Ironbound, p.32
Ironbound, page 32
“Tribune Gaius, I understand there’s something troubling you?” Dorcas calls as we cross the stone assembly square. “I can think of no other reason for a commander of the Twelfth to darken my doorstep at this hour with a gaggle of recruits in tow like a mother duck with her ducklings.” The centurions with him chuckle darkly, their eyes sweeping over us with disgust.
“I’m here to oversee punishment,” Gaius calls as he steps up to the base of the patio. There’s a pair of steps leading up into the building, letting Dorcas tower over his counterpart. But despite the difference in their height, our commander looms larger than the Praetorian does by an order of magnitude.
“Punishment?” Dorcas makes an amused face, like a man humoring a child, and looks at his two centurions to bring them in on the joke. “Well, that’s fine of you, but I’m sure whatever your rodents did can wait until tomorrow. Whip them until you’re satisfied, and I will be as well.”
The silence that follows his words is deafening. It echoes off the paving stones and the manicured lawns, and with each heartbeat, it grows in size. The armored centurions shift next to their tribune, sensing the approach of violence.
“I fear you misunderstand me, Dorcas,” Gaius replies through gritted teeth. “I am here to oversee the punishment of one of your recruits.”
“My recruits?” Elite outrage enters his voice as the Praetorian stares down at us in surprise. “Mars’s Bones, man, in what world would you ever punish one of my recruits?”
“The Lex Legionis grants the right of any commander to discipline a legionnaire who abuses someone under their command in order to maintain brotherhood between the legions.”
“The Lex—” Dorcas scoffs, cutting himself off in disbelief. “What is this about?”
“Several of your recruits attacked mine with vicious intent while they trained. One of them died. I am here to see that they are appropriately punished, as is my right.”
“You’re serious?” He leans forward in shock. “What year do you think it is, man? Are you Titus himself? Or perhaps Scipio, come again to lead our Iron Legions?” The centurions laugh dutifully at their leader’s jokes, but their hands are on the hilts of their gladii, and their eyes are hard. For all their faults, the Praetorians are real soldiers who know their business.
“One of your men killed one of mine, Dorcas. Give him to me.” The hairs on the back of my arms rise at the violent chill that lurks in his voice. I may not be Silver yet, but I don’t need to be to sense the Symbol of Iron thrumming around him.
“Your man?” Dorcas chuckles dryly, his flat, humorless eyes passing over me and the other recruits like we are cattle. “Wasn’t aware you had those in the Twelfth.” There’s a hum of vicious anger from my fellows. A sea of red washes over me, and I’m grateful to be low enough on essence that I can’t smother my emotions in the cold embrace of Iron. I want to feel this, to add this to the fire of anger that burns in the forge of my heart.
“There’s a difference between the upper legions and the bottom ones. I would have thought you learned your lesson the first time, Marius,” Dorcas taunts, striding down the stairs, flanked by his two officers. “The last time you tried to treat the chattel like humans, you got sent to live with them. You must like it down there in the mud with the piggies.”
“Give him to me,” Gaius repeats, his voice flat.
“I will not.” Dorcas shrugs, as if it is decided. “The imperators will never side with you, and we both know it. Now leave me. It’s long past time I had my supper. What’s on the menu tonight, Riter?”
“Roast chicken, Tribune,” the centurion to his left supplies instantly.
“Roast chicken,” he emphasizes with a tight smile. He cares not for the death of our comrade. I doubt he even remembers what the actual complaint is. We are rodents, and he is important. Felix was right—the world is not fair. A long shadow passes across my soul as I realize that kind Macer may go unavenged, just like my parents. Silently, I add his name to the list of deaths to atone for before I die.
“I knew it.” Anas’s voice shakes with rage as he speaks from somewhere behind me. “He’s gonna let them get away with it. So much for being one of us.”
I say nothing, but in the deepest part of my heart, I agree with the former captivus. The Praetorians who murdered my parents saw no reprisal for their actions—why should it be any different here?
