Chapter Text
Banners, red as blood, rippled over the makeshift fortifications surrounding the legionary encampment. The last echo of war drums had faded with the setting of the sun. Now, the only light came from smoldering pyres, stacked with bodies, the work of the legion’s pyromancers, assigned to purge fields after battle. Despite this, the air pulsed with sounds of revelry. Crowds of soldiers and camp followers drank, danced, and laughed, never minding the stench of ash and death on the wind.
A large tent stood in the center of the encampment, grand as any villa’s triclinium. Within, the talk was quieter, the music softer. Patricians lounged like gods in exile, soaked in wine and song.
General Erientes sat apart, elbow resting on his knee, a cup of watered wine warming in his palm. His armor polished, ceremonial, not the practical set he’d worn in battle hours before. He let his gaze pass over the revelers, settling at last on the only thing of much interest in the room.
Peirlys.
A young man, not older than three and twenty. His thin silk tunic did little to hide the bronze skin, the lean lines of muscle. Lamplight glinted off the thin but rigid gold band at his throat, a slave’s collar, masked as ornament. His dark hair curled around what in later life would be a chiseled jaw, softened as yet by some lingering youthfulness. He half danced, half sauntered through the crowd with the ease of someone born to balance upon a knife’s edge. With a satyr’s grin and dark eyes, sharp, too knowing for a fool.
Erientes had seen him once or twice before in such gatherings, wherever his master, Damarien, brought him. A wealthy merchant-lord, corpulent, sybaritic. He watched Peirlys over the rim of his goblet with jealous eyes.
The younger man caught the look and walked—no, in truth, he pranced back over to his lord and perched on the edge of his chair, refilling his goblet.
“A song, a song, Peirlys!” Someone shouted.
“Yes, Lark, a song!” Another echoed. Half the room took up the cry, rising until it pressed against the canvas walls. Even Erientes rapped his cup against the low table beside him dourly.
“Peace, peace,” Peirlys raised his hand, and the crowd hushed. He smiled silkily at Damarien, “What say you, My Lord?”
Damarien considered, mouth tight, but the petition went up again, and he could no more deny them than a mob crying for blood. He gave a short nod. The shouts turned to cheers, but hushed swiftly as Peirlys moved to where the musicians sat and conferred briefly with the lyre player.
Erientes sipped his wine, feeling the anticipation in the room swell. Peirlys moved to the center, back straight, shoulders loose, as if this were his rightful place. When he opened his mouth, the first notes slid into the air like poured wine, smooth and heady.
At once, the atmosphere in the tent shifted. Voices and movement ceased. Officers leaned in. A patrician’s jeweled fingers stilled on his goblet.
His voice was a clear, sonorous tenor. Rich and resonant, but effortless. There was youth in it still, untempered, more arresting for its honesty.
The song itself was a simple one, about a young man far from home, longing for the place and people he’d left behind. But Peirlys didn’t merely sing the words, he made them ache, made them live. They settled in the blood like memory.
It was more than mere talent.
Toward the back of the tent, a priest shifted uneasily. Sacred texts warned against things like this. Unbound magic was dangerous. Could a magus his age, a slave, have slipped through without assessment? Until this night, he would have sworn it impossible…
Peirlys finished, the last notes hanging, reverberating against canvas walls. The audience held its breath, as if spellbound. Then came the applause, pounding feet, shouts of approval.
“Another, another!” The cry went up again.
Erientes caught the twitch of Peirlys’ mouth, the glint in his eye. He was pleased, though he feigned humble modesty. To captivate such a gathering so utterly must have tasted sweeter, more intoxicating than wine.
Peirlys held up a hand, and the crowd fell silent again. Poetry now, raucous, irreverent. His tone, his whole attitude, transformed seamlessly from the humble singer of songs to a vaunting, audacious fool. It was all the more enchanting.
His words, almost too pointed, caused a collective gasp, then laughter. First scattered, then uproarious. Only the priest remained unmoved, his eyes dark, his expression hard. Peirlys danced between the lounging men. He mimicked the drunken blunders of a certain high-ranking politician with cruel accuracy, earning howls. He impersonated a temple oracle, eyes rolled back, moaning how the gods favored whoever paid more coin.
Erientes’s lips twitched, trying not to smile. But across the room, Damarien was far from amused. His eyes narrowed, his hand clenched too tightly around the stem of his goblet. Peirlys caught the look, but only bowed low, mocking.
Too far. Amid the laughter, Erientes saw it. The sharp flick of Damarien’s fingers, summoning him. Peirlys’s grin faltered, his whole manner changing. He bowed again, this time stiffly.
Damarien stood and turned, withdrawing to the shadows beyond the tent. Peirlys had no choice but to follow, a few steps behind, ignoring the outcry at his departure. A bevy of dancers streamed in, eager to take his place.
Erientes’ eyes followed the two men. He couldn’t quite hear the words over the noise of the crowd, but he didn’t need to. Damarien hooked two fingers under Peirlys’ gold torc and jerked him forward, the rigid metal digging into soft flesh. He didn’t flinch, merely smiled, a slow, venomous curl of lip, and said something low.
