Kushiel's Scion (110 page)
"Sometimes," I said.
"Why is that?" Lucius asked.
I reached out and took his hand. It had grown gaunt and callused under Gallus Tadius' usage, but the strong grip was purely Lucius. I smiled wryly, remembering the buffeting sound of bronze wings within my skull. If I may serve as the instrument of your justice, wield me as you will. Kushiel's reluctant scion, called to bear witness. I could hardly explain it to him when I barely understood it myself. "Does it matter?"
"No." Lucius leaned his head back against the pillows, closing his eyes. "I suppose not. What do you see in me, Imriel nó Montrève?"
I told him.
All of it, good and bad. A quick wit and a generous spirit; a thorny sense of pride. A love of justice that wrestled with inborn prejudices; an abhorrence of hypocrisy. Stubbornness and kindness commingled. Courage, and a surprising capacity for endurance.
In short, a good deal of myself.
When I finished, Lucius was watching me with open eyes. "I'm not afraid to fight," he said. "And I'm not afraid to die. I'm not even afraid of the dead, not anymore." His mouth twisted. "But I am not my great-grandfather. And I am terrified to the core of my being at the prospect of ordering men to die in his name. Because they will, you know. A good many of them."
"Yes," I said. "I know." I wished I had words of comfort to offer him, but I didn't. There weren't any. "Lucius, you need food and sleep, as much of both as you can manage. Have you eaten?"
He shook his head. I found a priest loitering outside the door and sent him to fetch food. They must have anticipated the need, for he returned with alacrity bearing a steaming bowl of stew, hearty with beans and rich chunks of mutton, and a sizable chunk of black bread. After weeks of short rations, it looked delicious.
I shoved it at Lucius. "Eat."
He ate slowly at first, but after a few mouthfuls I could see his appetite return. I refused his offer to share and watched with satisfaction as he devoured the entire bowl, wiping it clean with the last of the bread.
"More?" I asked.
"I'd burst." Lucius set the bowl aside. "Thank you, that was good."
I nodded. "You need to sleep now."
He grimaced. "I think I've forgotten how. My mind keeps working and working, and I don't even know whose thoughts I'm thinking. I've gone so far beyond tired, I've come out the other side. Anyway, I need to get a look at Valpetra's forces and—"
"No." I pointed at him. "Look at you, you're about to fall over. You're no good to anyone in this state. Sleep."
A faint spark of humor lit his eyes. "What do you mean to do? Sing me a lullaby?"
"Mayhap." I stood and removed my sword-belt, then began stripping off my leather jerkin. Lucius watched me with bemusement. "Move over."
"Montrève, I hardly think—"
"Don't be an ass." Clad in a woolen shirt and breeches, I crawled onto the pallet beside him. "You've got pillows enough for an orgy here. Move over."
In the end, Lucius was too exhausted to protest. I propped myself against the pillows and pulled him toward me, trying to settle his head on my shoulder.
"Come here," I said. "I'll tell you a story."
"I'm not a child," he murmured. "And I do not need your damned D'Angeline pity."
"Shut up." I tugged a lock of his hair. "This is a true story. You've heard of the Master of the Straits?" He nodded. "Well, there was a curse that bound him to his island. And it bound him to immortality, too; but an immortality of endless aging. It was the angel Rahab who uttered the curse, and the only thing that would break it was the Name of God…"
As the candles sank low throughout the night, wax dripping, I told him the story of our quest to Saba. I told him about stowing away on the boat to Menekhet, praying Phèdre and Joscelin wouldn't send me away. I told him of our voyage down the Nahar, and sang the children's counting songs in Jeb'ez that our felucca-captain Wali taught me. I felt Lucius' cheek move in a smile. I told him about crossing the desert on camelback, and the stark, awful majesty of the desert. He called me a liar in a sleepy voice.
Stroking his hair, I told him about the splendors of Meroë, where Queen Zanadakhete ruled and soldiers rode oliphaunts in the streets. I told him about our journey southward, about the rhinoceros and the immense fish that Joscelin and I caught. I told him about the Great Falls. I told' him about Saba and the lost Tribe of Dan with their ancient bronze weapons.
As I was telling him about following the stars across the Lake of Tears, rowing and rowing, Lucius fell asleep.
Sleep eased the stark lines from his face. He looked ten years younger; almost like himself, albeit a worn, thin version. I held him close and kept talking, keeping my voice low. It seemed to soothe him, and I thought he'd like to know the story had a happy ending, even if he wasn't awake to hear it. But between the warmth and the peaceful sleeping weight of Lucius, I fell asleep before the end.
It seemed like only a few minutes.
"Montrève!"
I snatched the dagger from my boot-sheath, eyes snapping open. Lucius was standing a safe distance away, regarding me with a bemused look.
