Ironbound, p.31
Ironbound, page 31
“You survived seven blows from the custos relic,” Felix points out flatly, not even looking at me. “No one else lasted more than four. Not even any of the Praetorian recruits.”
“Well… yeah—”
“Then you beat Marcus and me, even though we both are also being tested to become Fidelia.” Now he turns toward me, not breaking stride. “That is not normal. But then again, neither was how you got your Heart.”
I’m silent for a few moments, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other instead of the questions that Felix is asking. They’re not too different from the ones that I’ve been asking myself already. The white rasa veins in my arm glint in the setting sunlight as I run. Most people think they are a deformity, but in reality, they’re a clue to whatever happened to me when the golden wolf attacked.
“Could it have something to do with the other Hearts that I absorbed?” I ask even more softly, not wanting to risk another recruit overhearing it. Felix gives me a knowing look that tells me he is thinking the same thing.
“Maybe they somehow increase my ability to pull in essence even if they aren’t attuned to the same Symbol?” I shrug uncomfortably, focusing my attention back on my feet. I don’t like thinking about the night that I got my Heart—or Hearts. The price that I paid for becoming Ironbound is still too dear.
Without meaning to, I embrace the Iron Symbol, letting its cold logic wash through me and drive back the painful feelings. I can’t afford to let my hurt keep me away from this. Not if I want revenge on Atticus and Brutus.
“It could be,” Felix grunts after a moment of thought. “Maybe they are also able to store extra essence for you? It feels like you have more reserves than I do too.” Mentally, I sweep my senses inward, studying the cold ball of Iron essence that sits in my chest like an organ. I cannot feel the blank Corda. It’s as if they do not exist.
“I don’t know how that’s even possible. Vellum always said that it wasn’t possible to carry more than one Heart. Atticus also thought that the extra ones were wasted.”
“Maybe since they all went into you at the same time, they…” Felix trails off with a frustrated shrug. Neither of us has the words to describe this phenomenon.
“Maybe,” I allow, still feeling unsettled. “Gaius says I need to be careful.”
“I agree.”
“It just doesn’t make sense,” I hiss, the frustration that has been building in me finally beginning to boil over. “Why wouldn’t the legions want soldiers to be the best they can be? I know this is the Twelfth, but even the lowest legion still must serve the Empress’s will.”
“You really were a patrician.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap, glancing at my friend sharply.
“You still think the world is fair.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I look away, seething. Felix is silent for a few moments as we run. Part of me suspects that he’s waiting to let me cool off before he tries to reason with me. I know I’m being dramatic, but his logical acceptance of the rust of corruption irritates me further. Did my upbringing really shield me from so much?
All my life, I’ve wanted to be the best at something, to excel. I failed to become Primus in the collegium, but now that I’ve finally done it, all of a sudden, everyone around me wants me to be worse? I gnash my teeth in frustration and run faster, taking out my anger on the ground with the soles of my feet.
“I don’t think it’s just about being in the Twelfth,” Felix says when he feels like my tantrum has faded enough that I will listen. “Well, maybe that’s part of it. I think they’re afraid of anyone who seems like they could become another Titus.”
“That’s what these are for.” I tap the inihibitus around my neck with a free hand. “Not much danger in that with these around.” I probe it with the Iron Symbol, tracing the twists of Iron relic mixed with the thing I cannot identify. The metal collar throbs, in warning, as if irritated by my scrutiny.
“So we’re told, and yet they still seem afraid.” My friend’s eyes are dark and heavy. For once, I don’t have anything smart to say. Troubled by his thoughts, we run in silence, pushing toward the front of the pack.
It’s well into dusk by the time we round the final bend of Agogia, and the South Gate springs into view once more. The recruits of our cohort are strung out in little groups of two and three as their endurance fades and they plod through the final stretch. Felix and I chase the leaders, our breath ragged. My leg muscles are on fire, and my ability to call upon Iron has long since faded without any essence to draw on. I’ll never forgive Durus for pushing me to do this when I didn’t have to.
