Empress & Soldier: Empire's Legacy, #4

By Marian L Thorpe

A boy of the night-time streets. A girl of libraries and learning.

Druisius, the son of a merchant, is sixteen when his father's cruel order drives him from home and into the danger and intrigue of the military.

Eudekia, a scholar's daughter, educated and dutiful, is not meant to be a prince's bride. In an empire at war, and in a city beset by famine and unrest, she must prove herself worthy of its throne.

A decade after a first, brief meeting, their lives intersect again. When a delegation arrives from the lost West, Druisius is assigned to guard them. In the span of a few weeks, a young captain will capture the hearts of both Empress and soldier in very different ways, offering a future neither could have foreseen.

 

A stand-alone novel that can also serve as a second entry point into the Empire series. No previous knowledge of my fictional world is needed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arboretum Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990711022

Book preview

Chapter 1

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DRUISIUS

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DRUISIUS!

My father’s voice, and loud. I cannot pretend I have not heard him. At dawn, the square is nearly quiet. Only the clink of metal as locks are undone, and the creak of doors opening. A late bat chitters by. I do not stop. Over my shoulder, I call, I am going to the warehouses.

Not today. A weight descends inside me. He will want me to do the accounts with him. Talk about prices and profit and who to bribe when. At the port there will be a breeze off the sea, and ships arriving, and the blue-eyed son of the harbourmaster.

I turn. I do not want to. But he is my father, and I am not officially of age.

Wash, he says, and change into a better tunic. I am going to see our patron today, and you will come with me. It is time you began to learn how to conduct yourself in his presence.

Take Marius, I suggest. Knowing what he’ll say.

Marius can go to the warehouses. This is for the oldest son. A low moan comes from the open window of our rooms above the shop. Another reason I was heading for the harbour. He glances up.

No point in arguing. I wash in the small courtyard behind the shop, running wet hands over my hair. It will dry soon enough in the warm air, like the spilled water on the rough cobbles. My youngest sister brings me my tunic. Another cry comes from above. She looks up. Will she die?

I lay the tunic over a shrub and hug my sister. She is ten, a girl still. I remember my mother’s screams when she was born. What does our mother say?

That all is well.

Then it is. I let her go to pull the tunic over my head. She helps me straighten it. Go and help, yes?

Our patron—Varos—lives several miles away, his house halfway up one of the many hills of Casil. We stop on the way to buy bread and figs at a stall, and drink a cup of water at one of the fountains. Not too much, my father warns. We will have a long wait.

By the time we reach the house I am sweating. I would like more water. There is a guard at the gate, his skin as dark as ours. Salvius, good morning. Is this your boy?

Druisius, my oldest. Are there many before us? he asks, not in Casilan, but in the language of his country. I was born there, but I do not remember much. Just ships, and the rough seas of the voyage, and arriving at the harbour. The lighthouse had been a wonder.

Some, the guard replies. Go in.

Inside the house is cool and dark. As my eyes adjust I see painted figures on the walls, and statues in hollows. Light gleams at the end of the corridor. I hear water running, but we turn into a room only a few steps from the door. A square room, with benches lining the walls, more in the centre. Several men sit along the far wall, on cushioned seats under windows. They nod to us. My father guides me to a bench without cushions, on the opposite wall.

Other men arrive. Those in fine tunics, wearing sandals of worked leather, take seats under the windows. Those dressed like my father and me choose the hard seats, and one or two in even coarser tunics crouch against the wall closest to the door.

At the far end of the room a door opens. A man steps out, looking around the room. He holds a writing tablet. Without asking names he begins to make a list. I look beyond him, into the room he has left. At a large table, I see a man, grey-haired, clean shaven, his shoulders a little stooped. This is Varos, yes?

A smile softens his face. A girl maybe a year or two older than my youngest sister comes to his side. Her hair is the colour of new copper, her skin as pale as bleached cloth. The man says something to her. She leans in to kiss his cheek before moving from view.

I glance at my father. He has also been watching. Eudekia, he whispers to me. His daughter.

The first of the well-dressed men stands to follow the secretary into the office. When his footsteps on the flagged floor cease, I hear, from the corridor, a girl’s light voice. She is asking what sounds like a question. A man replies quietly. They are not speaking Casilan, or any language I know from the docks. I touch my father’s arm, tilt my head, frown.

He listens for a moment. I do not know, he murmurs.

