Page 28 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

MARCUS

Breathe. Just breathe.

Marcus could feel one of his attacks looming, rising on a tidal wave of panic, exhaustion, and illness, and he sat down on a bench, sucking in mouthfuls of air.

Why hasn’t Cassius told Teriana the truth about Lydia?

That had been Marcus’s first thought the moment she’d revealed meeting with the bastard, quickly followed by horror that she’d walked alone into the dragon’s den.

Except further consideration made the consul’s strategy clear to him.

Cassius had sunk his teeth in for the kill, but much like the bite of the dragon that adorned every banner across the Empire, it would not bring a quick death.

It would be a slow and excruciating one.

What Marcus had done to Lydia was leverage, and Cassius intended to use it to make Marcus dance to his tune.

His breathing was taking on a wheezing tone, and Marcus squeezed his eyes shut. Not now. Please. Because part of him knew that if his illness came for him today, he didn’t have it in him to fight it.

“Sir?”

Marcus twitched, his eyes snapping open to focus on Gibzen. The Thirty-Seventh’s primus had entered the tent, the uncertainty on his face unfamiliar in its rarity, for Gibzen was confident even when he was wrong. “Yes?”

The other man approached, then to Marcus’s horror, dropped to his knees before him. “I want to say that I’m sorry, sir.”

He stared at the top of Gibzen’s head, black hair shorn nearly down to the scalp. “For what?”

Breathe.

“I… I spat in your face. And the rocks…” Gibzen lifted his head, and Marcus could tell that he clearly weighed the former a far greater injury than the latter. “I’ll take whatever punishment you care to give me for what I did. I was wrong to doubt you.”

Marcus did not want to deal with this now. Could not deal with this now. “It’s fine. Get up. Thirty-Seventh don’t grovel.”

Gibzen scrambled to his feet, hands behind his back at attention. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“At ease.” Marcus tried to mask the wheeze in his voice. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“Teriana stormed out snarling at Quintus about how they needed to find a tent,” Gibzen said. “That right, or do you want me to see about getting her a room in the fortress?”

“No, that’s right.”

“Fair enough. Racker said he wants Ash—Uh, the… what’s the word? Corrupted?” Gibzen’s gaze was on Ashok’s corpse. “The body. You know how Racker likes to play around with corpses.”

Pot, kettle, Marcus thought, well knowing the primus had his own proclivities when it came to the dead, but he kept his mouth shut.

Being forced to think about practicalities was calming his mind, which was the first step in maintaining his ability to breathe.

“That’s fine. Have a few men bring it over. ”

“Will do. We should also get you cleaned up, sir. Looking like your usual self will help morale by showing the men everything is as it should be.”

Nothing was as it should be.

“Titus had Rastag put a proper Cel bath into his fortress, and since he ain’t going to have need of it, being dead and all, might as well get use from you.”

“Your sentiment for the fallen is as inspiring as always,” Marcus muttered, but he didn’t argue as Gibzen hauled him to his feet, steadying him when the world spun.

“Walk on your own,” Gibzen said. “Doesn’t look good if I’m helping you.”

Marcus forced his shoulders to square, then started toward the exit.

Outside, the camp was a flurry of centurions screaming orders in their typical overaggressive way.

All three legions were an organized scramble of men falling to command, though everyone stopped what they were doing to salute as he trudged past. Gibzen’s men formed up around him, eyes watchful.

It struck Marcus that none of the men under Gibzen’s command were the same as when his previous primus, Agrippa, had held the role, and he frowned, disliking that for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate.

Climbing the steps to the fortress nearly sapped what remained of his energy, but he managed to make it down the corridor, Gibzen moving ahead to open a door. Marcus stepped inside, where he paused.

It was indeed a proper Cel bath, a basin large enough to fit ten men at the center, simple fountains recirculating water from each of the four corners.

The tile was set in a mosaic of reds and golds, col umns held up a ceiling painted in a simple fresco, and light poured in from a glass skylight high above.

He hated it.

“Looks like it belongs in some senator’s villa. All we’re missing is some good Cel girls.”

“Have someone find me Amarin,” Marcus said.

“I need…” He trailed off because the list of things he needed was too long for his sluggish mind to begin to wrap around.

The back of his skull ached from cracking against Felix’s breastplate when Ashok had attacked, the injury compounding all his other problems.

He only half heard Gibzen give the orders as he peeled off blood-splattered undergarments, tossing them aside and walking into the pool.

