Empress & Soldier: Chapter 6 part 1
In which Druisius makes decisions about loyalty.
I SIT BY MARCELLUS’S BEDSIDE, relieved of other duties. The medics dress the wound, give him the drug, but I bring him soup and water, help him to the latrine, wash him. He has a fever, but it is mild. The medic is not worried, or not much. There is always danger with wounds from a boar’s tusk, he says.
Tarquin comes in and out. He is worried, and not just about Marcellus. There is some problem with the gates. I do not really listen.
“Druisius?” Marcellus is awake. He needs to empty his bladder, so I support him through that task, help him back to bed. He lies back, sighs. “I’m bored. I’ve been lying here for three days.” The medic has ordered complete rest for a week. At least.
“Music?” I offer. He moves his head from side to side.
“No. Would you read to me?” He had been pleased, in my first days with him, to know I read Casilan. I have never read aloud, though. Not since I left the school at twelve. But he has asked, so I must try.
“Which book?” I ask. He tells me. I go to the chest, find it. I look at another one, in no letters I know. I show it to him. “What language is this?”
“Heræcrian.” What his son is learning, at seven.
I put it back in the chest. Then I pull the stool close, open the book. ‘From my grandfather…’ I read. Not smoothly, but Marcellus does not seem to mind. He speaks some of the words as I say them. I read the words, but I do not understand what they mean, not really. Maybe I will read it again to myself, later. A distraction.
Marcellus is sleeping again when Tarquin arrives. The medic has come and gone with his drugs. He had frowned at the wound when he dressed it, touching the flesh around it. Marcellus had not cried out, but I saw his jaw stiffen. To my eyes the skin was discoloured, swollen. The medic would tell me nothing, but I am worried now.
“I won’t disturb him,” Tarquin whispers. He turns to go. I follow him from the tent. I need more wood for the brazier. The night is cold. Stars glitter, but there is no moon. Outside, Tarquin stops when I say his name. Not ‘Captain’. I have my reasons. He turns.
“Did you see the medic?” I ask. His eyes close. Lips tighten. “It is bad, yes?”
“Concerning. Not bad.” He hesitates. “He’s strong, Druisius. Try not to worry.” So it is bad. I thought so.
I go back into the tent, see to the brazier. I look at the pallet where my blankets are. I should sleep a bit. If Marcellus calls me, I will wake.
Marcellus does not wake me. Shouts and the clash of metal do, the sounds of battle. What is happening? I roll off the pallet, rise, reach for my weapons. I go to the tent flap, pull it aside. See shapes, movement, the glint of firelight on metal. Hear words in the language of the Boranoi. At the pass, the gates are not yet hung, but there were guards. Patrols. More at the gates into the camp. How are they here?
“Help me up,” Marcellus says. I turn. He is sitting, his breathing heavy from the effort.
“No,” I say. “You cannot.”
“I can and will.” I do not move. “Help me to get up and dressed. That’s an order, Druisius.”
Even so, I think to refuse. But I do as he says. The greave on his injured leg is too tight. When I buckle it, I must push the tongues into unused holes in the straps. Kneeling so close, I smell something like the aroma of the battlefield in the days after the fighting. I think Marcellus can smell it too. A stone sinks into my gut.
I buckle on Marcellus’s belt, ensure his knife sits properly in its sheath. I place his helmet on, then mine. “Stay by me,” he says. We go out into the night. His one hand is heavy on my shoulder. The other grips his sword.
I cannot use my sword and be his prop, and so we must separate, although I stay close. Guarding him is my first duty, I decide. To keep him safe. The fighting is ahead, beyond the tents. When it woke me, it was closer. Maybe we are driving them back. Marcellus limps, and his breath catches, but he will not stop, wait to see if he is needed.
Tarquin is shouting commands from the field. “Good man,” Marcellus says, and then voices behind us make us stop. “What?” Marcellus breathes.
“That was Qipërtan, yes?” I say. Relief courses through me. If the Qipërtani are here, Marcellus can stay back. I hear running feet. A scout sent to assess? Then I see a man and a raised blade. I shout to Marcellus, move in front of him. My own sword is up, taking the blow, sliding along the blade until I can stab and duck and slice. Behind me, the ring of steel on steel, and a moan I think is Marcellus. I cannot look. Where are the Qipërtani?
I hear a curse. I turn in horror, and then fire lances through my shoulder. I scream, and fall. Into darkness.
I wake to darkness, too. And pain. I raise myself to one arm, then to my knees. With the arm I can move, I grope for my sword, grasp it, use it to steady myself as I stand. A pace away Marcellus lies crumpled. He is dead. I know this even before I see his blank and open eyes.
I stare down at him. I feel nothing but the pulsing pain in my shoulder. My mind is numb. Very far away I hear voices. Shouts. I close my eyes to listen better. Casilani voices. No clash of weapons, no screams. We have won, I think.
I cannot leave Marcellus. I cannot stand either. The world spins with every breath. So I sit. Hold my injured arm in the other so it does not hang. Wait.
The stars fade. The sun pushes away the dark and cold. In the world, at least. I hear Marcellus’s name spoken. Tarquin drops to his knees. I watch him, silent. He is still for several heartbeats before he reaches out to close Marcellus’s eyes. Something I should have done. He turns to me. Tears drench his cheeks, making pale streaks in the soil of battle. “Fucking idiot,” he says.
He does not mean me. I nod, a tiny movement, say nothing. He covers his face with his hands, sobs. Then he wipes his face, swallows, and looks at me again. “You’re hurt.”
“Left shoulder,” I say. He swears, comes to look. Grimaces.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” he says. “But that high, it’s missed your lungs. You should be all right. Let me get you up and to the medic’s tent.”