We have been here an hour, more. How long will I have to sit? The poor men crouched against the wall doze. Two of the important men begin to talk in low tones. I lean back on the bench, close my eyes. Listening, not sleeping. They will not notice. At the harbour I carry cargo, stack amphorae. My body does the work. My ears listen.

They talk of war. Where? War changes things for merchants. Supplies are needed. Or sources of grain and oil are cut off. The war is to the east. But it was small, I hear, and over. They speak of a trial. Some official who has overstepped his authority and will be executed. This will not affect us.

The door into Varos’s office opens. One man leaves. Two—the two who spoke—go in. There are only three more. If no one else comes, we will be gone by midday. I hope. Maybe I can go to the harbour then. I think of the blue-eyed boy, the cool dark of the warehouse, salt on my lips. I cross my legs, stare at the ceiling. I think of Bernikë’s cries in the dawn. She is fifteen. My older sister, my parents say.

Finally it is our turn. I follow my father into the office. The secretary closes the door, takes a seat at a smaller table. We stand.

Salvius. The grey-haired man behind the desk greets my father with apparent pleasure. Or no displeasure, at least. And who is this?

My oldest boy. Druisius. With your leave, sir, I thought it time he began to learn more than the loading of ships.

Of course. Please sit. Two stools stand in front of the man’s desk. I take the one closest to the secretary. I glance around the room. Shelves of books line the walls. Has this man read them all? There is a gameboard on a table. I recognize xache. My father plays it sometimes in the square.

What may I do for you today? Varos asks.

I would like to buy another ship, my father says. He has spoken of this over dinner. More people come to Casil every year. The demand for oil and grain grows. My uncles, who still live across the Nivéan sea, say they can fill another hold.

Varos asks questions. My father answers them. The secretary writes. I do my best to pay attention.

How much do you need? Varos asks.

My father shakes his head. It is not money I need, sir. My brothers and I can finance the ship. It is the licences.

I see. Varos turns his attention to me, without warning. Druisius. What licences does your father speak of?

Why is he asking me? But I know. Someday I am to take my father’s place. Our patron is testing me. For the docks, I tell him. To allow a ship to berth. And to rent another warehouse, if we need it.

We could just apply, bribe the clerks, wait half a year or more. If this man uses his influence to get us the licence, what does he ask in return?

If? Varos asks. Do you need another warehouse? He holds up a hand to stop my father from replying. I picture our warehouse. Think about how it fills when the ships arrive. How many barge-loads and cartloads it takes to empty it again. Although it is never empty. To make space, then. I consider, calculate.

Ships do not always arrive when they should, I say. Carts lose wheels, mules break legs. How much space do we need? I spread my hands, palms up. My father’s gesture. A merchant’s. Another ship’s cargo should not make us need another warehouse. But it might. So we need to be able to rent it for those times, yes?

And for that you need a licence. Varos nods. You are training your son well, Salvius. His words bring an inner shudder.

He is learning, my father says. Later this summer I plan to send him on his first voyage. Surprise replaces the shudder. It shows on my face, I know. He has not told me this, even though I have been asking for a year or more.

I will arrange the licences, Varos tells us.

Thank you, sir, my father says. I repeat his words. Varos stands as we do.

Tell the others to come back tomorrow, he says to his secretary. I must go to the forum.

Outside, the day is even hotter. I turn to my father. I am going across the sea? Soon?

Maybe, he says. Your answer was good, and correct. But understand I will be sending you to your uncles to learn the other side of the trade.

Not just a voyage? I ask. To live there? I think of the blue-eyed boy, with a little regret.

For a year or two. A marriage— He stops, his lips twisting a little.

I shrug. He is not bothered by my nature. One of my uncles is the same. Marius will marry.

And if Bernikë’s baby is a boy, we will adopt him as a son.

At the bottom of the hill, where a wider street runs, shouting makes us both turn. Marching soldiers, and behind them a jeering crowd. What is happening?

A foolish man, my father murmurs. He must see my frown, because he adds, Were you not listening when we waited?

The execution. Of course. Who was he?

The governor of Odïrya. He made war against a people who are Casil’s allies, for his own gain. He hesitates, glances at the house behind us. I should go to the forum, to stand with Varos in case there is trouble. It is what we do for our patrons.

I should come too, yes? The idea is exciting.

