Page 33 of Scorched Earth (Dark Shores #4)

“Is that wise?” Servius asked. “Not only is she fluent and literate in all these languages, but she also personally knows these rulers. Obviously there are some… ah… complications, but from what I’ve heard from the Fifty-First, her interests are aligned with ours.

Seems prudent to use her as a resource.”

“No,” Marcus repeated. “That is an order. She is not to be involved, and if I discover that anyone has violated that order, I’ll have the skin lashed off the perpetrator’s back.”

Servius whistled through his teeth. “Fine, fine. I’ll see who has mastered the language, but if your missive to the Sultan is full of spelling errors, that’s—”

“Servius…”

His big friend fell silent but scuffed his sandal across the paving stones to show his displeasure.

“You’ve a lot of work to do,” Marcus told him. “The Senate didn’t send the Fifty-First here to watch the Thirty-Seventh sit around campfires drinking and gambling. Put them to work. And Felix, arrange a meeting with Atrio. Dismissed.”

His officers started to depart the square, including Austornic, but Marcus leveled a finger at the boy. “You’ll stay.”

“Yes, sir.” The young legatus crossed his arms behind his back, face expressionless as he stared at Marcus’s breastplate.

Once the other officers were out of earshot, Marcus said, “I’d like to discuss your choice to question my strategy in front of the others.

” Out of the corner of his eye, the black tower leaned again, but he forced himself not to react.

“I would have done the same thing when I was your age. Though I am now starting to understand what a pain in the ass I was to every legatus I served beneath.”

Austornic’s cheeks colored but he said nothing.

“So full of clever ideas and an ego that demanded they be deployed, never mind that those in command might have alternative plans in play. Never mind that I might not have all the information. Never mind that every legion is a different beast that can only be predicted by those who know it well.” It felt hard to stand steady, the square swimming out of focus, and Marcus broke off to take a drink of water from the skin at his belt.

It didn’t help, but Austornic was watching him with narrowed eyes, so Marcus continued.

“It was no wonder that I was the way I was, given that I was told ad nauseam just how clever everyone thought me to be. Trotted before the Senate at age twelve to listen to the most powerful men in the Empire exclaim how I was the most brilliant mind to ever graduate. A strategic genius destined for greatness. The prodigy of Lescendor.” Marcus remembered how he’d once loved that title and now hated it.

“My arrogance when I went into the field was a thing to behold, but I quickly learned that plans that were perfect on paper rarely worked out that way in practice. I learned that by getting men injured. Captured. Killed. Because I was a child and having every campaign in the Empire’s history memorized did not make up for experience. ”

Austornic’s jaw tightened, the boy chafing at being reduced to his age.

Marcus remembered what it had been like when Cassius had done the same to him before the Senate.

Yet he also was aware that part of the reason Cassius kept getting the better of him was that the Consul had been playing the game for longer.

“I want you to think,” he continued, seeing Gibzen again approaching the black tower.

Climbing onto the scaffolding and down into the pit.

“I want you to come up with ideas and strategies. But you will bring them to me. I’m not Hostus to take credit for your work, because I don’t need to step on your back to make a name for myself.

You can question me when it is appropriate.

You can disagree with me as long as you agree to obey.

But if I catch you meddling behind my back, putting the lives of my men at risk, I will lock down your legion until such time as I can send you back to Celendor. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

“By your leave, sir, I’d see to ensuring my men are in order to begin their duties.”

Marcus nodded, watching the boy salute and then depart, full well knowing that Austornic’s desire to prove himself smarter than Marcus would only have grown on the heels of the speech.

Going to the edge of the pit, he scowled at Gibzen. “What are you doing? I told you to get out!”

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” his primus mumbled. “It’s like glass. You should touch it.”

Marcus didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want to risk climbing onto the precarious scaffolding when he could barely walk in a straight line, but all of Gibzen’s men were watching. If he showed even a hint of weakness, they’d smell it.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed down onto the scaffolding, immediately feeling a temperature change from the raw earth at his back. He eased across it to Gibzen’s side and reached out a palm to touch the tower.

Only to jerk back with a curse. The black rock was as cold as ice.

Pressing his palm against the stone again, Marcus drew in a breath.

The noise and stink of Aracam fell away and his blurred vision came into focus.

The pain in his skull retreated, and for the first time since he’d fled through the xenthier stems, he felt himself again.

Almost himself.

Withdrawing his hand, Marcus stepped back and the pain resumed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Gibzen murmured, but that that wasn’t the word that came to Marcus’s mind as he looked up at the black length of shiny stone.

“Tell Rastag to let it be,” he said. “It’s not worth our resources. Now get out of this hole, primus.”

Gibzen obeyed, falling in next to Marcus as they walked through the city, saying nothing every time Marcus bumped into him.

To break the silence, Marcus asked, “Have you made any progress finding our traitor?”

Gibzen gave a sour grunt. “More challenging than anticipated. Seems as though Titus used his father’s gold to pay for a few things, including company.

Talk is that several of our boys won the coin off the house in one of Aracam’s better brothels but had the wherewithal to have it melted down.

Our cause ain’t aided by the fact the Fifty-First is being paid with new mint and they’re giddily spending their wages.

Losing, more accurately, because the pups are bad at cards and can’t hold their drink. ”

Marcus exhaled a long breath, adding the Fifty-First’s conduct to his list of troubles.

As if he didn’t have bigger concerns than his men impressing all their bad habits on the boys.

