Tarnished Empire (Dark Shores) Page 7

  What he really couldn’t handle was the fact that he couldn’t think of a cursed thing to say, but they didn’t need to know that.

  Agnes cocked one eyebrow, then shrugged and handed him the garment. Taking up the needle, he set to work repairing the split seam, the familiar motion settling the nerves in his stomach.

  “Not bad,” she said as he handed it back, giving him an approving nod. “Rather good, even.”

  “You will find, Agnes, that I’m rather good at everything I do.”

  “So say all men.” Catching at his chin, she frowned at his face. “Your fancy medics not see to you?”

  “No need.”

  She huffed out a breath and stood, her back cracking audibly. Going to a small chest, she extracted a handful of leaves and shoved them in her mouth, chewing vigorously with what teeth she had. Then she spit the green mess into her hand. “Come here, boy.”

  Horror filled him as he realized her intent. “I’m fine. Truly. Time will heal me up without intervention.”

  “It will help,” Silvara said softly, and giving her a pained glance, he muttered, “Fine.”

  Agnes smeared the mixture around his eye and over his cheek, and a moment later, the pain receded. “Let me see your back.”

  “I’m noticing a trend,” he said as he unbuckled his armor, pulled it over his head, and tossed it on the floor. “Every time I step inside this tent, I end up naked.”

  Agnes cackled, then shoved her tiny hand down the neck of his tunic, smearing more of the concoction over the lash marks. Then she dumped a pile of mending in his arms. “Get to work on these. I need my beauty rest.”

  She proceeded to go to the far side of the tent, where she rolled herself up in a thin blanket and almost immediately began to snore. Laughing softly, Silvara rose and went outside, returning with a brazier full of hot coals, which she set near the old woman’s back. “Better get started on that mending.”

  Picking up the needle, he held it to the candlelight and threaded it. “Not precisely how I expected to spend my evening.”

  “What did you expect to be doing?”

  “Convincing you to kiss me, for starters. But given that I’m covered in leaves and Agnes’s spit, I no longer feel overly confident in pursuing my planned course of action.” Then realization dawned on him and he laughed, glancing at the old woman. “Well played, Agnes. Well played.”

  “She’s a clever one.”

  Sitting at the table across from him, Silvara poured the contents of the kettle into two cups, the air filling with the scent of sweet nettle tea, and a wave of déjà vu passed over him. Memory of his mother giving it to him whenever he’d been ill or upset, the sound of Bardenese lullabies filling his ears like the whispers of a ghost.

  “You’ve had it before?” She handed him a cup and then took a sip from her own.

  “My mother served it.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember her.”

  He shrugged.

  Silvara gave him a long look, then sang a verse of that very lullaby, a knowing look appearing in her eye when he shivered and set the cup aside. “Why did you lie?” she asked.

  Because he was supposed to forget. Was supposed to have abandoned the past, caring nothing for anything but his brothers in the legion and the master they served. “She was a servant to a senator in Celendrial. A bed servant to my father, if you must know.” He swallowed the thickness in his throat. “His wife couldn’t carry a child, so when my mother became pregnant, the woman falsified her own pregnancy and then claimed the baby as her own.”

  “You?”

  “My brother, Tiberius. He has dark hair but favored our father’s complexion and passed well enough.” Agrippa took a sip of the tea, the hot liquid burning down his throat. “However, my father was apparently quite taken with my mother and refused to give her up, eventually producing yours truly. Much to the fury of his wife.” He huffed out a soft breath, old memories filling his mind’s eye. “A nastier creature you’ll never meet. Made my mother’s life the purest form of misery and endlessly tried to turn Tiberius against us. But stubbornness runs in the blood and he refused. Always called her Ilithyia rather than Mother, which would send her into the worst sort of rages. And when she threatened to take it out on me, he’d counter by saying he’d tell everyone that he wasn’t her child, which would have been the worst of scandals.”

  Silvara refilled his cup. “She sounds horrible.”

