Free Exiles of Arcadia: Legionnaire by James Gawley Page B

of Jupiter, taken from the statue’s shapeless grip. She tried to pull him up, but nameless fear held him in place. He watched her lips move as she spoke to him, but he could not force meaning from the words. Suddenly she placed a hand atop his head, and leaned over to kiss his brow. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and for an instant Primus heard her clearly. Then she raised the iron staff of the god high above her head, and swung it down. Light exploded before Primus’ eyes.  
    The world turned black.

It was my father’s notion to steal the prophecies of the Sybil from the Capitoline vault. With them, he could bind an army more firmly to his purpose; without them, Tiberius would find Arcadia a little harder to control.

    – Lucan Venator,
    Testimony before the Senate

    EXTRORDINARIUS

    Primus watched the treetops pass by, filtering the weak afternoon sunlight through their branches. His head throbbed in time with the clop of his horse’s hooves upon the cobblestones, and his stomach roiled, empty and angry. Twice he’d tried to eat something to settle his stomach, and twice he’d been forced to climb down from his mount to vomit beside the elevated roadbed. The extrordinarii ate in the saddle, rolling along at a steady canter, and they had no mercy for Primus’ aching head and delicate stomach. Each time he stopped to vomit, he was forced to kick his mount to a gallop to catch up with the others, compounding his headache.
    He had been shaken awake that morning by Black Titus, who frowned over him as Primus looked around, trying to remember where he was. He lay on his back on a flat stone slab, in the center of an unfamiliar room. Neatly labeled clay pots and colorful glass bottles crowded the shelves that lined one side of the room. The opposite wall was hung with tools, black iron and shining bronze. He was in the infirmary. He was lying on the slab where Lepus had died.
    Primus sat up with a start and the world spun around him as his vision dimmed. He would have fallen if Titus had not caught him by the shoulders. “Easy,” the old man said. “You’re still in one piece.” He waited patiently while Primus recovered himself. “I woke you twice before. You didn’t seem to know me. Can I ask what happened to you last night?”
    Primus thought about it. He remembered slipping out to visit the temple and his conversation with Somnia. He cringed, remembering how he’d kicked down the temple doors. Beyond that, nothing seemed clear. He shied away from the memories. “What time is it?” he croaked. Titus passed him a cup of water from the surgeon’s bench.  
    “It’ll be dawn soon. I relieved the surgeon about an hour ago.”
    “The scouts?”
    “They’re assembling on the martial field.”
    “Then I can still catch them,” Primus said, pushing himself off the slab. Titus steadied him as his feet found the floor. “Thank you for waking me.”
    “Slowly, lad. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”
    “I’ll be fine.” Primus stooped carefully to pull on his boots. “I’m not going to miss this.”
    “Oh, you’re fine? I suppose this is nothing, then.” Titus pressed his finger against Primus’ temple, and pain exploded behind his eyes. Primus cried out and dropped to his knees.
    “The surgeon says it might be fractured. Even if not, it’ll be days before you can return to duty.”
    Primus clutched at his head, feeling linen bandages and beneath them, the bulge of a damp poultice. He focused on simply breathing until the pain and nausea receded. Then, moving gingerly, he began to drag his boots onto his feet. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll never get this chance again.”
    Titus sighed. “You don’t know that.” But Primus kept on fumbling with his bootlaces, not even looking at the old man. “What do you think will happen if you fall out of your saddle on the road? Do you think the extrordinarii are going to nurse you along?”
    “That won’t happen.” Primus decided his boots