His eyes narrow. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Then, to my surprise, he nods. Stay close to me.

The faint clang of metal behind us catches my attention. I turn, to see the red-haired girl with a man, tall and bald. They have come out of a gate in the wall.

She looks down the street at the yelling crowd. Her companion—her tutor, I think—says something to her. His hand touches her arm. She turns, reluctantly. But not before her eyes meet mine, and she smiles a little. Eudekia, I remember.

~

The air is heavy. My father is too. His arm is across my shoulders, and he limps. More now than he did an hour ago, but we are nearly home. Thunder rolls to the north, distant. Sweat stings my eyes.

The forum had been crowded. We had pushed through, my father using Varos’s name, until we stood near him. Not too close to the steps of the Assembly where the prisoner stood. Not too far away, either. Our patron had to be seen to witness, my father whispered.

The prisoner had been allowed to use the knife himself. He had held its point against his belly, tilted upward, staring out at us. Cords stood up on his neck. His lips moved, thinned. He closed his eyes, drove in the long blade. Around us, gasps, shouts, cheers. Inside me, a shiver. Almost pleasurable.

Soldiers catch the falling body, begin to drag it away. Varos turns, his personal guard flanking him. The crowd parts, enough to let him through. The man who greeted us this morning nods to my father.

He will tell our patron we were here? I ask my father.

Yes. Home now, Druisius.

But in the press of bodies he slips, or trips. A loose flagstone, maybe. He falls heavily, an ankle bent beneath him. Another man helps me raise him. He takes a step, another, grimacing. Not broken, he says. We walk, slowly. At first his hand is only on my shoulder, but soon he leans on me more and more.

Our square opens out from the narrow street. We reach our shop. He collapses onto a bench outside it. Fetch your mother, he directs. And wine.

I climb the stairs, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. I call for my mother. Above me, on the third floor, I hear footsteps. My smallest sister clatters down the stairs. It’s a girl! she announces.

Patra is hurt. A sprained ankle, I add, at her look of fright. Fetch Matra.

She comes. I follow her outside, remembering the wine. A cup for me, too. My mother scolds my father and sends my sister for ointments and cloth. To me, she says, Go to the apothecary. Tell him willow-bark and valerian.

When I return, they are indoors, my father seated. His leg is propped on a stool. My mother mixes willow-bark in wine and gives it to him. He drinks it down, scowling. His face is dark with displeasure, as dark as the clouds over the city.

Bring it to me, he says.

I see my mother’s mouth twitch. She bites her lips, says nothing. Her steps up the stairs are slow. But even slower, down. In her arms is a small bundle.

She kneels at my father’s feet, pulls aside the wrap. The baby is tiny, and asleep. Her eyes are closed tight. Like a newborn kitten.

My father looks down at her. No expression. My mother raises her arms, offering him the child. He shakes his head.

Salvius? she whispers. Pleads. She does not plead, my mother. My gut tightens.

No, he says, his voice hard. We have no need of another girl. Three are enough. He has the right. The baby’s father is dead, lost in a storm on the Nivéan Sea. Before he and Bernikë could marry, not that it matters.

Druisius. Take it away.

I stare at him. Take it away? Where? But I know what he means. I will not do this.

No, I say.

You will, he says. I cannot walk. I shake my head. Bernikë is my sister.

We have new licences, I say. Another ship. She will not cost much.

He growls his displeasure at my defiance. Druisius. My mother. Do it now, please. Bernikë is asleep. I have not let her hold the baby. My mother has lost children. She knows. Better my sister wakes to the baby gone.

The wine I drank is sour in my stomach. My mother holds out the child. Where? How did I ask that? I take her. One small hand reaches up, the fingers unfurl. I see the pink of her palm before she curls the fingers again. Her eyes remain closed.

The riverbank, my father says. Anger rises in me. At my father. At myself.

Marius can go with you, my mother offers.

No! I will not involve him. I cannot find other words to say. I hold the baby to my shoulder and descend the stairs.

Outside it is darker than it should be. But I know the way to the river, since I could walk.

The baby sleeps. I am glad of this. I reach the river, and the quays where the barges tie up. There is almost no one out now, evening, a storm threatening. Now where? I cannot just leave her in the open. There are dogs, and birds with strong beaks.