Dimly, I’m aware of the sound of shouting off to my right as the path goes through several low dunes. I’m so tired, I don’t even turn, assuming it’s some other member of the Twelfth making a final dash for first. Let them win—I already won the battle today. I may be Primus, but I don’t need to be first at everything.
A flicker of shadow out of the corner of my eye and a gasp from Felix is the only warning I get before someone slams into me from the side. We go down in a tangle of limbs, and what little breath I still have explodes out of me as we tumble.
Instinct takes over, and I slam an elbow into something soft, causing whoever has grabbed me to let go. We roll apart, and I manage to get my feet under me, panting with rage and exhaustion. I kick up sand as I charge my assailant, a shadowy figure I don’t recognize.
He’s slower getting to his feet, and it’s my turn to slam him to the ground. I only wish we were on cobblestones instead of soft desert. I drive a fist at his stomach like my instructors have taught me, and he barely manages to catch it on his forearm.
Before I can follow up with a blow to his throat, I’m tackled by another assailant, pushing me off him. I stagger to the side, turning to face this new threat with my fists raised. In the faint light, I can just make out the purple of his training tunic.
Praetorians. The arrogant fools don’t even try to hide who they are. Over the rush of blood in my ears, I can make out the sounds of Felix fighting and voices shouting. I recognize Brennus by a flash of pale blond hair in the moonlight. A chill settles on me as I realize this isn’t some sort of mad drill by our instructors.
This is an ambush.
There’s at least a half-dozen of them, and they circle Felix and me like a group of coyotes, trying to bring down their prey. Spurius, one of the Praetorians who is trying to become a Fidelis, steps into range, his right hand balled into a fist, hatred shining on his face so brightly, I can see it in the dark.
I dodge his first blow only to get clipped in the side of my head by someone else’s strike. My vision swims as I stagger backward, and several of them follow me, shoulders hunched, ready to get to work. The Iron Symbol slips through my fingers as my empty reserves lack the essence I need to make my Cor function.
There are too many of them for me to even try to fight back. I hold up my arms to ward off the flurry of blows that descend upon me. It helps, but they surround me, raining their fury down on me from all sides. In the distance, I hear shouts as some of the other Twelfth recruits realize something is wrong. Despite my exhaustion, a small smile crooks at the corner of my mouth. Soon the Praetorians will be outnumbered and will pay the price for their challenge.
Brennus, the ringleader, appears in front of me, moonlight glinting off the iron blade in his fist. I eye the weapon with a sinking heart. If I were already a Silver electus, it would be easy for me to avoid it, but my Copper veins will offer me no protection from his weapon until it is too late.
“This is for making a mockery of your betters,” he hisses. I feel myself lock up as he stabs forward with the weapon. I’ve been taught to fight for the last few months, but no one has ever actually tried to kill me before. Despite all my training, I’m caught flatfooted, exhausted, and unarmed as the Praetorian tries to murder me.
“No!” a voice screams as someone slams into me from the side. I hear him grunt in pain as we both fall in a tangle of arms and legs. Roars of rage echo off the dunes as more of my fellow Twelves arrive, furious that these elites would dare attack us. The Praetorians scatter as my reinforcements arrive.
I scramble out from under my rescuer, but they’re not moving. As I drop to my knees, I stare in horror at the sight of Macer bleeding in the sand with a knife that was meant for me buried in his guts.
“No, no, no!” I scream, placing my hands around the wound, trying to stem the tide of darkness that’s seeping through the white of his training tunic. The skinny recruit gasps like a fish out of water, but his eyes are locked on my face with fanatical desperation. This is the second time today he has tried to save me. This time, it carries a much heavier price.
“Sorry I was late, Castor,” he wheezes.
“Shh,” I interrupt, choking back a sob of fear. My hands are wet and sticky with his blood. “Don’t you dare waste a single breath talking, Macer. You’re going to be fine; you hear me?” The boy lets out another gasp of pain, twisting in pain.
