Interregnum by S. J. A. Turney Page B

they’d asked him, but no one had spoken to him as they’d set off once again on their route. Once in a while he’d raise his face and see the unit stretched out in front of him on the gravel road, chattering inanities as they marched. He’d tried hard to fall behind and bring up the rear of the column, but Marco had taken the position of rearguard with the cart and maintained a steady pace at the back of the unit. Quintillian occasionally turned to make sure that Marco was still there and the man winked at him every time. Far from being in a social frame of mind, Quintillian returned each wink with a scowl and faced front again. He shrugged and the leather tunic settled into place, distributing the weight better. He was starting to yearn for the days of simplicity on the island. Nothing had perturbed him there. People were learned; deferential to each other; calm.
    On the island it’d been him and Darius. There had been no one else the same rough age, mostly ageing ex senators or bureaucrats or their young children or grandchildren, teaching and learning and farming to eke out a living. The island had once been a complex of palaces where the central power of the world was wielded. Now some of the palatial buildings had been converted into living, teaching and working areas and the once-proud gardens of the Imperial Palace were vegetable plots and pig pens. He and Darius had spent much of their time since reaching an age of truly conscious thought exploring the island and their own skills, interrupted by sessions of teaching and training and of hard, gruelling physical labour when the masters could actually find them. A horrible thought crossed his mind that the shattered and charred ruin where the two of them hid so often from the elders would have been the last place his uncle and the General had seen each other. Quintillian reflected that he’d never really grown up until he’d left the place, though Darius had seemed older and worldlier than he even when they were together and playing. When had the world…?
    His train of thought shattered as he felt a hand on his shoulder. With a slight involuntary jump, he turned to see Marco grinning at him, a piece of roadside wild grass jutting from the corner of his mouth. He repeated his general scowl, but the infuriating man just scratched his chin absently and then grinned some more. Quintillian turned to face ahead once more.
    Ah yes, the island. Darius…
    “You really got to learn to relax, kid” said an easy voice from behind.
    Quintillian spun around angrily, causing Marco to bump into him as the two oxen continued along the path, heedless of the lad’s obstruction. The olive-skinned mercenary hauled on the leather strap until the cart slowed and stopped. The smile had slipped from his face.
    “I mean it” he said. “Relax. For fuck’s sake, you nearly got run over by a damn heavy cart.”
    Quintillian shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably as he spoke.
    “Don’t tell me to relax” he replied petulantly. “I’ll relax when I get back to the island and not until then.”
    As the lad turned again and started to walk off after the group of men, Marco hauled on the strap and made the oxen begin their lumbering advance once more. He smiled again; this time a smile of sympathy, aimed at the back of the boy’s head. Marco would be the first to admit that he was probably the most innocent still of the Company and he could still remember what it felt like to have such a simple view of the world; such a simple view of oneself. He spoke softly, expecting no reply.
    “Quintillian, you’ve had a shock. You’re disappointed. We all know that, and we do sympathise, but there’s two ways to get over it. Either you confront it, beat the shit out of your problems and come out the other side happy, or you surrender to it; let your emotions run their course and it’ll come out anyway it feels. Otherwise all you’re doing is moping and sulking and that does no good for you