A chorus of laughter interrupts the two tribunes’ staring contest. My head snaps over my shoulder at the sound of a group of boys’ cruel snickering. A dozen purple-clad Praetorian recruits stumble into the courtyard, dusty and in high spirits. Brennus is in the center, surrounded by his cronies.
They stop short at the sight of us, their eyes widening. I find the blond boy’s gaze and hold it with my own, channeling every ounce of hate I can muster. Brennus returns it, although his is a cold, academic thing. He hates me because of what I am—a lesser being that dares to outshine him. Mine is hot—I hate him for who he is.
I feel Gaius’s attention settle on me with a physical weight. I turn to meet his questioning look. For a moment, we stare at one another, having a conversation that no one else can hear. Something will happen if I tell him the truth. I can feel the rage that quivers in him, like an arrow on a taut bowstring. It is not that different from mine; we’re brothers in a way. The world shrinks. I nod once. My heart is pounding so hard that it almost drowns out every other sound. I can taste the violence on the wind.
“Give him to me,” Gaius demands once more, jabbing a finger at Brennus.
“No.”
“Then I will take him.”
The two centurions step forward at our commander’s threat, gladii hissing like snakes as they pull them from their sheaths. I clench my fists and take a step forward, hoping to tackle one of them to buy Gaius enough time to deal with the other.
I shouldn’t have bothered. He doesn’t need me. The tribune’s own blade leaps free in a blinding flash as it reflects the lumos relics around us. He explodes toward the right guard, striking in a series of slashes that our officers never taught us.
The Praetorian catches the first on his blade, but Gaius’s gladius simply slices through it as if it were a piece of cloth. It rings against the cobbles as it lands on the ground. Again, he strikes, shearing off another piece of the man’s sword. The second centurion, Riter, lunges forward, blade extended for a stab into our commander’s unprotected side.
I open my mouth to warn him, but his Silver senses need no help. Without looking, Gaius twists perfectly, letting the sword slide past him into thin air. He slashes at the first man’s broken sword a third time and hews it down to the crossguard.
Spinning, his blade flicks out, striking Riter in the temple with the flat side. The snotty centurion collapses to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Wheeling on the swordless soldier, Gaius headbutts him in the face, sending him reeling. The man staggers backward, holding his face with his hands before tripping over the unconscious form of his fellow centurion.
The entire fight takes fewer than ten seconds. Dorcas’s mouth is open and working in stunned disbelief. Gaius rounds on him before he can speak, blade flashing. The Praetorian tribune’s tunic explodes with each slice as the Fidelis carves our Legion’s name into his chest.
X
I
I
His strikes are precise to an inhuman level—not a single drop of blood wells up on the other tribune’s chest, but the threat is there all the same. Gaius’s gladius flicks out to the side in a sharp salute before crashing into Dorcas’s temple, sending the man crumbling to the ground with his men.
Gaius’s eyes are wide and furious as he turns to stalk toward the group of Praetorian recruits, who cower before the Fidelis. Brennus has only a moment to let out a whimper before our tribune grabs him by his hair and begins to drag him from the courtyard. He screams in pain, pleading with his friends to help him.
Not a single one of them moves.
Silently, like ghosts of judgment, we follow our commander as he drags the weeping boy from the First Sector and down the main thoroughfare of Agogia. Soldiers and civilians watch our progression with wide eyes, but anyone who sees the furious Silver Tribune with a naked sword and screaming Praetorian in his grip decides it is best not to get involved.
“Assemble the men, full battle kit,” Gaius snarls at me over his shoulder as we enter the Twelfth’s sector, beelining for the Eighth Cohort’s section. Brennus lets out another whimper of pain, hands wrapped around the tribune’s wrist, trying to alleviate some of the pressure on him. “At the double,” he murmurs after a moment of thought. A shiver runs through me as I realize that there’s only one reason he would order us to be fully armed and armored.
Anas and the rest don’t need to be told twice. Recruits fly past me, sprinting toward our barracks like they didn’t just run around the entire city after fighting in skirmish. Our sandals beat out a stampeding tempo on the dusty path as we race to spread the news.