I stand, hesitant. Suddenly the baby wails. Such a sound from something so small. What do I do? I move her from my shoulder. Her eyes are clenched shut, but her mouth is open wide. Without thinking I begin to sing, a lullaby I know from my mother. I touch the baby’s lips with one finger. She closes her mouth, sucking.

Druisius? I look up. One of the city guard approaches me. What have—ah. He stops beside us. A girl. I nod.

Take her down to the bridge, he says. He gestures with his chin. Put her in the alcove by the first arch. Temple servants check there.

Temple servants? What will they do with her?

He shrugs. Make her one of them, if she lives. Or something. Does it matter?

It doesn’t. I thank him. I can tell Bernikë what I did, secretly. The guard has continued on his patrol. I call to him. He turns. Don’t tell my father.

He nods. I won’t.

~

I stop, look back. For the tenth time, maybe more. The alcove had been dry. Sheltered. I’d wrapped her tightly. She hadn’t cried. When do the servants come?

A drop of rain strikes my face, then another. She is inside the alcove, and the night is warm. I keep walking, my feet reluctant. Water soaks my tunic, streaks my cheeks. I am glad of it. It hides the tears.

At home I take off my wet sandals, wipe rain from my hair and limbs. Then I climb the stairs. My family, except Bernikë, are in the big room. Lamps are lit against the night. I go straight to the next set of stairs, up to where we sleep. I’m wet, I mutter, as I pass.

Bernikë is crying. I hear her from the room I share with Marius. I strip, find dry clothes, dress. Barefoot, quietly, I go to my sister.

One lamp burns. Her cheeks shine. I crouch beside her bed. Whispering, I tell her what I did with her baby. She sniffs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

Really? she whispers. I nod. She will be safe?

The guard said so.

Did she cry? I shake my head.

Fausta, she says. I would have called her Fausta. For her father. Fortune did not smile on him. Maybe on his daughter.

I lean over her bed. Hug her awkwardly. She clings to me. It was to me she turned, when word came of Faustus’s death. And earlier. I remember holding her, on the voyage here. Calming her fears. Ten years past.

There is no talk of what I have done, when I go downstairs. Instead, my father speaks of the new ship. They will buy one already in service, he says, not wait for the shipwrights. He knows who is interested in selling. Tomorrow he will show us, Marius and me, at the docks.

Food is brought. I eat, but not much. Rain spatters against the shutters, hard, like thrown pebbles. Will temple servants be out in this? My mother brings me more wine, glances too at the window. Rain will make it quicker, she murmurs. I look away, sip the wine. It is not watered.

My sisters leave, the middle one to help my mother, the youngest to bed. The rain is relentless. I try to shut it out. She will be dry, I tell myself.

There is a ship to be unloaded, my father tells us. Oil. Then reloaded, with cloth. When it sails, Druisius will be on it.

So soon? But thinking of it is a relief.

Why can’t I go? Marius asks.

I cannot spare you both. Druisius is the oldest.

By one year, Marius mutters.

I stare at my father. I am not fourteen. He knows this, and so do I.

Druisius is a man now, he says.

Anger rises. In my mind I see the red-haired girl this morning. Her father’s smile. The slave-tutor’s attention. This father did not care his child was a girl.

What will happen to Bernikë now? I ask. The words come from nowhere.

I will find her a husband. Someone advantageous to us, he says. She is proven fertile. It will not be difficult.

She is a commodity to trade. All the girls are. My hands stretch, clench. Every muscle tightens. I see again the prisoner this morning, the thrust of the knife. The blood. The oblivion.

I stand. I cannot stay here. In the wet dark maybe I will find what I need.

I walk. Away from our house. Away from the river. Streets narrow. Houses grow taller, more crowded. The cobbles run with water. Washing away unwanted things. I am drenched to the skin. But where I am going it will not matter.

If I am a man, I can come here. Alone. At night. I pull a coin from my belt, hand it to the doorman. He gives me a hard look. I give one back. He nods.

Inside, plaster peels, gods and scraptae flaking away. The air is thick, humid, smelling of smoke and men. Where to go? The pools? It is not the heat of water I want.

I go to the tables, strip, lie on the stone. Strong hands push at my back, fingers pressing in. It’s not enough. Harder, I say. His fists drum on my spine. Harder. Hurt me.

He stops. Do as I say, I command. I am paying you. He doesn’t respond. Rage surges, pushing me up. I raise a hand to hit.