"I've seen the way you wake when startled," he said dryly. "O, dear my prince, you are an odd one, aren't you?"
I grinned at him, sheathing my dagger. "So I've been told. How do you feel?"
He stretched his arms, flexing his hands. The lines had returned to his face, but they were carved less deeply, and his color was better; much better. "I'll serve. I don't feel like a strong wind might blow me to pieces anymore. That's an improvement." He met my eyes. "Thank you. Someday I'll have to hear how the story ends."
I nodded. "Get us through this, and I'll tell you."
"I'll do my best."
Daybreak was nigh. A scuttling priest came with a breakfast of dates, black bread, and hard cheese. We both ate as much as we could, washing it down with water, then assisted one another in donning our armor with unself-conscious ease. There was a strange sense of intimacy between us, born of the night's shared sleep and the morning's imminence of death.
"You know I have to send you back to your squadron," Lucius said quietly.
"I know." I yanked the mended chin-strap of my helmet, testing its strength. "I'm ready. We're ready. And Eamonn's a good leader. You—Gallus—did a good job of training us."
"He wasn't all bad, was he?" Lucius mused. "Not wholly."
"No," I said. "And when all is said and done, he believed in you. He'd never have left if he didn't. Gallus Tadius believed you could do this. Remember that."
"I will." Leaning over, Lucius plucked something from the tangle of blankets and pillows on the pallet; a length of crimson cloth, loosened during the night. "Here." He knotted it firmly around my upper arm. "The badge of the Red Scourge."
I gave him a half-bow. "My thanks, my lord."
"Imriel…" Shaking his head at me, Lucius took my face in his hands. "Don't be an ass," he said, and kissed me.
It was sweet.
It was sweet and strong and firm. There was amusement in his handsome satyr's face as he drew back from me; what my own expression was, I cannot guess. I was struggling with an unexpected swell of desire.
"For luck," he said lightly.
"Luck," I echoed. The flamen dialis was standing in the doorway, his brows raised and his lips pursed in disapproval. In that instant, I despised him. I wished I could give him the sort of devastating look that Phèdre had given me the day I'd quarreled with Mavros, that deep, penetrating, self-aware gaze before which all accusations quailed and all shame rebounded upon the accuser.
Lucius did it for me.
The priest dropped his gaze. "Captain Arturo is awaiting orders."
"Right." Lucius donned his gilded helmet, which bore a tall plume of horsehair dyed red. It had belonged to Gallus Tadius once. He fastened his chin-strap and checked his sword-belt, then settled his buckler on his arm. He drew a deep breath, as though to better fill out the armor. Beneath the helmet's gilded peak, a look of grim resolve suffused his features. "Let's go."
He strode out of the sanctuary, back upright, shoulders squared.
I trailed behind him, a lowly foot-soldier once more, clad in motley attire.
Beneath the shadow of Jupiter's mighty effigy, Captain Arturo saluted, his weary face surprised and hopeful. "My lord?"
Lucius gave him a curt nod. "Report."
"They're coming."
Chapter Sixty-Two
It was raining again.
A light rain, little more than a steady drizzle. We held our position, periodically twitching our cloaks to shed the rain. Barbarus was the 22rd squadron. We were posted on the right side of the aqueduct. On the left side was the 21st, and behind us were the 23rd and 24th, which were called Stone and Anchor. All of the best or most foolhardy soldiers were in the latter two. Either trait would serve.
Before us was the 20th, called Senecus owing to the age of their commander, a grizzled oldster with fierce eyes and narrow jaws like a pike eel. A good fighter, his men said.
I hoped so.
We were in a narrow formation, each squadron split into two lines of twenty men. Eamonn stood directly in front of me, blotting out most of my view; in front of him, there was a sea of cloaks belonging to the other squadrons of the Red Scourge. We were backed up all the way to the residential district.
Gallus Tadius rode back and forth along our ranks.
Not Gallus; Lucius.
Even I, who knew, had to remind myself. He did a beautiful job of it. The set of his shoulders, the straight line of his back, the defiant angle of his chin—it was pure Gallus. I suppose he'd had time to learn it. Bone-weary though I knew he was, it didn't show. When he called out mocking assessments of the enemy's fears and ordered us to hold firm, even I drew heart from it.
"Is he… ?" Eamonn had asked when I slipped back into the basilica.
"He'll do," was all I said.
We couldn't see what was happening beyond the breach, but word filtered down from the sentries atop the wall and passed through the ranks. Valpetra's men were massed and waiting. During the night, they'd managed to ford the river. In the grey light of dawn, they'd slogged across the burned, half-flooded fields. The cavalry, a mere hundred and fifty men, had fallen back to take a position at the rear. Almost two thousand infantry stood just out of bowshot, awaiting orders.
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