None of us can catch Anas, and we follow on his heels as he bursts into our bunkroom. Heads snap up from where recruits are moping. The room stinks of despair and melancholy, but our arrival is like the breaking of dawn. Marcus sits up in his bunk, his gaze sharpening as he takes in our breathless excitement.
“Up!” I shout, doing my best to channel Durus’s best parade voice. “Tribune wants us assembled in the courtyard, double time. Full battle kit: gladius, scutum, lorica.” A groan of reluctance echoes across the room. I see some of their faces fall as if I had just crushed their hope. They took our urgency as good news about Macer, not as an opportunity for more work. I hesitate, looking for the words to reassure them. I have no hope to offer, no warmth. I come bearing the words of revenge, and its chill can only numb the pain, not cure it.
Anas sees no need for delicacy. “Hurry up, boys,” he growls with dark delight. “Gaius got his hands on the boy who stuck Macer, and he’s going to make him pay.” The room empties faster than it ever has for screaming officers. I stand by the door watching every recruit who rushes past me with a growing sense of belief—this is really happening.
Many of them give me a new look as they go. It’s not one of hatred or disgust, a reminder that I am different from them and not welcome. Maybe those will come back tomorrow. Tonight, they are aflame with the fire of a shared rage, passed from one another like candles at a vigil.
I follow the last man out the back, racing toward the armory where the weapons and armor are kept. Someone wrenches open the shed where we buried our votum and starts yanking things off the walls. Recruits grab weapons and pass them down the line. We still only have our training blades, but they can still be made sharp enough to harm. I throw a lorica over my head and let out a sigh of relief as essence pours into me, refilling my almost empty reserves. Calling on Iron, I adjust the size to fit me. Whoever had worn this last was far skinnier than me. I wonder if it was Macer.
Someone passes me a gladius, and I grab a scutum from a stack before rushing to meet Gaius in the square. We sprint, flying toward what we are owed. In the back of my mind, I know our commander told us to hurry because there will be a response. The Praetorians will not tolerate what Gaius did to them. The tribune of the Fifth Cohort might not have been one of the Fidelia, but there are plenty of their number among the First Legion. They will come, they will take their recruit back, and we will not be able to stop them.
Unless they are too late.
I burst into the same quad where I was whipped in Macer’s place what feels like an age ago, in time to see Gaius drag Brennus up onto the wood dais. We summoned the recruits, but someone told the regulars. The soldiers stream in, filling the square to the brim, armed like us. Durus steps up next to our tribune, his eyes hooded and uneasy.
“Do you know who my mother is?” the Praetorian screams and sobs at the same time. “Do you know what she will do to you?” Gaius ignores his rants, forcing him to his knees and binding his wrists into the leather cuffs one by one.
“You’re dead, I swear on Jupiter’s Ashes. You stupid, damn Twelvie.” The tribune turns away, striding to the back of the dais where the whips are kept. He shifts through them for a moment, pulling out one, then frowning and replacing it before selecting another.
Murmurs run through the real soldiers among us as he stalks back toward the kneeling boy. The whip ends in a series of thin cords like Medusa’s hair, and they scratch at the wood as they drag against it.
“That’s a ninetails,” Felix whispers in horror. I blanch in horror as I recognize it. Unlike the whip that Durus used on me that was designed to punish but not injure, a ninetails was made to maim. Thick thorns jut out the length of its many cords, sharp and eager to devour flesh.
The cohort’s murmurs rise as more and more of the men understand what they’re about to see. The blond boy’s face grows tight with fear, and he twists frantically, trying to look over his shoulder to see what we do. When he does, he screams again, a choked, animalistic sound. His feet scrabble for purchase on the dais, but the leather straps hold him in place. The square is silent as Gaius steps behind him. The only sounds are the boy’s pathetic whimpers as his pleas and threats fall on deaf, iron ears.
“Tonight, this legionnaire committed a cardinal sin of the legions.” Gaius’s voice carries out across the assembled men with a cold strength. He is not shouting, but every soldier can hear him clearly.