He grabs my raised wrist, puts his other hand on my chest. He is older than me, muscled. Strong. In the heat, wearing only a cloth around his hips. I struggle to breathe, or move. His fingers tighten on my arm. A smile on his lips. Not here, he says.

Small rooms, on the back wall. No light but that from the corridor, seeping past the ill-fitting door. His hand is tight on my shoulder. Then turns me, roughly. He slaps my face, hard. I drive a fist into his chest. A low laugh, before he hits me again. Not a slap, this time. I pound his body with my clenched hands. One big arm pulls me to him. I bite, and he makes a sound that is not pain. He is hard against me, and I am too, and this hurts and yet doesn’t and I can forget, except one thing. I am a man.

Chapter 2

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I DIP THE WET CLOTH into the bowl and smear wood ash on the buckle. I rub, rhythmically, humming a tune. In my head, I picture the fingering on the cithar that makes the notes. The sun is dropping to the west. It is pleasant still in the afternoon air.

I rinse the buckle, dry it with a different cloth. It shines. I am done. This is a daily task, here at the encampment, my few pieces, and Marcellus’s full armour. He will want the buckles soon. He, and all the officers, go to see the general at sunset. There are orders, he told me earlier.

Orders. Will we be going to war? I think so. The older men, the veterans, they say so. On the training field the sergeants are harsher, if that is possible. The officers talk, heads bent close together. Marcellus has said nothing to me, but I sense excitement. It spills over into what we do at night, or sometimes before dawn.

I grin at that thought. I saw the tall young officer supervising the troops at the docks that day. Knew why he watched me. Water from the storm puddled the quays. Crews bailed sodden ships. The soldiers had been sent to assess damage. Not much, here. Not like the river. Docks and barges gone, trees too. The shacks of the poor. In an alcove of a bridge, nothing but the stains of muddy water. My grin drops away. I will not think of that. It is past, done.

The officer had approached us as we unloaded amphorae. Marius and I worked with the warehousemen, my father watching as he conferred with the foreman. In the hot wet air, I had stripped off my tunic.

I had placed the amphora I carried in the cart, straightened. Watching the officer now. He caught my eyes. No smile, and yet. Something. I stretched, flexing my shoulders. A flicker, on his face. Then he turned to my father. Is this your son?

Both are.

The older one. Is he sixteen?

My father shook his head. No. Fourteen. Too young, Captain.

I am not, I said. Loudly. It is a lie, I added, walking to them. A lie to save the head tax, when we came. I had thought there might be fines. Something to punish my father.

The officer had looked from me to my father. Is it? he had asked. I am inclined to think so. He does not look fourteen. He is too strong, too well-muscled. He turned to me. What is your name?

Druisius.

The army could use you, Druisius. The army? I had not thought of that. I would go far from here.

My father had argued, but not much. Not once the officer mentioned inspectors, and tax records. My patron is Varos, he had challenged. The officer had barely raised an eyebrow.

A good man. But a scholar. He will not involve himself in the recruitment of a young man to the troops.

So here I am, emptying wet ashes and dirty water into the midden ditch. A foot-soldier, and aide to Captain Marcellus. His soldier-servant, who sleeps in his tent to be close if needed at any hour. The grin returns. I glance at the sun. I have a few minutes. Time to practice the cithar. Another thing the captain is teaching me.

Druisius! A soldier calls to me. Come and dice. Why not? I can practice the cithar later, when Marcellus is writing records. I am good enough now I will not disturb him with wrong notes.

I win a little, lose a little more. I know when to stop, though. Marcellus needs me, I say, standing to leave. The expected comments, but all officers have their servants. No one cares. After eight months on the training field, I am good with both swords, short and long. That is what matters.

I arrive at his tent just as he does too. He gives me a quick smile. I haven’t time for the baths, he says. Bring me water, will you? He washes hands and face and armpits.

Should I shave you? The camp’s barber has taught me how, at Marcellus’s request.

He runs a hand over his chin. Not necessary. I help with buckles and fasteners, until he stands in full uniform.

Thank you, he says. He is always polite. Well, not always, but that is different. I give him a comb to run through his dark hair, kept short for ease. He is from lands north of Casil, he has told me. His father grows fruit on the hillsides and grazes cattle. A big estate. He is the second son.

We are going to war? I ask, as I put away the comb. The inside of the tent is dim now, but not enough to need a lamp. Later, I will light a brazier against the cool of a spring night.

