Empress & Soldier: Chapter 6, part 2
In which Druisius takes his revenge.
THE SNOW COMES most days now. Where it is not cleared or stamped down by feet, it is over my ankles. I wear leggings, with a heavier tunic, and socks of skin under my sandals. I am still cold, except when working.
After the morning’s drill, I approach the tent. Hoping for warmth and dry socks. The military subaltern stops me. “Not now,” he says. His voice is low. The voices in the tent are not. I crouch, waiting. Listening. The lieutenant does not tell me to leave.
“Think,” the Qipërtani commander says to Tarquin. “What need is there for my men and I to stay? We will be nothing but a drain on fuel and food. The work is done.”
“He is right,” the lieutenant mutters. He does not look at me. Such a thing should not be said to a common soldier, even if I am Tarquin’s aide. I do not answer.
“I need your men,” Tarquin says. “Winter will bring illness and injuries. The patrols must be maintained, and the work parties. We are stretched too thin with just Casilani troops.”
“It is my decision.” I glance up at the lieutenant. His face tells me he is worried.
“I command here,” Tarquin says. Loudly.
“With respect,” the Qipërtani says, with none at all, “you command neither me nor my men. I serve Qipërta’s king, who agreed to support Casil in this venture.”
“Your king asked for our help,” Tarquin growls. I have never seen him angry.
“A different interpretation,” the Qipërtani says.
“He would not have dared challenge Marcellus like this,” the lieutenant murmurs.
I understand. Tarquin is an engineer, not a troop commander. Responsible for the fortifications, the granaries, the quarry. Maybe the major did not tell him what he told Marcellus, the orders and the plans.
“Druisius?” The lieutenant whispers again. “Where are Marcellus’s papers?”
His chests were moved to the armoury some time ago. I had been forbidden to carry the heavy boxes, but I had watched. I tell the lieutenant this. “You do not have the orders?” I ask.
Surprise crosses his face. “The captain said not to underestimate you.” He crouches, so he can speak quietly. “I do not. I am hoping there is something written, either something the major gave him or at least his own notes. Who has the keys?”
Tarquin, but I know where they are. When I say this, the lieutenant shakes his head. “I don’t want to go behind the captain’s back. I am going to interrupt them now, with some excuse. There is a compromise to be made, but I would like to know the orders first, if possible.”
He goes in. Soon the Qipërtani commander comes out. His lips are thin, and at his throat the cords stand out. I watch where he goes, follow at a distance. He looks from side to side as he walks. As if he searches for someone. He goes out the gate to his own camp. I turn back.
I bring Tarquin and the lieutenant food, and leave them to talk. I eat the pottage I am given at the kitchen tents, gather an armful of firewood at the stores. When I go back to Tarquin’s tent, he is alone.
“I have something to ask of you,” he says. “You can refuse.”
Not an order, then. “What is it?”
His lips twist a little. “When you go out tonight, would you go to the Qipërtani camp?”
Inside, my gut tightens. This surprises me. Why? I have, once or twice. It is not dangerous. The guards pretend not to notice. And Tarquin has been clear he does not mind.
All men are different. Tarquin’s desires are infrequent. He has always been this way, he tells me. Once a week, rarely twice.
He sleeps heavily. I leave in the night, silently. Finding someone is never difficult. Sometimes I dice, or game, first. Drink a bit. I like the night, what it lets me do. What it lets me forget.
One night Tarquin is awake when I return. He props himself on one elbow. “Do you go out most nights?”
“Most,” I say. I will not lie. I did not, to my father, when he asked me something close to this when I was younger. Tarquin nods.
“I imagine you did not with Marcellus,” he says. In a way that does not need a response. “Just add a little wood when you return, against the cold air you bring with you.”
That was all. Until now. Is this the price for his leniency? But no. He has said I can refuse. “Why?” I ask.
“It would help me if I knew their mood. Their thoughts about staying the winter.”
I can learn that over dice and drink. If I choose more, it is my decision. I tell him I will.
I go for two nights in a row. Tarquin has put the Qipërtani commander off somehow. The second night, the gate guard grins at me. “Was he that good, Druisius?”
I grin back. “Good enough, and very bad at dice.” Which happens to be true. He laughs, and lets me through. I find the fire, drink sour beer, throw dice.
“I hate the snow,” I say, after a while. Enough beer has been poured that I could be drunk. I am not.
The man I came to find agrees. “Kept yourselves warm enough last night,” someone says. My friend replies with something obscene. A joke, not anger. “Anyhow,” the first man says, “we might be going home.”
This was mentioned last night too. But mostly they do not believe it, or choose not to. So they do not raise their hopes, I told Tarquin this morning. It says something.
“Shut up about that,” another man says.
“Don’t you want to see your wife?” someone asks.
“After three years?” he says. “I’ll have to be reminded where to put it.” More lewd things are said, to much laughter.
