Marcus put his fist to his heart and bowed his head.
Crassus returned the salute and left the tent. "Excuse me," he said to someone outside. "Could you bring him some more, please? And don't let him go wandering around."
"Of course, my lord," answered a woman's voice.
"Captain, is just fine, ma'am," Crassus said. "And thank you."
Lady Aquitaine came into the tent in her washerwoman disguise, bearing a covered tray. She gave Marcus an elaborate curtsey, and he shook his head at her.
"Captain will do, indeed," she said, casting a narrow glance over her shoulder in the direction of the retreating Crassus. She settled the tray on Marcus's lap and removed the lid. The aroma of fresh, hot food threatened to rob him of his sanity.
"Where on earth did you get fresh eggs out here?" he demanded. "And ham?"
"I'm a woman of means," Lady Aquitaine said. "Eat. I'll talk."
Marcus's stomach howled more than growled, and he fell to with a will.
"Our young Crassus is too modest," Lady Aquitaine said. "He's all but totally responsible for rallying the entire First Senatorial. And Captain Nalus is swearing up and down that the Second would never have survived the battle without Crassus's steadiness and that fool Antillar's cavalry."
"The Senator's less than thrilled with that," Marcus said.
Lady Aquitaine waved one hand. "As am I. Crassus has something young Scipio didn't."
"A title," Marcus said. "Legitimacy."
"Precisely. The son of Antillus Raucus." She shook her head. "I've worked hard to set up Arnos to receive the political profit from this campaign-and in a broader sense, my husband hardly needs more rivals."
'You can't really think Crassus could threaten him," Marcus said.
"No. Not now. But ten years from now, with the credit for a successful campaign behind him…" She shrugged. "The wise gardener plucks weeds when they are small rather than waiting for them to take root."
Marcus stopped chewing.
"We'll use him to take the ruins," Lady Aquitaine said. "We'll let him help us secure the city. When we march on the city…" She shrugged. "Take care of it, my Fidelias."
"Crassus," he said.
"Yes," she replied.
"That could prove difficult. And if his death is traced to me-to any Aleran, for that matter-it will cast a shadow on the Senator. To say nothing of Rau-cus's response."
"Which is why I have taken the liberty of procuring one of those Canim balests for you, my spy." She poured him a mug of spiced tea from a pitcher. "It's beneath your bunk. He'll die at the hands of the foes he so bravely confronted, a hero of the Realm."
Marcus nodded and forced himself to continue eating.
"I know you've been injured, and you need rest." She calmly picked up the tray, tugged aside the blankets, and studied his wound. "Goodness, someone made a botch of this." She laid her hand over it, and her eyes went a bit distant. "But it's closed solidly enough, I suppose." She restored his blankets and returned the tray. "Do this for me, Fidelias, and you can finally get out of this place. It hardly suits you, you know." Her eyes glittered. "The next year or so will be very exciting. I'll want you at my side."
He nodded back. "I'll take care of it."
"Excellent," she said, her eyes glittering. "Eat. Rest."
She departed the tent.
Marcus sat quietly for a moment.
Kill Crassus.
Or refuse her orders. Kill himself.
Marcus set the question aside and ate everything left on the tray. He drank the tea and settled down to sleep. He would think things through more clearly after food and rest.
He would need his strength.
Regardless of what he did with it.
Chapter 39
Dreary days and miserable nights blended into one long, slow, ugly ordeal, and Amara grew heartily sick of swamps and everything to do with them.
The days were all the same. They started at first light, with a cold breakfast. Then they would slog forward through endless mud and shallow water. They would stop for rests, but increasingly, as the days went on, the stops seemed to do less and less to allow them to recuperate. Bernard sometimes managed to find dry wood that would burn without giving off too much smoke, but there was never much of it, and he was willing to chance only tiny fires.
They would cook whatever meat Bernard managed to shoot-the garim provided most of their foraged fare, though the meat was tasteless and oily. They could never chance a fire at night, as Bernard said they could be seen from miles away, and without a fire, the nights became something utterly miserable.
They would stop on dry ground to rest-but "dry" was a relative term in the swamps. Moisture seeped in through blankets and clothes regardless of what they tried to prevent it, until Bernard collected enough of the smaller garim hides to provide a single sleeping mat. One of them had to remain awake at all times, so they couldn't huddle together for warmth, and as a result what little sleep Amara did get was attenuated by her constant shivering.
And, of course, absolutely every part of the day was accompanied by thousands and thousands of insects that crawled, insects that flew, insects that swam, and Amara found herself constantly brushing them from her eyes and nose and ears and mouth, like walking through some endless living curtain.
When first light came, they would rise and set forth again.
And so endless days passed.
Though Bernard claimed to feel better, he did not offer to lead them again, and Amara saw him rubbing at his eyes or temples when he thought she wasn't looking. The First Lord, for his part, continued to drift in and out of sleep, and if he did not recover from the steady fever, at least he did not further deteriorate, either.
They had stopped for a meal an hour before, and Amara still hadn't gotten the taste of the oily garim meat out of her mouth, when she saw movement in the swamps ahead. She stopped, holding up a hand, and glanced over her shoulder at Bernard.
They were standing in waist-deep water, and Bernard immediately laid his bow and quiver across Gaius's floating stretcher and crouched until only his head was showing. Amara followed his example. He moved soundlessly through the water to stand next to her, squinting ahead.
Amara lifted her hands and called to Cirrus, willing the fury to bend light in the space between her palms. The air there blurred for a moment, and then came into sharper focus, magnifying her view of the area ahead of them.
There were three men moving through the swamps. They were dressed in garim-hide cloaks, trousers, and boots, and the mottled hides of the swamp lizards blended in perfectly with all the green and grey and brown around them. In fact, Amara never would have seen them at all except for-
She willed Cirrus to draw her view even closer to the three men, and she focused on the one in the lead. Around his throat was the gleam of a polished, metallic collar. With her fury's help, she was even able to make out the word engraved on the steeclass="underline" Immortalis.
"Immortals," she whispered. "They're Immortals, Bernard."
He said nothing, but she saw his eyes flicker with concern. The enslaved warriors had been driven beyond madness by the furycrafted collars that controlled them. Kalarus's Immortals had been responsible for the deaths of dozens of Citizens on the Night of the Red Stars. They were virtual juggernauts, entirely insensible to pain, completely focused upon serving their master, Kalarus. Amara had seen Immortals simply ignore swords thrust through their throats, limbs severed from their bodies, accepting hideous wounds more than willingly in order to strike down the targets their master had sent them to eliminate.
"Crows," Bernard murmured.
A moment later, Amara saw something else, through the haze of humidity, beyond the patrolling Immortals.