I expect so. He does not bother to tell me to say nothing. I know not to. I like my assignment. Better than the barracks tents, and he shares good wine.

This evening I should go to see my wife, he says. She lives, with their two children, in the town half an hour west of the camp. I have met her twice. Alone, this time, he adds. As I expected.

You will be back for breakfast, yes?

He spreads his hands. I will know after the briefing. It will depend on how quickly we are to move out.

I glance around the tent. If we are to move, then I will need to pack. What do we take?

He shakes his head. I don’t know yet. It depends on where we are going.

Maybe we go by ship, then? He should know, if it was to be marching and carts. I know he has not sailed. He tells me of his life, some nights. Tutors and music, hunting and the skills of debate, before the army. He has plans and expectations. I will rise with him, he says.

It is marching and carts, he tells me later. At least for most of the journey. There will be ships, at the end. We are going to Qipërta, a land to the east, across a wide arm of the Nivéan Sea. He shows me a map. Qipërta is a province of Casil, but the lands north of it belong to the Boranoi. We have an unquiet peace with the Boranoi, he explains, and they are making incursions into Qipërta. Our job will be to chase them out, and strengthen the border.

We are to leave at dawn, the day after tomorrow. I can pack all but essentials.

I go back to the tent, look around. What stays behind? A set of shelves where Marcellus keeps his books, the stool I use, the brazier. Or does it? A fine rug covers the canvas of the floor. It too will stay. I crouch by one of the chests, going through its contents. Warmer clothes—will those be needed? Qipërta is north of us, just a little.

If I get this wrong, Marcellus will not have what he needs. He will suffer, and it will be my fault. I am a good soldier-servant for him here at the training camp. All he needs is wine and food brought, the brazier lit, his armour polished. And a bedmate. These I can do.

If I get this wrong, will he send me back to the barracks, just another foot-soldier? I sit back on my heels, thinking. This is a test. If I am to rise with him, I must prove myself.

The major’s aide is in his tent, already packing. What can I do for you? he asks. I explain.

It’s got to fit in two chests, he says. The captain gets his tent, two chests, plus his camp bed, and the collapsible table and stool. He grins. You get what you can carry.

What does he need? Warm clothes? Do we take the brazier?

He sits down, waves me to another stool. Those are good questions. We could be in the mountains. Likely will be. He blinks, his eyes distant for a moment. Have some wine?

I accept. He is older, near retirement, I guess. There will be a story, but listening is a small price to find out what I should pack.

I fought in Qipërta, twenty years ago, more, he begins. When we subdued it. It’s a client kingdom, now.

The king still reigns, but Casil governs, yes? Marcellus has explained this.

That’s it. It was a long fight. The generals would think it won, but the Qipërtani moved up into the mountains—half the country’s mountains—and hid. Mountain fighting’s hard. So many places for ambushes. Lost a lot of men. He pauses, sips some wine. I got there near the end. Casil won by attrition. You know what that means?

I shake my head.

We had replacements for the soldiers who died. They didn’t. So they had to surrender, in the end.

Why didn’t they ask the Boranoi for help? I ask. They’re Casil’s enemy. It is what boys do, in their wars in the streets of the subura. Sometimes opponents can be allies.

He raises an eyebrow. You’re quick. But I don’t know. Maybe they did, and the Boranoi said no. Or wanted too much in return. Ask an officer, if you care. What does it matter now?

What did it? So I pack warm clothes?

And the brazier, and blankets and furs.

I finish my wine, give him my thanks. Back at the tent I empty the chests, put the winter things at the bottom, divided between the two. Everything that can be divided will be. Trader’s knowledge. One ship, one chest may be lost, but not the other.

I cannot decide which books, or what of his writing materials Marcellus will want. I leave out the shaving equipment, his comb, a cup for wine, a plate. I have done all I can tonight. Outside I can hear laughter, song, the curses of men losing at dice. I am restless. The business of packing occupied me, but now the ache of uncertainty returns. I am going to war. I could die.

As I could on the ships, like Bernikë’s betrothed. Storms, pirates, rocks. An accident on the docks or in the streets.

Or had I been born an unwanted girl.

I push aside the tent flap. Fires flicker, bright in the dark. Marcellus will be gone until morning. I can dice, and drink, and find other distractions beyond the fires. The night has its welcomes.