“Dammit, man, use the Iron in the knife!” I scream in desperation, trying to help him find his Symbol. “You’ve got essence—use it!” I don’t know if he can hear me above the pain or if his mind is too clouded to even begin to use his Cor. I feel a trickle of it flow into me as my own starved body soaks up some from my contact with the weapon.
“What in Jupiter’s Rotten Corpse is going on here?” a harsh voice thunders over my shoulder. My head snaps around to find Anas lurking behind me, his face red enough to glow in the low light. The hard man’s eyes glide from me to the knife in Macer’s gut with animal-like quickness. Fury like I have never seen before flickers across his face as he sees the Praetorian recruits fleeing in the face of our reinforcements.
“Bastards! I’ll kill you!” he screams, rushing after our assailants as if he hadn’t just run around the entirety of Agogia’s walls. Macer lets out another gurgle, and I press harder, trying to stop the blood flow.
Sand sprays as Felix slides to his knees next to me. “We can’t move him. Marcus is going for help.” He places his hands on Macer’s bloody stomach without hesitation. “Just hang on. The medici will be here soon.”
“I never thanked you…” Macer wheezes weakly to me, his voice a weak croak.
“Yes, you did,” I hiss, cutting him off. “You did that first night. I told you today that we’re even. You gotta stop trying to save me. Someone is going to get hurt.” He doesn’t laugh at my weak attempt at a joke. His eyes are unfocused but stare at me in rapt attention.
“Not for the whipping… For treating me like I belonged.”
“You do belong. You belong here. Pluto cannot have you. You are a recruit of the Eighth Cohort of the Twelfth Legion, and as your Primus, I am telling you—” I’m not kneeling on the desert outside of Agogia anymore. In my mind, I’m at my father’s side, watching his blood leak out onto the cobblestones. I’m in my family’s kitchen, staring at the empty eyes of my mother and sister before the fire consumes them.
“Castor… He’s gone.” Felix’s voice pulls me back, his bloody hand resting gently on my shoulder. I glance into his brown eyes and know that he’s reliving the same horrors that I am. Slowly, against my will, I look down at the still form of Macer.
He seems smaller now. His arms are frail and thin, his face gaunt and pale. The knife that was meant for me sticks out of his stomach like a flagpole. I sit with him, unsure what else to do. It doesn’t feel right to leave him alone. Felix stays with me, and the two of us stand guard over him, watching as his Copper veins slowly fade to the dull gray of a relic. We are still kneeling at his side half an hour later when Gaius arrives.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The tribune gets to us before the rest of the relief column, dressed in full battle kit. His Silver-powered body races ahead of the rest of them, red cloak trailing behind him in the wind. White-robed medici, legion doctors, race in his wake, carrying a stretcher, racing to save a man who is already gone. It’s fully night now. Our commander’s face is lit by a lumos relic that he carries on the end of a wooden baton. The light only serves to sharpen the shadows clinging to the rage etched on his face.
He takes everything in at a glance: the other recruits milling around behind us like lost sheep, Felix and me kneeling in the sand by the still form of Macer. An inferno lights in his eyes that burns brighter than the light of Luna reflecting off Mons Olympus floating above us.
The medici shoo us from our friend, going through the motions to see if there is anything worth saving. I don’t watch; I already know that he’s gone. If I allow myself even a glimmer of hope, I may shatter.
After a few moments, the leader rises from Macer’s body and shakes his head at Gaius. “He’s dead,” the medico confirms. “He needs to be taken to the Heartsmiths to reclaim his relics.” I shiver at the cold efficiency of the Iron Legions. His body is barely cold and already they harvest him for his Cor. I know that this is the burden of being an electus, but it feels inhuman.
“What happened?” Gaius asks me, turning from the medico, face dark with rage.
“We were attacked.” I stumble over the words as I learn to use my mouth again. It feels like a lifetime since the last time I spoke.