“He took up arms against his Ironbound brother and slew him in cold blood.” A dark murmur sweeps through the regulars. Many of them hadn’t heard the news, and now they understand what they’ve come to see. “The Lex Legionis declares that the punishment of any legionnaire who spills the blood of another belongs to the fallen soldier’s legion. As such, in the name of Macer, I sentence you to bleed.”
In the distance, I hear a faint rolling thunder.
Gaius raises the ninetails with a snap, letting its cruel tendrils uncoil above his head like a dozen scorpion stingers. With a furious snarl, he jerks his arm down, lashing his weapon into the back of the flailing boy. Brennus’s scream is loud and primal. Blood splatters on the wooden dais around his feet.
The tribune’s face is hard as stone as he raises the whip again, its tails wet and red. Again, he strikes, driving a scream of pain from the boy who killed Macer. The men around me lean forward, hungry to see something they never have before—a Praetorian elite suffer for wronging a Twelfth.
Gaius picks up the pace, raining a half-dozen strikes down on his back. Brennus hangs limply from the leather restraints, his blood pooling around his knees like a dark lake. I swallow, feeling suddenly hollow at the sight of the unconscious boy.
He deserves this, I tell myself angrily, and I’m right—he does. But something about it feels emptier than I thought it would. Maybe it’s because he’s still alive. Maybe it’s because Macer is still dead. Will killing Atticus and Brutus feel as empty? I shake my head, clearing these treasonous thoughts.
I will kill Atticus. I will kill Brutus.
It is justice. It is what my parents and friends deserve. It’s not about me or how it makes it feel. It’s about doing what’s right, about making them pay for their crimes. Even if it doesn’t bring them back, at least they will be avenged.
The distant thunder grows. I hear its continuous rumbling over the cracks of the whip and the murmur of my fellow soldiers. It’s not thunder, I realize, cocking my head to listen. It’s more like the relentless crashing of the sea—
“Praetorians!” someone shouts from the entrance of the Twelfth’s sector. Gaius’s head snaps up, but he doesn’t stop what he is doing. That is no natural sound, but the noise of several hundred feet marching in perfect sync. The First Legion has come to claim their recruit.
Horns blare throughout the entire sector, and I hear shouts of alarm in the other cohorts’ districts. The rest of the tribunes may not know what Gaius has done, but the purple-clad elites are not welcome here. I glance over my shoulder in time to see the fully kitted soldiers rush into view. They’re in a battle march, the top speed a legion can travel while holding formation. Despite my hatred, I marvel at how clean their lines are. I’ve trained enough to know that these soldiers know their work.
A furious Tribune Dorcas stomps at the head of his entire cohort, a red welt marking the right side of his face where Gaius struck him. Without being told to, the rear line of men turns, getting close enough together to form a shieldwall. The second line steps forward to reinforce them, and so does the third. I’m several layers away from the Praetorians, but my hand caresses the hilt of my gladius, drawing comfort from the Iron essence that flows into me.
Gaius watches them walk into view with the same hard expression. His gaze holds his rival commander’s for a moment before he strikes Brennus, drawing a deep groan from him.
“Halt!” Dorcas bellows, and the Praetorians behind him stop at once, in perfect unison. “Tribune Marius, you are under arrest for assault of another officer, abduction, and violating another legion’s sacred autonomy.” The sound of a score of scuta rattling against each other as the men of my cohort raise theirs to form a shieldwall is deafening.
“Praetorians, draw swords!” Dorcas snaps in response, and the sound of several hundred gladii slithering from their scabbards fills the plaza with their hisses. The front lines of the Twelfth respond in kind, drawing their blades. My heart hammers in my chest as I pull my own free.
I’m under no illusion about our chances against one of the elite units of the Iron Legions. I may have been chosen to train to become Fidelis, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the equal of a veteran legionnaire. We’re just recruits, and they are some of the most professional warriors in the empire.
The ninetails cracks again as Gaius whips the boy once more.
“That’s enough!” a strong baritone voice barks as a new contingent of men storms into our sector. In the lead is an older man in a golden lorica that I don’t recognize.
