Page 56 of Scorched Earth
“That was the agreement.” Taking his helmet from Amarin, Marcus pushed it down on his head, the smell of steel filling his nose as he motioned for his servant to depart. When he was alone again with Felix, he added, “Along with her commitment not to attempt to interject herself into our strategy. And to stay away from me.”
“That’s going to be difficult given that she’s one of our best resources.”
“Not anymore.” Marcus gripped Felix’s shoulders, the room spinning around him. “It’s over between Teriana and me. I should never have allowed it to happen in the first place.”
“Why?”
The question wasn’t what Marcus had anticipated, and his words stumbled over each other as he said, “For obvious reasons.”
Because I killed her best friend and I hate myself for it.
Felix was silent for a long moment, then he said, “If it was over, you wouldn’t have given her the choice about staying or leaving. She’d be on a ship taking her both out of sight and out of mind. Instead, you gave her the choice because you knew which one she’d make. Knew that she’d choose to stay. Because it’s not over.”
Was that true?
His fingers tightened on Felix’s armor. “I need it to be over.”
“Then send her away.”
Horns blared outside, urging the men into their ranks, and Marcus dropped his hands from his friend’s armor. “We should go.”
For a moment, Felix looked like he was going to say more, then he lifted one shoulder. “Let’s take Titus for his last march.”
Legion legati who were killed during service were usually brought back to Celendor to be interred in the monument near Lescendor. That was not possible in this instance, so the decision had been made by the Forty-First to cremate him. All three legions had arrayed in neat ranks on the large open space beyond the ridge overlooking Aracam where the Thirty-Seventh had battled and won against Urcon’s mercenaries. The Forty-First’s officers carried the litter bearing the body to the pyre of fuel-soaked wood, Marcus, Felix, Austornic, and their various officers walking behind it.
Marcus had given a speech, listing Titus’s deeds and accomplishments, not insulting the Forty-First with false sentiments when all present knew the truth. Yet as the pyre was lit and Marcus watched the black column of smoke reach up to the sky, he considered whatwould be said when he finally fell. To have his existence summed by an account of his career. The nations and armies who’d fallen before him, the peoples who’d been forced into indenture, the children he’d left in his wake to grow up as orphans.
A legacy of death.
After an appropriate amount of time, he nodded to Felix, who gave the quiet orders for the men to return to duties and for certain officers to carry on with them into Aracam.
Marcus strode toward the city, Austornic at his right and Felix at his left, the others close enough for conversation. Though much of his focus was consumed by walking in a straight line, his balance still off kilter, his eyes drifted over the city they’d captured what seemed a lifetime ago. The skyline now only held a singular black tower, which he’d been told couldn’t be damaged by any tool in their arsenal. None of the towers should have been damaged, but he suspected that Titus had been intent on doing all the things that Marcus had not so as to prove himself superior. Or, perhaps, to prove himself to his father.
Whom he hated.
It weighed upon Marcus more than he’d expected that Titus had been, at least emotionally, at odds with Cassius. Mostly because he hadn’t known. It struck him that Titus had been right that Marcus had immediately cast him in the role of adversary for no reason more than that he’d been Cassius’s son. That he’d never bothered to truly get to know the younger legatus, and had certainly not mentored him, as he should have. He’d forced Titus into the role of enemy from the moment they’d met, so was it any wonder that the younger man had made moves against him? Was it any different than how Marcus had behaved when he’d been under Hostus’s control all those long years ago?
How much differently would things have gone if he’d given Titus a chance? If he’d taught him as he had been supposed to? If he’d led the Forty-First with the same care and consideration he did the Thirty-Seventh?
They reached the gates to Aracam, passing into streets full to the brim with people going about their business.
“You were right about trade opening up after Urcon’s death,” Felix said. “Aracam has grown into quite a hub, though we’ve had more problems since parting ways with Ereni. She and Titus did not see eye to eye.”
“Problems?”
“Violence.” Felix took off his helmet to wipe sweat from his brow before replacing it. “Every morning our boys find bodies in alleys,and we’ve had to double patrols to deal with the fights that seem to break out over nothing.”
“That’s to be expected given the influx of individuals from different nations.” Marcus examined the bustling shops lining the streets, the patrons not just Arinoquian, but every nationality, half the languages spoken unfamiliar to his ears.
“Agreed, but it’s not fights between strangers,” Felix said. “It’s friends turning on friends. Wives murdering husbands only to be murdered by lovers. The whole damn city just seethes with… anger isn’t the right word. I don’t know… animosity, I suppose.”
“It might behoove us to mend fences with Ereni, then.” As he spoke, the black tower twisted, then leaned, the eyes carved into it glowing. And they were watching him.
Marcus blinked, and the tower was back in place, solid and inanimate. He shook his head to clear it, then added, “Do we know where Ereni is?”
“More or less. But she’s sent the heads of our last two messengers back to us, less their bodies.”
The tower leaned again, seeming to reach down to him, and Marcus staggered sideways, colliding with Austornic and nearly knocking the boy over.