“Really,” the first man insists. “I heard it from the commander’s aide. He says we are leaving within the week.”
They fall silent. For a minute, two.
“Fuck,” a new voice says, from across the fire. “I like it here.”
“Like it?” Derisive laughter from most. But not all. Other men agree. This is interesting. Useful, I think.
The stables are when men go in the winter. They are warmer than outside, and dry. When I have satisfied my needs, and his, I ask my Qipërtani friend if he will stay. Make it sound as if I wished he would. He laughs, says no. I make a face, shrug.
I go out into the night. My friend raises a hand, heads off towards the barracks tents. The stables block the wind, so I walk beside them. Hear grunts, moans. Then a curse, gasped. One I know. The sergeant.
I crouch at the end of the stables. It is very dark here. Watch until I see the sergeant leave. The man with him is mostly hidden by the sergeant’s body, but I do not think it is the capora. Too tall. I smile a little.
In the morning I tell Tarquin what I heard at the campfire. “This is useful, yes?”
“Very. Thank you, Druisius. Will you fetch the lieutenant?”
Later in the day the Qipërtani commander arrives. I have been kept back from other duties, to serve wine and keep the fire hot. He is the guest of an equal, invited for reasoned conversation. Wine and warmth and Tarquin’s good humour help, but it is the lieutenant who bargains. Negotiates.
They reach a compromise. One cohort of Qipërtani soldiers will remain, with their capora. They will move into our camp, under Tarquin’s command. The commander will ask for volunteers. In three days, the rest of the Qipërtani will march away, down the mountain.
So I have three nights to do what I plan. It becomes two, later, when Tarquin returns from the baths. I cannot leave tonight. To seek another man so shortly after would be an insult.
He rolls onto his back, stretches, folds his arms behind his head. One lamp burns. “Did you mind what I asked you to do?” he asks.
I do not understand for a moment. When I do, I tell him no.
“And if I sent you to a specific man?”
“I would go.” I have thought about this. Decided.
“Would you?” He moves his head to look at me. “I suppose you could. It’s not so different from this, is it? Part of your assignment.”
He is nearly right. Being sent is not the same, but he would not ask unless it mattered. I am a soldier. A tool. To be used on his command.
“Druisius.” His voice is low. “Have you worked out that I have duties beyond building? Had, I mean, even before Marcellus was killed.”
Snatches of overheard conversation. Things not said in my presence. “Yes,” I say.
When he speaks again I hear the frustration in his voice. “I gather information. From men who find ways to get that information, from within the ranks of both our enemies and our allies. But here, I have learned nothing. We had no hint of the Boranoi attack, and we should have. We would have been ready, and Marcellus…” He stops talking. In the lamplight, his eyes glint with tears.
“Was dying, yes?” I say what I came to understand, lying in the infirmary. “Now his wife and son can be proud of him.”
“Yes,” Tarquin says after a moment. “They can. I will not tell them of the wound gone bad, only that he rose heedless of an injury to lead his men. I have still to write that letter,” he adds. “But I must now, so the Qipërtani commander can take it.”
He touches my shoulder, a soldier’s gesture. He is not affectionate, as Marcellus was. I serve needs, nothing more. Better that way. “You are intelligent,” he says. “Observant. I want you to be one of the men who listens for me. But it is dangerous.”
So are swords. I say this. He chuckles. “There will be nothing to do over the winter,” he says. “It will be quiet here once the snows come in earnest. But perhaps wherever we are sent next.” He yawns, reaches to snuff the lamp. “Go to sleep now.”
“A question first?” I am glad of the dark. Maybe could not ask this in the light.
“What?”
“I will listen for you, yes? But who do you report to?”
The silence weighs. “Generals,” he says. “That’s all I can say.”
He is snoring now. I cannot sleep. I think about what he has asked, and I have agreed to. Wonder how a soldier who measures and builds can also do this work. I will find out. First, I have a man to kill.
I am hunting. I keep the breeze in my face, watch the clouds until they hide the moon. No gates tonight, at either camp. There are always ways in and out for those who can climb. I honed the blade of my knife earlier.
Yesterday the sergeant was at the Qipërtani camp with the capora. Meeting the men who are staying. Drilling them. Some may regret their choice, I think. He was harsh. When is he not?
I worried he might find his pleasures in our camp tonight, or not at all. But after the last watch change, he leaves, and I follow. At a distance. I know where he will go.
Now I wait outside the stable. My heart pounds. My muscles tingle, waiting to move. It is cold, but I have no cloak. I blow on my hands, feel the building tension, the desire to act. My fingers curl again around the hilt of my knife.
A long grunt, then the gasped curse I know. I rise, straighten. Ready myself. They will not linger. Minutes pass. Two men walk out of the building.
The moon is bright, casting faint shadows on the snow. Not enough to conceal me if I move. I glance up. A cloud is moving. The two men part. The sergeant turns in my direction. Alarm courses through me. I do not breathe. The boar turned too before it charged.