  Agrippa had been terrified of her, and his mother equally so. “She’s dead. I heard a rumor that she’d been strangled by my father for some offense and that he took his own life afterward. And I think there was only one thing that could have caused him to do so.”

  Horror filled Silvara’s eyes. “Your mother… Did the wife kill her?”

  He shrugged. “The truth died with them, which is just as well. For now my brother sits on the Senate, none of those Cel bastards the wiser that his blood is any less pure than their own.” It had been almost ten years since he’d seen his brother, and more than once, he wondered if Tiberius ever thought of him. If he knew he was alive. Last he’d heard, his brother was to wed the daughter of Senator Gnaeus Domitius, richest man in the Empire, so his stars were truly in alignment.

  Silvara’s eyes moved past him, and he turned to find Agnes still snoring peacefully. “I think I’m safe. Agnes doesn’t seem the sort to travel to Celendrial to unearth a senator’s dirty laundry.” And as it was, who would believe it coming from a Bardenese laundress? “But enough of prying into my past. Where is your family?”

  She twitched, eyes jerking to him. “They’re… They’re dead.”

  Agrippa internally winced. “We need something stronger than tea if we’re going to continue with such morose conversation. Ask me something else before I start weeping into my cup.”

  Interlacing her fingers, she rested her chin on her knuckles. “What’s it like being in a legion? What do you do all day when you aren’t fighting?” Her mouth quirked into a smile. “I scrub filth from clothes, which isn’t tremendously exciting.”

  His skin prickled, something about the question feeling off although he wasn’t certain why. “Not much, really. Wander around the woods looking for rebels. Do a few drills to keep sharp. Follow the legatus about to make sure laundresses don’t dump water on his feet, though we bungled that job up recently.”

  She winced. “I felt awful. Well, mostly I felt terrified that he was going to order one of you to strike me down for soaking his feet.”

  “If it had been Hostus, you’d have been dead. But Marcus isn’t like that—especially not with civilians.”

  “What is he like?”

  Agrippa’s mood soured, because it appeared his commander was going to insert himself into this moment whether he liked it or not. “Good-looking. But given this line of questioning, I’m sure you noticed that part.”

  “Yes, he’s much discussed by those in the pleasure tents for his looks and his position.” Silvara swirled the leaves in the bottom of her cup, staring at them. “They wonder why he never visits them or has anyone brought to his own tent.”

  Agrippa’s jealousy flared, the old animosity between him and Marcus fueling the flames. And the idea that maybe her dumping water on Marcus hadn’t been entirely accidental reared up in his mind. “Probably because he thinks they’re poxy. And is it them who wonder? Or you?”

  She lifted her cup to her lips, staring at him. And he realized that she was struggling not to laugh.

  His cheeks burned. “Did you really just try to get a rise out of me using my own commander?”

  “And it worked tremendously well.” She burst into laughter, her head tilting back to reveal the slender column of her neck and capturing his gaze. “So well, that I feel there must be some bad blood between you. Did he win the heart of some girl you fancied, leaving you heartbroken?”

  “He won the Thirty-Seventh.” The words came out without thought, and Agrippa looked away the moment he said them, glowering at the
tent canvas. “Never mind that. It’s in the past. I don’t care anymore.”

  She said nothing, only refilled his teacup, seeming content to wait for him to speak. And because he couldn’t think of a damned thing beyond an explanation, he said, “We were rivals at Campus Lescendor.”

  “The legion school?”

  He nodded, then sighed. “Every second-born son in the Empire is sent when they turn seven, and at first, it’s all about surviving the drills and the exercises and the training. But then things change. Boys group into factions, because loners never do well, and the factions begin to war for dominance. Brawling is punished, so at first everyone thinks that the commandant and the training officers are trying to disrupt the factions, but in reality, they encourage it. Pit factions and their leaders against one another, so there are always winners and losers, and gradually the factions grow fewer in number but larger in size. Their leaders more powerful and more vicious in their pursuit of control.”