“Find another angle, then. Reasonably, it’s someone who works guard duty on the command tent, which means he’s probably one of yours. ”

“I’ve lost more than a few in recent months.” Gibzen’s feet splashed in a puddle as they walked. “Might be whoever you’re looking for is already dead.”

Titus’s voice filled his head. He hates your girl, Marcus.

Hates you breaking the rules. Can’t say I’m shocked he risked his own brothers, but it wouldn’t have been to ruin you.

It would have been to give you a chance at redemption.

Not how one would speak about a dead spy.

“I don’t think we’re going to be that lucky.

Look to those who have voiced anger about Teriana. ”

Gibzen barked out a laugh. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, sir, but that’s about everyone. Got any other ideas?”

A wave of frustration rolled through Marcus, not because of the jab at Teriana, but because if this had been Agrippa, he would have figured out a solution himself rather than asking Marcus to do his job for him. “I gave you a problem, Gibzen. Solve it.”

They had nearly reached the gate when Quintus approached.

“A word, sir.”

Unease filled him. “Where is—”

“Sleeping.”

“What do you want?”

Quintus stepped closer. “She’s sick with worry about her people being stuck in a prison run by Hostus.”

A vise of guilt tightened around his chest, but Marcus didn’t answer.

Quintus glowered at him. “I don’t disagree with your choice to keep your distance, but unless you’ve got a heart made from the same black rock as that tower, you might consider easing her fears about your intentions. Because if she doesn’t know your plans, she’ll make plans of her own.”

Irrational anger replaced his guilt, but Marcus bit down on it. “I don’t involve civilians.”

Quintus’s eyes darkened, a reminder that he was the deadliest assassin Marcus had in his service, but all he said was, “Teriana’s not a civilian. She’s your girl, even if you refuse to admit it.”

Then he twisted on his heels and strode away.

“Quintus needs some discipline,” Marcus vaguely heard Gibzen say, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.

It seemed a lifetime ago that he and Teriana had held each other in the darkness of his tent and whispered words of building trust. How it would be the foundation of everything between them, sturdy and unshakeable.

They’d built a palace upon that foundation, little knowing that it was not trust they’d built upon but lies, everything beautiful and pure set to crumble the moment the truth was revealed.

A desperate part of him wanted to preserve that palace, to protect it at all costs, yet he was afraid of what it would do to her if it crashed down upon her head.

Better to push her away so that she wouldn’t be crushed.

She’s your girl.

Teriana would never be his. Could never be his, and yet some greedy part of his heart refused to give her up even if keeping her close was hurting both of them.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, the glint of gold caught his attention.

The shop was a goldsmith’s; a hulking man with a cudgel stood guard out front.

Ignoring him, Marcus stepped up to the window, looking through the glass to a display of fine jewelry.

Aracam was an absolutely ridiculous location for such a shop, for few Arinoquians had risen high enough from the ashes of Urcon’s oppression to afford such goods, so it was no surprise the shop was empty.

For that reason, Marcus would also bet all the gold in his camp that the man had been placed here by Queen Erdene to show off the skills of her nation’s craftsmen in the belief there’d be interest in Celendor.

The Katamarcan ruler was playing the game.

His eye caught on a pair of gold earrings shaped like tiny ships, the embellishments jewels and enamel.

Reaching for the handle of the shop, Marcus said, “Wait here.”

Gibzen threw up his hands, but gave the order to those forming their bodyguard, the noise of their protests muffled as the door slammed shut behind him.

A tiny man with black hair leapt up at the sight of Marcus, the stool he’d been sitting on falling over.

“My lord legatus,” he blurted out in heavily accented Mudamorian.

“It is an honor to have you in my shop.”

“I’m not a lord, only a soldier,” Marcus answered him. “Legatus is fine. Did you craft all of these?” He gestured to the displays.

“Yes, my legatus.” The craftsman’s eyes skipped from Marcus to the window, where Gibzen no doubt stared through the glass.

“Do you take commissions?”

“From you? Of course, my legatus! It would be an honor!”

Resting his elbows on the counter, Marcus drew a piece of paper and charcoal stick in front of him, his brow furrowing as he sketched, drawing up details from his memory, adding touches from the set of pastels sitting on the table.

He swiftly finished his sketch by indicating the scale of the project and how it would be worn.

“You have skill,” the man said, bobbing a bow at Marcus as he took the paper and examined the sketch. “Few can claim such a talent for creation.”

“It’s wasted on me, I’m afraid.” Marcus knew his real talent was destruction. “Can you make this in gold?”

“It would be an honor to demonstrate to you the talent of Katamarca’s artisans.” The man bowed deeply. “When do you wish it completed by?”

“I trust you’ll find the balance between quality and speed.” Reaching into his belt pouch, Marcus extracted ten Cel dragons and placed the heavy gold coins on the table one after the other. “Is this sufficient?”

The man’s eyes bulged, then he shook his head. “I cannot accept payment, my legatus. It would be my honor to gift this to you.”

“I pay my debts, as does the Empire,” Marcus said, watching the man stare at the coins, then slowly lift his head, the message received. “Have it delivered to my camp when it’s completed.”

Inclining his head, he turned on his heel and exited the shop.

“What did you buy?” Gibzen demanded furiously.

Marcus paused in putting his helmet back on, slowly lowering it as he fixed Gibzen with a stare. “Pardon?”

The primus’s cheeks colored, and he looked away. “We just got you back and already you’re taking risks you shouldn’t.”

Marcus moved so that they were nose to nose. “I need a bodyguard, Gibzen. Not a nursemaid.”

The primus’s eyes shifted sideways. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Back to camp.”