fifty years, with a strong chin that Primus knew he shared, and hair now gone completely white. He returned their salute almost brusquely, and immediately dismounted, handing off his reins to a man in a red cloak and commander’s crest whom Primus did not recognize. Lucan gave his men the signal to dismount, and climbed down to clasp the general’s wrist. “Do not let your men get comfortable,” the general said. “You’ll be leaving again within the day.”
Lucan’s expression betrayed his surprise. “Are we prepared, then? I thought it would take the week to–”
“Not here.” The general turned his attention to Primus. “I see that Vulpes at the gate had it right: you’ve brought my son.”
Primus did not know whether to salute, or clasp his father’s wrist, or embrace him. For his part the general made no move at all, but only ran his eyes over Primus. Lucan spoke into the silence: “Infrequent as communication is between us, a message would’ve arrived no sooner than ourselves.” Seneca accepted that with a nod.
“You’ve grown up a bit,” he observed.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You look more and more like your mother.”
“I think he takes after you, sir,” said the commander at Seneca’s elbow.
The general grunted. “Well. Let’s get these men off the road. Fulcer, take them to the barracks-yard and see that there’s a fire; they can fill their water skins, but they’ll have to refresh themselves on their own supplies. Lucan, you come with me.” And with that, he left them standing in the road, while he himself strode off toward a small stone building whence rose a thin column of black smoke, and the metallic tang of sulfur.
Lucan put a hand on Primus’ shoulder. “I’ll be sure you get the chance for a few words with him before we leave,” he said. Then he was gone after the general, and Primus was left to lead their horses in the opposite direction, toward the twin barracks-halls that stood at right angles to one another, a fire pit centered in the yard between them. He told himself he had envisioned no tearful reunion, had not expected to be instantly taken under the general’s wing. Lucan was a legate, and privy to all their leaders’ plans. A legionnaire should feel lucky to be present at all. He had no cause to feel ashamed.
No cause at all.
Commander Fulcer led them to the barracks yard, and sent servants scurrying to build a fire. The scouts did not unsaddle their horses, but tethered them to long wooden benches and stood talking amongst themselves in groups of three and five. Primus considered his father’s second-in-command: Fulcer wore no armor beneath his cloak, only a thick tunic padded heavily at the shoulders. Primus saw that bandages wrapped the palm of his right hand and three of his fingertips. There were more at his neck, and when he lifted off his crested helmet, Primus glimpsed the edges of a terrible burn beneath the linen, still oily with salve. His helm tucked beneath one arm, the commander looked Primus up and down. “So what’s your colors, legionnaire?”
“I’m with the Dead Men, sir.”
The commander grunted. “We could’ve used a few of you boys last night. My Luckless had a hard time of it."
Primus stood a little taller. “We saw your smoke almost down to the river.”
Fulcer nodded. “They came during third watch. Maybe five hundred of them–attacked both gates at once, and pressed us hard. A few came over the walls while we were occupied.”
“And they set fires.”
“They might have overrun us, if they’d gone straight for one of the gates. But they wanted to destroy instead. They got the granary first. Then they went for the slave barracks.”
Primus thought of the white bones he’d glimpsed amongst the ashes. He looked again at the black, blistered flesh that peeked from beneath the commander’s bandages. Perhaps someone had tried to save those people, slaves or not. He wondered how it would feel, to attempt
Lucan’s expression betrayed his surprise. “Are we prepared, then? I thought it would take the week to–”
“Not here.” The general turned his attention to Primus. “I see that Vulpes at the gate had it right: you’ve brought my son.”
Primus did not know whether to salute, or clasp his father’s wrist, or embrace him. For his part the general made no move at all, but only ran his eyes over Primus. Lucan spoke into the silence: “Infrequent as communication is between us, a message would’ve arrived no sooner than ourselves.” Seneca accepted that with a nod.
“You’ve grown up a bit,” he observed.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You look more and more like your mother.”
“I think he takes after you, sir,” said the commander at Seneca’s elbow.
The general grunted. “Well. Let’s get these men off the road. Fulcer, take them to the barracks-yard and see that there’s a fire; they can fill their water skins, but they’ll have to refresh themselves on their own supplies. Lucan, you come with me.” And with that, he left them standing in the road, while he himself strode off toward a small stone building whence rose a thin column of black smoke, and the metallic tang of sulfur.
Lucan put a hand on Primus’ shoulder. “I’ll be sure you get the chance for a few words with him before we leave,” he said. Then he was gone after the general, and Primus was left to lead their horses in the opposite direction, toward the twin barracks-halls that stood at right angles to one another, a fire pit centered in the yard between them. He told himself he had envisioned no tearful reunion, had not expected to be instantly taken under the general’s wing. Lucan was a legate, and privy to all their leaders’ plans. A legionnaire should feel lucky to be present at all. He had no cause to feel ashamed.
No cause at all.
Commander Fulcer led them to the barracks yard, and sent servants scurrying to build a fire. The scouts did not unsaddle their horses, but tethered them to long wooden benches and stood talking amongst themselves in groups of three and five. Primus considered his father’s second-in-command: Fulcer wore no armor beneath his cloak, only a thick tunic padded heavily at the shoulders. Primus saw that bandages wrapped the palm of his right hand and three of his fingertips. There were more at his neck, and when he lifted off his crested helmet, Primus glimpsed the edges of a terrible burn beneath the linen, still oily with salve. His helm tucked beneath one arm, the commander looked Primus up and down. “So what’s your colors, legionnaire?”
“I’m with the Dead Men, sir.”
The commander grunted. “We could’ve used a few of you boys last night. My Luckless had a hard time of it."
Primus stood a little taller. “We saw your smoke almost down to the river.”
Fulcer nodded. “They came during third watch. Maybe five hundred of them–attacked both gates at once, and pressed us hard. A few came over the walls while we were occupied.”
“And they set fires.”
“They might have overrun us, if they’d gone straight for one of the gates. But they wanted to destroy instead. They got the granary first. Then they went for the slave barracks.”
Primus thought of the white bones he’d glimpsed amongst the ashes. He looked again at the black, blistered flesh that peeked from beneath the commander’s bandages. Perhaps someone had tried to save those people, slaves or not. He wondered how it would feel, to attempt
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