  “But you were all just children,” she protested. “To turn you against one another is barbaric and cruel.”

  “The Empire is barbaric and cruel,” he answered. “Spend an evening in the company of the proconsul and you’ll understand that quickly enough. At any rate, when what would become the Thirty-Seventh was in its final year, two factions remained. Two leaders. Marcus—”

  “And you.”

  “Correct.” He drained his teacup, wishing for something stronger. “He won. They chose him. End of story.”

  Which wasn’t the truth. There was more to it, much more, but dwelling on it did him no favors.

  “Yet for all you were rivals, now you are one of his most important officers,” she said, her eyes bright with curiosity. “How did that come to pass?”

  “Many of the men were still loyal to me, so he likely did it because it was a good way to win them over. And because I’ve a reputation for getting things done that no one else can manage,” he answered. “And over the years, we’ve come to have something of a mutual respect.”

  Comrades. Brothers. But not friends. Never friends. Recent days had been a reminder of that.

  “You were very quick to get between him and a threat, to risk your own life to protect him. Seems like more than just respect.”

  “Yes, well…” He grinned at her, tired of talking about Marcus. “The threat wasn’t terribly threatening.”

  It was meant to be a jest, but she flinched, attempting to cover the motion by standing.

  She picked up his armor and examined the metal, tracing a finger over the 37 embossed on the right side. “It’s heavy. It must be uncomfortable to wear all the time.”

  “Better than a rebel arrow between the ribs.”

  Her mouth quirked. “You live an exciting life.”

  There was a hint of bitterness in her voice that he didn’t think had anything to do with him. “It has costs.”

  “Everything does, one way or another.” She swallowed. “I always dreamed of doing something that mattered. Of leaving my mark on the world in some way that would make me worth being remembered. But the spirits seem to have different plans for me.”

  Words that echoed a sentiment held by his own heart. The desire to be someone in a world where nearly every aspect of his life had been preordained. “Fuck the spirits,” he said, knowing it was probably dreadfully disrespectful. “Carve your own path.”

  Her brow furrowed and she was silent, finger still tracing over the hard curves of his armor. Then she looked up to meet his gaze. “May I try it on?”

  A laugh tore from his lips before he realized she was serious. “I…” Wearing a legion mark when one was not legion was a crime. But he found himself not wanting to deny her anything. “I suppose.”

  He lifted it over her head, fastening the buckles. It hung comically large on her tiny frame. “There,” he said, “you’ve had your taste of being in the Thirty-Seventh.” He started to unbuckle them all again, his pulse racing with fear that someone would come in. That someone would catch them like this and that she’d be punished.

  But Silvara only brushed away his hand, then reached to unfasten the vambrace encasing his wrist. “I want to try it all on.”

  This is taking it too far. “If you want.”

  Her slender fingers fumbled with the buckles, her hands trembling slightly as they brushed against the skin of his wrist, sending a flood of desire through him that cared nothing for risks and everything for reward. Taking over, he pulled the piece of leather and metal free and fastened it over her tiny forearm, where it hung loose.

  Methodically, he removed all the pieces of armor he wore and put them on her, dropping to his knees while she lifted the hem of her skirts so he could fasten greaves over her shins, the sight of her bare knees and the inch of thigh he could see above them almost undoing him.

  Pausing to wipe the sludge off his face and hoping it hadn’t stained him green or worse, he said, “Now the most important part.” He picked up his belt, which was heavy with weapons and tools, and fastened it around her waist.

  Then he stepped back.

  It should have been a comical sight, a Bardenese laundress dressed in practical woolen skirts and the oversized armor of an Empire legionnaire.

  But it wasn’t.

  “I wanted to know what it felt like.” She pulled his gladius from its sheath, holding it like she’d done so before, though that was unlikely. “What it felt like to be one of you. Powerful. Dangerous.” Her jaw trembled, then flexed as she clenched it. “Untouchable.”