But he is only pissing out the beer from earlier. I breathe again, hard against the stable wall. The cloud covers the moon.
He hears me, but not in time. His hands are still on the strings of his leggings. My shoulder hits his lower back. He stumbles, falls, tries to roll. He curses, but men have heard that curse here many times. I kick him, stomp down on his chest, driving out breath. He fumbles for his knife. But I am young and strong and I cannot be stopped, not now, not in the dark and the night. I feel the blood throbbing, the vengeance so close, and as I drive the knife into his neck I shout too, the words I planned.
I watch recognition and life leave his eyes. Then I move back into the shadows.
“Boranoi,” Tarquin says to the lieutenant. “They are sure?”
“Quite sure,” the lieutenant says. “Do you wish to question the witnesses yourself?”
“Not now,” my captain says. “Druisius, light some lamps, and build up that fire.” I do as he asks. The lieutenant ignores me. It is halfway through the late watch. I have not been back long.
Swindling bastard. Words learned from the western traders, gaming at the docks. A different gamble, tonight.
Without being asked I make tea. “The question is how he gained access,” Tarquin says. “Are the gate guards being questioned?”
“By the Qipërtani commander, I was told,” the lieutenant says. He takes the cup I hold out to him without comment. Tarquin has put his down. He is blinking rapidly, thinking.
“Are any of the Qipërtani from the borderlands?” he asks. “Find out. Find out too who might have lost money to the sergeant, enough to matter. In both our camps.”
He will remember that I could understand the Boranoi. That he did not ask me if I could also speak to them. Eventually. I am still calculating those odds.
The lieutenant leaves to do what he is bidden. Tarquin drinks his tea. He looks up suddenly. “Were you out tonight?”
My wet leggings and socks are draped over a chest. I cannot lie. “Yes.”
“Which camp?”
“Both. I threw dice here for a while, yes? Later I crossed over.”
“Did you see the sergeant?”
I hesitate. What to say? “Yes. As he went.”
He nods. “Who else was out?”
I had caught up with some other soldiers, walked back with them. I begin to tell Tarquin their names. But the tent flap parts. One of the gate guards salutes.
“The lieutenant sent me to you, sir.” Snow whitens his cloak and his gloved hands. Flakes stick to his eyelashes. He brushes them away.
“Who left our camp tonight?” Tarquin asks. The guard tells him. My name is not among them. I see the tiny movement of muscles under his eyes. “Have they all returned?”
“No, sir. Still two or three out.”
“And the last to return?” The guard names the two men I did. “Oh, and Druisius here, of course.”
Tarquin nods. “Account for the missing men,” he orders. The guard salutes, leaves.
My captain walks to the table where the wine is kept, pours himself a cup. Drinks it down. I say nothing. Do not move. He picks up a lamp, goes to where my leggings hang. Lowers the lamp. Examines them. Turns.
“He treated you badly, I admit,” he says. He has not asked a question, so I do not speak. He faces me. “The punishment is death, you know. And not an easy one.”
I know. I will scream, I think, before the clubs finish me. They will be worse than the lash. I nod.
“Why?” Tarquin asks. He looks only confused. Or not only. As if he is in pain, as well.
“He killed Marcellus,” I say. His face changes.
“Are you sure?”
I tell him what I heard before I was stabbed. The curse no one else uses. “His quincalum died under Marcellus’s command,” I add.
Tarquin frowns, rubs a hand over his brow. Stares up at the peak of the tent. “So you took revenge upon yourself.”
My eyes sting. “I did not keep him safe,” I say. A life in my keeping. A second time.
“That wasn’t your responsibility,” Tarquin snaps. “You are an aide, a servant, Druisius, not a bodyguard.”
I was meant to be, though. When Marcellus was a general.
Tarquin paces the tent. Pours more wine, does not drink it. Pulls aside the tent flap to look out. “It’s snowing again,” he says. “Heavily. Enough to cover tracks by morning.” He sinks onto a stool. “You have likely robbed us of important information. What was the sergeant doing that night, in among the tents? He should have been with the troops. Did you see who stabbed you?”
“No.” I remember something. “There were Qipërtani. Behind us, running. Marcellus thought they were reinforcements, yes? From the camp.”
“They weren’t,” Tarquin says. He exhales, a long breath. “This was the missing information, Druisius. How the Boranoi got by the patrols and the gates. I know how now, but not why. And that is your doing.”
“Sir,” I say. He ignores me. Rises abruptly, to stride to the opening of the tent. He shouts for a guard.
I swallow. Inside my guts lock.
“Sir?” The guard is here. I try to take a breath.
“Qipërtani camp. On the double.” To arrest the capora, he orders. I sway a little. Take another breath. It catches, almost like a sob.
“Sit down,” Tarquin says. He hands me the wine he did not drink. “For a man with no training, that was a well-planned assassination, Druisius. You are useful, aren’t you?”
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