“By Mars’s Chosen, Praetorians!” a voice shaking with the rage I feel shouts from behind me. I don’t need to turn to see that it’s Anas, returning empty-handed from his chase of Macer’s killers. Gaius’s eyes flick to the former captivus for a heartbeat before coming back to me for confirmation. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Would you recognize the ones who did this?”
I nod again. Brennus’s face is seared into my mind like a painting. I will never forget him as long as I live. Already he has joined the shrine of hatred in my heart that holds the visage of Atticus and Brutus.
“Come.” Gaius spins on his heel without waiting to see if I obey.
I’m on my feet before I even process the command. Felix and the rest surge forward, and our commander freezes as he hears all the recruits begin to move. He turns slowly, a rebuke forming on his lips. I see it in his eyes, a cold order, sharp as an executioner’s blade. I feel the rest of the men behind me halt, but no one turns away. A dozen angry faces stare at our tribune, daring him to tell some of us to stay behind.
A flicker of another expression ripples across his face, fighting to break through the mask of anger on his face. It fails, but he doesn’t reprimand us. Without a word, he turns and begins striding toward Agogia. Struck by some foreign instinct, I raise my hand and wave the rest of my fellow recruits forward.
We rush into the wake of Gaius, like a pack of wolf pups following their father. His powerful strides eat up the distance back to the city, and I find myself trotting to keep up the pace. Not a single man with me complains at the pace. The anger we carry looms over us like a storm cloud, driving us forward.
The gates of the city are open, and the centurion from the Ninth doesn’t say a word to our tribune as he leads us back into the city. The soldiers on guard duty wear grim expressions, like men at a funeral. This late in the evening, the wide cobbled streets are mostly empty, but our anger fills them up as if we were a full legion.
Gaius storms into the First’s Sector, glancing over his shoulder for the first time, his dark eyes looking to me for guidance. Remembering the stitching on their tunics, I make the hand symbol for five . First Legion, Fifth Cohort. The tribune’s pace picks up, and I feel like I’m in the middle of a charge as I follow. My heart hammers in my chest, a horrible tempo of rage and fear.
We pass banners for the first four cohorts. Purple-clad soldiers on guard eye us warily, but none of the rank-and-file dare to question a Silver Tribune who looks like the second coming of Mars’s rage, even if he is from the Twelfth. We turn into the section for the Fifth, and despite everything, I can’t help but notice how much nicer their sector is.
Their paths are immaculately cobbled like the main highways, rather than the dusty, hard-packed dirt that fills our home. Grass, which is clearly tended to by a gardener, grows along the paths. Their buildings are taller, the space between them wider. The sons of the noble and elite might be made into legionnaires in the same place as the rest of us, but their forge is much less austere than ours.
“What is the meaning of this?” a voice demands as a decurion steps out of one of the barracks and into the light of one of the lumos relics, placing himself in Gaius’s path. He’s not armored or armed, but the haughtiness on his face looks sharp enough to cut. “Twelfth Legion are not—”
“Who is your commanding officer?” Gaius demands, his voice cold and imperious enough to belong. For a moment, I had forgotten that once he was an officer of the Second. The decurion blinks in surprise at the interruption.
“Tribune Dorcas, but—”
“Where is he?”
“In his headquarters, where he belongs. I must insist—”
Gaius steps forward, coming into the light enough for the junior officer to see the pale F burned into his lorica and the Silver veins in his arms. He falls silent, less confident than he was a moment ago.
“Take me to him.” The Praetorian opens his mouth to protest but thinks better of it, turning to lead us deeper into the Fifth Cohort’s quarters. Gaius follows, dogging his heels like a dark specter, forcing the man to march at a double pace.
Just like everything else in the First Sector, the headquarters are larger and nicer than ours. The stones used to make it are white and clean, as if they have been washed regularly.
The tribune of the Fifth Cohort of the Praetorians meets us at the patio of his command building. Someone must have warned him that Gaius was coming, because there’s an edge to his stare as he watches us approach. The veins of his Cor Heart flash copper in the light of the lumos relics, but he crosses them contemptuously, armored by his superiority. Two centurions flank him, wearing their full lorica.