It was blissfully cool, the filtered water clouding to a rusty hue as it rinsed away blood and sweat and filth.

He sank beneath the surface, but in the silence, Teriana’s voice filled his head.

Why give me everything and then take it away in the next breath?

It was because it had been the only truth he could give her in the endless sea of lies.

His lungs burned, demanding air, and Marcus surfaced to find Amarin having appeared.

His servant was in the middle of a tug of war with Gibzen over a tray, the latter winning by virtue of youth and size.

Gibzen circled the pool with the tray. It contained a pitcher of water, food, soap, and a razor.

“Racker indicated that you need bed rest,” Amarin said, glaring fiercely at Gibzen. “That if you don’t get it, you’re liable to die.”

“I’ll get him to bed after he’s cleaned up,” Gibzen muttered. “Don’t treat him like some sort of invalid.”

“You’re accountable for at least some of his injuries,” Amarin snapped. “Though I see you’ve come groveling back, you nasty creature.”

Gibzen turned dark eyes on Amarin, and Marcus held up a hand. “Enough. What was done cannot be undone, and I’ve no interest in casting blame. I’ll sleep when I’m fed and washed, and when I wake, I hope it is to find everything back in order, most particularly in command.”

The standoff continued a few heartbeats, then Amarin gave a curt nod and left the room.

Gibzen opened his mouth, but Marcus shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

The primus shrugged and took up a post near the door, hand resting on the hilt of his gladius. “So… it took you to Sibern?”

Marcus gave a short nod, then began to mechanically shovel food into his mouth to avoid conversation, washing it down with mouthful after mouthful of water. His stomach roiled under the unfamiliar onslaught, but he ignored the pain.

“See any of those wolves the Sibernese boys are always yapping about?”

“Yes. They hunted us between shelters.”

“They as big as they say?”

A flicker of memory filled his mind’s eye: glittering eyes, hot breath, and white fangs. “Yes.”

Gibzen whistled. “Kill any?”

“One.”

“How did you kill it?”

The tone of Gibzen’s voice raised the hackles on the back of Marcus’s neck, and he turned his head to regard the man. Gibzen’s dusky skin had a sheen of sweat on it and his lips were slightly parted with anticipation, the grip on his weapon so tight his knuckles were white. “Does it matter?”

Gibzen shrugged and looked away, hearing the real question in Marcus’s words, which was Do we have a problem? “Nope.”

The legions were full of men like Gibzen.

Men who enjoyed killing the way other men enjoyed sex, strong drink, or narcotics.

Men who thrived on the violence of conflict and war as it served their lusts well.

It made Gibzen good at his job, but Marcus had personally set rules of conduct for him.

Rules, he was beginning to suspect, that had perhaps not been adhered to in his absence.

“I want everything back in order, Gibzen. I want everything to be exactly as I like it to be.”

“We’ll ensure it, sir.”

Marcus relaxed slightly. Abandoning the rest of the food in favor of soap, he set to work ridding himself of blood and filth, the only sound the tinkle of water coming from the fountains.

Except his mind more than filled the silence.

The overwhelming chaos of problems fought for supremacy in his skull, ricocheting from the casualties his legions had taken to Teriana’s presence.

From Titus’s revelation that the traitor was still at large to his guilt over Lydia’s death.

From the lies he’d told Teriana to the absolute certainty in his heart that he loved her above all else.

Around and around. The only thing it kept recoiling from was the deadline he now faced. Six months, Teriana’s voice echoed in his skull, only to be drowned out by Lydia screaming for her life.

Focus! he snarled at himself. Make a plan!

His mind only raced in circles. Faster and faster, and logically he knew that the only thing that would help him see straight was sleep, but the thought of sleeping with all these problems in the air was unpalatable. “I wish Agrippa were here.”

The statement came from nowhere, yet even as the words slipped from his lips, Marcus knew it was a truth that had always been, even if he’d kept it buried.

“Why?” Gibzen’s tone was clipped. “He deserted us for a Bardenese chit. I hope he’s rotting in a shallow grave somewhere.”

Because he’s the only one who could lead as well as me .

Marcus kept the thought to himself, though it expanded and grew, rising on the tide of his turmoil.

If Agrippa were still the Thirty-Seventh’s primus, Marcus could have passed out and slept for a week, certain in the knowledge that Agrippa would run the legion just as well as him.

Possibly better.