Damarien struck him, hard.
Peirlys stumbled back, hand over the offended cheek. He righted himself.
Then looked up, straight at Erientes. His eyes burned with quiet defiance. How long could that spark survive in a world that wanted its fools blind and its slaves cowed?
Damarien noticed. He turned sharply, his round face creasing in anger.
Erientes met his gaze, impassive.
Damarien, without breaking eye contact, backhanded Peirlys again. Harder this time. His head jerked with the force of it. A thin line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away smoothly.
Some of those standing nearer the edge of the tent noticed, laughter faltered, looks exchanged. Erientes didn’t move, but the grip on his wine cup tightened. He was challenging him, daring him to intervene.
“Forgive me,” Peirlys said loud enough now to be overheard, his voice cutting, “My tongue runs ahead of me at times. Like your horses, Lord. Beautiful, overfed, and prone to shitting in public.”
Eyes were drawn, a few stifled laughs. Damarien’s grip tightened, hand lifting as if to strike him again, but there were too many watching now. “You forget yourself.”
“My self?” Peirlys taunted. “No, a slave cannot be his own. Yours, Lord.”
Damarien’s hand curled into a fist and would have hit him, despite the onlookers, if Erientes hadn’t risen to his feet.
He did not speak. Simply stood, imposing, commanding in his silence. This movement alone was enough to still the man’s hand.
“I trust,” Erientes said with cool composure, “Lord Damarien would not refuse a drink?”
Damarien’s jaw clenched, hesitating briefly before he released Peirlys. “From you, General, it would be an honor.”
Peirlys staggered, caught himself, and straightened with all the grace of a courtier. Blood still glistened on his lip. He gave Erientes a slight bow, almost imperceptible.
Damarien moved to join him, settling onto the low, cushioned bench with a grunt. Erientes returned to his own seat. He filled the merchant’s cup before lifting his own in a silent toast. But in his chest, an old hunger stirred again. Not for conquest or glory, but something far rarer. Justice.
— —
The camp had quieted by the time Peirlys found him.
Erientes sat alone on the slope of earthwork fortification at the perimeter of the encampment, where the torches gave way to moonlight, and the last of the season’s cicadas hummed. He’d removed his armor, revealing the plain tunic beneath, though the hard lines of his frame remained. He sharpened a dagger methodically. Not because he needed to, he had orderlies for that, but it gave him something to do with his hands.
Soft footsteps scraped the packed earth behind him.
“You’re difficult to find,” came Peirlys’s voice, melodic as ever, but lower now, more intimate, “for a man of your stature and import.”
Erientes didn’t look up. “Should I take that as compliment or insult?”
Peirlys settled beside him, too close. His lip was split, the bruise on his cheek coming in dark. But he smiled as though it didn’t hurt. As though nothing ever did. “Oh, I never mean just one thing.” He let his leg brush Erientes’.
The general gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?” Peirlys touched the corner of his mouth, looked at the blood with vague interest. “Well. Occupational hazard. You should know about that.”
Erientes didn’t smile, “Why are you here?”
“To thank you.” Peirlys drew his legs up, draping his arms over his knees. “You didn’t have to intervene.”
“I don’t like cruelty.”
Peirlys tilted his head, considering. “You’re in the wrong empire, my lord.”
Silence stretched between them for a time. In the distance, someone strummed a lute. Nearby, a man snored.
Peirlys followed the sound with his eyes and nodded toward it. “There’s your friend. Prince of pigs.” Across the firelit square, Damarien lay sprawled on the ground, robes rumpled, mouth agape, one hand still gripping an empty goblet. A dark stain marked his chest where wine had sloshed down. “He’s sopped enough to sleep through a siege,” Peirlys muttered. “Thank the gods.”
Erientes gave him another look. “Will you be all right?”
“Your concern is truly touching, General.”
“I’m serious.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Mm.” Erientes put his thumb gently beneath Peirlys’ chin to lift it toward the torchlight, inspecting the damage, “evidence to the contrary?” He studied him. The smooth face, the actor’s ease. But up close, the seams showed, the wear behind the eyes, the fatigue no amount of bravado could polish out. “I should have his head for this…”
Peirlys blinked, caught off guard. But his voice was sly, “Now that’s dangerously close to gallantry.”
“Gallant? No. Not I.”
“No? Are you certain?” Peirlys leaned in a little, Erientes smelled the clove oil in his hair, the wine on his breath. His voice dipped to a whisper. “Shame. I might be persuaded to play damsel. I do a very convincing swoon.”
Erientes' eyes gleamed, the corners of his mouth twitching, “You’re flirting with me.”
Peirlys grinned. “You noticed.”
“And if I said stop?”
“I’d say you didn’t mean it.”
They sat in silence for another moment, longer than necessary, closer than proper. Then Erientes, with a sigh, stood, “Get some rest.”
Peirlys tilted his head to look up at him, his smile cat-like, “Is that an order, General?”
“It is,” he started to turn away, but paused, “and stay out of Damarien’s reach tonight.”
“What about yours?” Peirlys called after him.
Erientes didn’t answer, didn’t trust himself to.