don’t wipe my ass after I shit, sir.”
“You little…”
Carmo lunged, fists flying, but Agrippa had already moved.
He hooked the bigger man’s leg as he went past, sending him sprawling. But where he’d been given little in the way of brains, Carmo had been gifted mightily in brawn. Trapped by the other men, Agrippa had no room to move and Carmo caught him by the ankle. They went down in a twisting mass of arms and legs, Carmo clipping him in the cheek even as Agrippa kicked him in the knee, grinning as the man cursed.
But then the other men dogpiled him, fists flying, and his forearms ached as he blocked blow after blow. Carmo rose, drawing back a foot with the intent of kicking Agrippa in the ribs, but before he could, Quintus and Miki exploded into the tent.
“You stayed!” Agrippa shouted as Quintus slammed into Carmo’s side, sending him toppling into a washtub. “My truest of true friends.”
“You owe us!” Miki snarled, arm around one of the men’s necks, choking him out. “For this, and for making us listen to you flirt.”
“Add it to my tab.” Agrippa spit blood into the face of the third man, then balled up his fist and went to work.
5
Marcus
“You all right?”
Marcus turned from his appraisal of Hydrilla to find Felix coming along the top of the camp wall toward him. His second had his helmet off, the sun reflecting off his dark blond hair, his blue eyes furrowed with concern. “Cluck, cluck,” he said by way of answer. And when Felix cast his eyes skyward, he added, “You mother me worse than Amarin, although at least he can honestly claim it’s one of his duties.”
Amarin had been gifted to Marcus by the Senate when he’d been sworn in as legatus of the Thirty-Seventh. Given Marcus had been only twelve at the time, Amarin had seen his role not just as a servant, but as a surrogate parent. Marcus’s protests that he needed no such attention had fallen on deaf ears, and over the years, he’d given up trying to temper Amarin’s behavior. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: A split lip isn’t going to kill me.”
“Grypus deserves a beating.” Felix leaned against the railing next to him, elbow bumping against Marcus’s. “Of all the senators we’ve been saddled with, he’s the most obnoxious.”
“Hostus might oblige him if he isn’t careful.” Marcus rubbed at his temples, a headache setting in. “Though having a proconsul murdered in our camp would not improve our circumstances.”
“Unless Hostus was convicted for the crime,” Felix said. “Then our circumstances might improve greatly.”
“He’d make it look like it was rebels or an accident. The Senate would give him the harsh side of its tongue for allowing it to happen, and life would carry on. Hostus doesn’t get caught.”
Which they knew all too well.
After the Thirty-Seventh had graduated from Campus Lescendor, they’d been assigned to the Twenty-Ninth to complete their training under Legatus Dareios. Dareios had been clever and fair and Marcus had learned a great deal from him. But not long after they’d joined the older legion, Dareios was found skinned and staked out in the snow, his eyes and tongue missing, and his escort, which included his second- and third-in-command, all hanging from trees.
The murder had been blamed on a crime syndicate the legions had been in the process of bringing to heel. All of the members were rounded up and hanged, but everyone knew the truth. Knew the truth as Hostus rose from primus to legatus, replacing every officer in the Twenty-Ninth with his feral dogs and turning them loose on anyone who didn’t fall to command. Marcus especially knew the truth, because Hostus had made him watch as he’d eaten Dareios’s eyes and tongue after the Senate had ratified his command of the Twenty-Ninth, promising Marcus the same treatment if he ever crossed him.
But if the Senate knew the truth, they didn’t so much as blink; it mattered little to them who stood at the helm as long as the legion delivered results.
And with Hostus holding a knife to the Thirty-Seventh’s throat, Marcus had spent the last three years ensuring the Senate was never disappointed.
Pulling his eyes from the fortress, he watched as his men dragged corpses from the tunnel they’d spent months digging under Hydrilla’s walls. The Bardenese had already barricaded it with debris, though they must have lost dozens doing it with the poisonous smoke they’d choked the tunnel with still in the air.
Surrender, he silently willed those patrolling the towering fortress walls. This is a war you cannot win.
“Sir!”