“The Captain,” I say. Tarquin looks down. His face heaves, but he shakes his head.
“He’s dead. The living come first, and I promised him I’d take care of you.”
But he is the commander now, and so he must give me into the care of another soldier, and go off to make decisions. At the medic’s tent I am given wine and poppy. When I am drowsy, they clean the wound with vinegar. Then warm honey is poured in, and the gaping flesh stitched. This is what they tell me, later, when I wake again.
I lie on the cot, seeing Marcellus in death, thinking of the boy who will know Heræcrian, but not his father. His wife, who welcomed me to their home. Marcellus’s family will take care of them.
I think of the last thing I heard, the curse. One I have heard many times before. I must tell Tarquin, who is my captain now. But I have something to do first, when I am well.
When I have no fever after four days I am allowed to leave. I must wear a sling, and not go to the baths, or lift anything heavy. I return to Marcellus’s tent. I have nowhere else to go.
Tarquin is at the table, writing a letter. I stand at the tent’s entrance. He looks up. “Druisius. Have they set you free, then?” He gestures. “Come in. Sit. Let me finish this, and then we’ll talk.”
He puts down his pen a few minutes later. “Light duties for four weeks more, am I right?”
“What I am told, Captain,” I say. He leans back a little.
“Marcellus told you I would appoint you my soldier-servant, were he killed?” he asks. I nod. “That means leaving your regiment, joining mine. Learning to survey and measure and build. Make things, not just kill. Does that interest you?”
“We do not leave until the spring?” I need time to do what I must.
“We can’t. The snows are due, and Casil cannot get another officer here now. I will command until he arrives, both regiments. But when I leave here, it will to be build roads or aqueducts or walls again.”
“But fight, too, yes?”
“Only when necessary. But you will drill enough to keep your skills, if that’s what worries you.”
I nod. I have another question. With Marcellus, I knew. From the day I saw him at the docks. But from Tarquin I have had no sign, and I do not replace another aide. “Where do I sleep?”
He does not smile. He is subdued, I think. By what has happened, and the role he must now play. “This is the commander’s tent, and so mine,” he says. “You sleep here. You are,” he pauses, and a smile comes, goes, “welcome to share the bed. If you wish, of course.”
I can carry wood one-handed, and water, although it takes more trips. So I do that, and make tea, awkwardly. I cannot hold the cithar, and so cannot play. Tarquin does not mind. I do. I am bored, restless. I wonder if I should tell him what I know. I should, but I will not. He might stop me from doing what I must. Would stop me.
He stops his work in the afternoon to drink the tea I make. “I have been writing this report for a week,” he says. “And I have scraped off everything I have written three times now, and begun again.” He sips the hot drink, an infusion of dried leaves and berries. “What do you think I cannot find the words to explain, Druisius?”
This is interesting, that he asks me. But I have thought, too, in the days in the infirmary. “How the Boranoi got past the guards?”
“Exactly that. I have reviewed the rosters and the deployment with Marcellus’s subaltern. They look adequate; the lieutenant tells me they are.”
“The Boranoi had more men?”
“That is one explanation, but those who repelled them did not think so.” He drinks more of the tea. “Not many of the men on guard and patrol that night were killed, but still the Boranoi forced their way through to the camp.”
“The guards were our men? Or Qipërtani?” The Qipërtani capora is a friend of the sergeant’s. I do not say this.
Tarquin’s brow raises. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “At the warehouses, my father’s watchmen are never strangers.”
Tarquin picks up his pen, rolls it between his fingers. “Marcellus said you are not a talker.”
“Merchants cannot be, about their business, yes?” He nods. Chews his lip. Says nothing. What is it he will not say?
I have filled the brazier with wood that will burn to coals, and the ewer is full. The sides of the tent move in the wind. The guards will be cold tonight. Tarquin sits, wine in hand. He has told me to fill my own cup. My shoulder aches. The wine is welcome.
“Is there anything else, Captain?” I ask.
He looks up. “No. Go to bed if you want.” He hesitates, frowns a little. “But cold will do your shoulder no good, Druisius. You should not sleep on the floor.”
He is right. Even with the brazier, cold will seep up. I look at the bed. It is inviting. I nod.
Without thought I take the side I always did with Marcellus, further from the warmth of the brazier. The bed sways a little as Tarquin slides in beside me. “Don’t let me take all the blankets,” he says. He turns so his back is towards me. His presence warms the bed, but his weight is different from Marcellus. So is the scent of his body. Things to get used to.
TARQUIN GIVES ME BOOKS to read, and assigns a veteran of his regiment to start teaching me. We establish that I know my numbers and can measure. I am to learn to survey, first. It is something I can do with one hand, if with some difficulty. We go out to practice. I pay attention, listen, learn, but I am watching, too. The sergeant, and the capora. Sometimes. When I can.
Tarquin writes his report again. This time the ink stays on the vellum. When a week has passed, I remove the sling. The shoulder is stiff, sore, but I think I can hold the cithar. I managed the baths earlier, keeping my shoulders above the water. The medic would have frowned, but I have my reasons.
I tune the instrument. Tarquin and the engineer-lieutenant are taking, about the gates. They are finally hung. Tarquin invited the lieutenant for wine. A celebration. The pass is secured.
I play, quietly. The lieutenant does not stay late. When he is gone, I do the nightly tasks. Tarquin watches me. I feel his eyes.
I feed the fire, straighten, turn. Marcellus is dead, and he entrusted me to Tarquin. “Something more tonight, Captain?” I ask, softly.
He is different from Marcellus. All men are different, except when it is a quick thing. “Bite,” he whispers, when my lips find a nipple. Again when my mouth is on the flesh of his shoulder, where it meets his neck. I find I like this, the sounds he makes. The feeling, when he does the same to me.
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