  “We aren’t untouchable.” They circled each other, her arm trembling from the weight of the weapon. “We are only men, who bleed and die like any other.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way to those who stand against you.”

  He ducked under the weapon, moving behind her in one quick motion, one arm going around her body to pull her back against him. “Good thing you aren’t against me,” he said softly.

  Sliding his hand down her arm, he gripped hers, steadying the weapon as he drew her elbow back. Then he thrust her arm forward. “Like this.”

  “Let me try,” she whispered, and he let go of the blade, moving his hand to her hip, feeling the heat of her beneath his palm. She drew her arm back, then thrust his weapon forward without hesitation, then sliced it sideways as though parrying a blow, moving through motions he knew well.

  “Someone has been watching drills,” he murmured, not sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

  Silvara shivered and opened her hand, and the gladius fell to the ground with a thud. She tilted her head as though to look up at him, except her eyes were closed, her pulse a rapid flutter in her throat.

  And he wanted to kiss her.

  Wanted to kiss her more than he’d ever wanted to kiss a girl in his life. Except he couldn’t tell if she wanted him or was terrified of him, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. “Silvara…”

  Then a scuffle of motion sounded from outside. Silvara gasped, enough panic showing on her face that any doubt in his mind that she was unaware what they were doing was forbidden was vanquished. He lunged to the ground to snatch up his weapon, but as he straightened, Yaro stepped into the tent.

  “Agrippa—” his friend started to say, then broke off, his eyes landing on Silvara. A grin slowly worked its way onto his face. “Hello, Silvara. You make an exceptionally lovely legionnaire, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I was… It’s…” She trailed off, then tried to cross her arms over her chest, except the width of his breastplate stymied the motion. “Thank you.”

  Yaro laughed. “Agrippa, if this is what does it for you, you needn’t have dragged us all the way down here—there’s plenty of action to be had back at camp.”

  “Yaro,” he replied, simultaneously horrified and furious. “You’d better have a rutting good reason for this or I’m going to strip you naked and stake your pimply ass out for the morning patrols to discover.”

  “If you want to see my ass, you n
eed only ask, sir.” Yaro held up his hands in mock defense. “Seriously, though. Carmo got wind we were here and he and his men are looking for you. Miki and Quintus are leading them on a wild chase through camp, but we need to make ourselves scarce quick-like.”

  “Shit.” He moved to Silvara, fumbling at the buckles on his armor. “I have to go.”

  “I know.” She pulled off pieces, handing them to him. “Why are you always in trouble?”

  “I’m not.”

  Yaro coughed: “Bullshit.”

  “Hazard of my personality, I suppose.” Buckling on his belt, he caught her arms and pushed her to the far side of the tent, asking softly, “When can I see you again? Please say tomorrow. And please say Agnes will be there; her ministrations were the highlight of my evening.”

  Silvara laughed, and he swore silently that even if Carmo beat him bloody tonight, it would be worth it. “I’ll think about it.” Then she reached into a chest, extracting a handful of the leaves Agnes had used on him. “If you want to see her, I’d suggest availing yourself. It truly does work.”

  Then Yaro was hauling on his arms. “Come on, Agrippa! We need to make ourselves scarce.”

  He resisted, not wanting to leave her, and was rewarded when she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Go!”

  They stumbled out of the tent right as Miki and Quintus went racing past. “Run, you idiot!” the latter shouted, and then the four of them were racing through the maze of tents and into the night.

  9

  Silvara

  Silvara sucked in a ragged breath, listening to Agrippa and Yaro disappear into the night. A heartbeat later, she heard the thud of heavy feet running in pursuit, muttered oaths and whispered orders, and her stomach clenched knowing who was chasing them. And what would happen if they got caught.

  But she wasn’t given any time to dwell on it.

  Agnes rolled to her feet, and then the stack of garments she’d been sleeping in front of shifted and Carina appeared from behind them. “You’ve the knack for this, Silvara. I have to admit, I’m impressed.”