~

I fetch bread and olives for Marcellus’s breakfast, ignoring the pain behind my eyes. All I want is water. As he eats, I ask about books. He nods. I’ll put the ones I want aside. The others should be packed; they’ll go to my wife. I’ve arranged a cart.

On the training field the sergeant does not care about aching heads and sore stomachs. We practice close combat. My sweat smells sour, like bad wine, like my mouth tastes. The sergeant is merciless this morning, his shouts louder than the ring of blades on shields. I slip on vomit, nearly go down. I turn the slip into a dodge, and come up to ram my shield into my opponent’s arm. He roars in pain, or rage. We stop, staring at each other, panting. I grin, and he does too.

Enough! The sergeant. Line up.

Go back to our barracks, he tells us. Bring all our gear, our bedding, our packs, everything. Ten minutes. We jog off, straggle back, the older men ahead. They expected this. So did I, alerted by the man I left the fires with last night. My promptness is noted by the sergeant. Good.

Twenty miles a day, the sergeant says, once we are all assembled. Break camp at dawn, march, make camp. We have practiced this, too, the ditches to be dug, the stakes erected. Most of us will carry a tool for the trenching, and a bundle of stakes for the fence. Not me, though. Marcellus’s needs are my first responsibility. His tent must be raised, his bed set up, water brought. But if I am quick with that, I will go to help make the defences, if Marcellus allows. Men remember such things, and it might matter.

We practice the march. Four abreast, not too close to the man ahead or behind. Not too far, either. Sandals snug, belts as well. Right foot first. We march along the edges of the camp, leather creaking. A shout from among the tents. A running man. The capora, who oversees the cohorts. He stops us.

Back to your barracks, he says, between breaths. Clean up as best you can. Return in full uniform. The Emperor is coming.

The Emperor? I hear murmurs and curses. Now! the capora barks.

We run, weapons bouncing. I think as I go. Marcellus’s armour is clean. His weapons too. My buckles are not, dust and worse from the training ground, my sandals filthy. As am I.

Marcellus is at the tent, already buckling on his greaves. I sluice water over my hands, rub them dry against my tunic, before I kneel to help. This is purposeful, he tells me. He knows we deploy at dawn.

Supervisors everywhere do this. The warehouse foreman did. My father too would arrive unannounced at the docks. The sergeants here, when we are meant to be cleaning armour and weapons. Emperors are not different, it seems.

I hand Marcellus his helmet. He looks at me. Wipe the dust off your shield and sword. In formation, the Emperor won’t notice individuals. But he’ll notice the condition of your weapons, and how you stand. Do what your sergeant orders, smartly. He touches my cheek. And maybe wash your face.

I do as he tells me, the weapons first. Then the leather of my uniform, and only then my arms and legs. I wash my face, run hands across my hair, and jog to the training ground. The sentries in the guard towers raise spears in a salute, and the big gates begin to swing open.

We stand in the sun a long time. The sand reflects heat. Lines of bodies add to it. Sweat trickles down my neck. My scalp itches. I shift my weight to my left foot. After a while, back to my right. We are allowed to rest the shields on the ground, at least.

A command from the sergeant, repeated by the capora. We stiffen, raise shields and swords. A tall man, beyond middle age, walks with our commander. He is dressed as a general, but he wears a short cloak of purple too. Behind him, the other officers. Beside him, a boy a year or two younger than me.

We are put through our paces. We advance. We relieve our front rank with the rear. We make shield walls and turtles. I cannot look at the Emperor. I do not want to be the one who stumbles, who turns incorrectly.

Finally we are told to stand at ease. I lower the shield to the ground. My arm aches from holding it high. The Emperor steps forward. Well done, men, he says. His voice carries. Still, I am glad I am close to the front. He nods to the standard-bearer in the centre of the first rank, the eagle glittering. You are to defend the honour of Casil, of the Eastern Empire. My honour, and yours. I have no doubt you will do it well.

The veterans raise swords, shout his name. I copy them. So do all of

Reviews for Empress & Soldier

[Cloudwalking Owl · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is an excellent 'stand alone' book from Thorpe's series. It gives people a knowledgeable author's vision of what the ancient world would seem like---if it had something of a more enlightened role for women. I liked it so much that I will probably take a stab at reading the entire series. I highly recommend this book both as a 'good read' and as a way of learning how an intelligent woman of today sees the world of yesterday.