Tarnished Empire - Danielle L. Jensen Page 0,1

his bed and women into Hydrilla tonight.”

“Be quiet, Agrippa,” Felix snapped softly, but Marcus was already walking between the golden dragon standards, one clutching a 37 in its claws and the other a 29. Stepping into the tent, he barely managed to lurch sideways as a camp stool flew in his direction. It struck Felix in the breastplate with a loud clang, and his second swore under his breath until Marcus shot him a warning look.

The tent’s interior was in complete disarray. Tables overturned and stools smashed into pieces, fragments of glassware and bottles everywhere, wine soaking into the expensive carpets. At the far end, Hostus stood with his arms crossed and emerald eyes full of murder as he watched Proconsul Plotius Grypus tear apart his tent.

“Useless idiots!” the proconsul shrieked. “Fools!”

Perhaps fifty years of age, Grypus was short and built like a potato with sticks stuck into it. He wore armor of the same design as any of Celendor’s legionnaires, but his was adorned with gold paint and had a dragon embossed on the breast rather than a legion number. He tore up a map, then started kicking pencils every which way, his grey hair floating outward as he whirled like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum.

“You promised me results!” he screeched, then lunged at one of the cabinets that held maps and other important documents. “You promised me victory!”

Catching hold of the cabinet, he tried to tip it over, his skinny arms straining with no results. He heaved harder, his golden skin turning beet red from effort, but the cabinet didn’t so much as shift.

Behind him, Agrippa snorted in amusement, and Marcus winced as Grypus turned on him and his men. “You think this is funny?” he snarled, pointing a finger at them. “You think me a source of comedy?”

“Apologies, Proconsul,” Agrippa said. “Caught a bit of the smoke, I’m afraid. Excuse any noise on my part.”

Grypus’s grey eyes stared, unblinking, as he tried to determine whether Agrippa was mocking him, then he snarled and spun away. “Wine! Someone get me a glass. A bottle. A rutting case, so that I might drown myself in sorrow for being surrounded by such buffoonery.”

“Of course, Proconsul.” Hostus moved to a cabinet and extracted a bottle and golden cup. He filled the glass, then handed it to Grypus and set the bottle on the table that his second had righted.

Grypus glared at the label. “This wine was intended for my use.”

“We keep it here for you, Proconsul,” Hostus answered. “So you might not be subjected to vintages of less quality.”

A lie, because Marcus had seen the other legatus drinking a bottle only last night, but Grypus seemed placated.

Sipping from the cup, the proconsul said, “You told me this would work. For two months, I’ve suffered through the misery of living in this camp while you tunneled like rats under Hydrilla’s walls because you hadn’t the balls to attack them like real men.”

Grypus’s misery was a massive pavilion with every luxury that gold could buy. He had eight servants, a personal chef, and four women to keep him company while he was absent from his wife. It had required multiple wagons to bring all of it from the xenthier stem at Melitene to Hydrilla, his bed alone so large it had taken four of Marcus’s men to carry it inside.

“A frontal assault would result in heavy casualties,” Hostus answered. “They have the high ground and they are well prepared to defend against a siege. The tunnel was the better strategy and if not for that smoke, we’d have been victorious.”

“And yet,” Grypus sneered, “I still stand in this stinking filthy camp, drowning my sorrows over this embarrassing defeat instead of toasting my victory.”

The hatred in Hostus’s eyes caused a bead of sweat to roll down Marcus’s spine, every instinct in him screaming danger. How Grypus couldn’t sense it, he didn’t know, because the Twenty-Ninth’s legatus was clearly visualizing the proconsul’s murder. And when Hostus killed, it was never quick.

“And you.” Grypus rounded on Marcus. “Don’t think you’re excluded from this, boy.” Draining his cup, he tossed it on the table, then closed the distance between them, looking up at Marcus. His breath reeked of garlic and wine, and Marcus blinked as his eyes watered.

“I didn’t even want the Twenty-Ninth for this job but the commandant said you came together or not at all.”

Hostus’s face twisted with fury where he stood behind the proconsul, a knife appearing in his hand, but