Chapter 10. Now Luca
NOW: LUCA
The only cleared path from the Illyrium all the way to the city gates was a winding one, littered with the debris and broken cornerstones of collapsed buildings.
Most of the Lower City had fallen victim to the Loyal Legion’s catapults, leaving homes and humble shop fronts crushed beneath.
That was how everything was now—broken into pieces.
The streets that I’d once memorized as a child had been erased, forming a new map that changed by the day.
My tribune stuck to my flank as we walked, unbothered by the fact that I all but ignored his presence. He had the sense to make the journey a quiet one, and I imagined it was because he didn’t want to risk fracturing the only bit of trust I’d given him.
Glass and shards of clay crunched beneath our boots as we navigated the wayward route, following the path marked by the New Legion’s insignia.
It was painted on crumbling walls and facades, the red stain dried in drips along the stone.
The gold that encircled the figure’s head shimmered in the setting sun as I passed—a sight that always made me swallow hard.
I’d never imagined, that day in the Forum as I stood there with Vitrasian’s blood on my hands, that the moment would be immortalized.
Early on, I’d insisted that Vale reject the symbol and order that it stop being used.
I’d argued that the actions of one man shouldn’t be a battle cry—that what we were doing was bigger than that.
But the fervor the image stoked in the citizens of Isara couldn’t be discounted, and now it was everywhere, a constant reminder of what I’d done.
I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t so different from the statues of the Consul that littered the city.
The praise of one man was a treacherous path for a people.
A group of men carrying baskets of cloth remnants stopped when they spotted the Centurion brooches that fastened my cloak, and it took only seconds for them to recognize me.
The tribune picked up his pace, putting himself between us, and I watched as their gazes shifted from me to the insignia on the building.
I could see them measuring me against the figure, but the man painted there was like a character in the stories of the gods.
He wasn’t real. He never had been. The old Luca Matius was buried beneath that rubble with the rest of the city.
Two of them lifted a respectful hand in the air, and I gave them a nod despite the burn beneath my skin.
I didn’t want to see them glance up at the godsmark or mutter prayers beneath their breath as they touched the talismans at their throats.
I didn’t want to watch that change of light in their eyes, either.
The one that revealed just how close they all were to not believing in what we’d started.
A few whispers passed between the men, but as soon as they saw the tribune’s hand fall to the hilt of his sword in an unspoken warning, they continued walking.
“The last thing we need is for them to fear us, tribune,” I breathed, voice tired. “Our enemy is across the river. Not here.”
“Nothing tests loyalty like desperation.”
I stopped walking. “What does that mean?”
The tribune bit back his words, clearly second-guessing his choice to argue.
I waited.
“You may be chosen, Centurion, but that insignia has more than one meaning,” he said. “I would be willing to bet those men have lost sons, nephews, even grandchildren since they first laid eyes on it. If they haven’t yet, they will.”
The tone of his voice was so even, so steady, that I found myself clenching my jaw as his meaning took root.
Most of the Lower City had welcomed the war, eager to force change in the Citadel and ward off famine, but their lives had only gotten worse since the day all this started.
They’d gone from poor to destitute, from hungry to starving.
And while most considered it a necessary sacrifice, the tribune made a valid point.
One I’d considered more than once. There was no way to know how long their steadfastness would last.
Two of the men threw glances over their shoulders before they turned the corner up the street, but the tribune didn’t move from his place beside me or drop his hand from his sword until they were out of sight.
We didn’t speak again until the gates came into view.
The silhouettes of legionnaires posted up on the walls that encircled the city flashed against the harsh midday light.
Three rings of barricades had been erected before the gates, and I stopped before the outermost one made up of a collection of overturned shop carts and stacked broken stones.
For once, I let the tribune do what he was trained to do.
His dark eyes roamed over the empty windows overhead, marking the number of men above us.
He was quiet and solemn, taking his time before he gave me a nod.
I lifted a hand into the air to let the guards ahead see us before one of them had cause to draw an arrow. “Centurion Matius, here to speak with Centurion Roskia!” I let my voice carry out.
There was a beat of silence as more figures gathered up on the wall.
Roskia’s soldiers could be identified by the blue sash tied at one arm, a visible distinction of brotherhood that unnerved me to my core.
For months, I’d felt the nagging sense that it was more than morale.
He and his men were becoming more separate in identity by the day.
“Welcome, Centurion!” a voice finally called back.
I lifted myself up over the barricade, feet hitting the ground on the other side.
The tribune was right behind me, his sleeve brushing mine as he kept pace close to my side.
Roskia’s legionnaires stood tall at attention, chins lifted.
A number of low acknowledgments were uttered, a reverberating string of the word Centurion weaving through the air.
That was at least some sign that they still respected the New Legion’s leadership, I thought. But it did little to reassure me.
My tribune, too, looked unconvinced. His hand clutched the hilt of his sword again, a gesture I found reckless, given that we were in our own camp among our own soldiers. He looked ready for something, though I didn’t know what.
The legionnaires fell in line, ushering us through the crates and sacks of supplies toward the three-spired tent erected beside the barricades.
Being sent to guard the gates was an order Vale had tried to spin as a great honor entrusted only to the New Legion’s most skilled soldiers, but it was a job Roskia resented.
He’d made no secret of the fact that he hungered for a fight on the front lines, and that was exactly why he was here, where he couldn’t do more damage than necessary.
That was what I’d thought, anyway, before I’d seen the bodies on the bridge that morning.
It only made me more concerned about what the next few days would bring.
With so few of the Loyal Legion left, the push across the Sophanes River would be swift and precise.
But we’d still need every single one of our legionnaires’ swords once we were standing in the Citadel.
There were those who would welcome the end of the fighting, but we were a city that drank blood now, and peace would be an uncomfortable transition for some.
I found Roskia bent over a short man with a scroll when we came into the tent, his red tunic clean and his freshly shaven head uncovered.
He was clad in only half his uniform, relaxed beneath the weight of the shining scale armor.
But it was the sword at his hip that made me pause.
The glimmer of godsblood shone in the blade, indicating that it had been made for a high-ranking legionnaire of the Loyal Legion.
The weapon had probably cost more drachmas than Roskia’s family had seen in a lifetime.
Stacks of ammunition were neatly organized on wooden risers in the makeshift courtyard, guarded by legionnaires at each corner. No one had ever accused Roskia of negligence. He took his posting seriously, even if he could see through the charade that it was.
He picked up the parchment and rolled it tightly, taking up the stick of red wax beside it. I watched as he held it over the flame of the oil lamp and it bubbled, dripping over the parchment’s seam. He curled his fingers into a fist so that he could press his signet ring into it.
“Matius.” Roskia said my name without the courtesy of my rank, which caught the attention of both the man sitting at the table and my own tribune.
I ignored the insult, returning the favor. “Roskia.”
“It’s an honor to have you in our humble camp.” He smirked.
It had been a long time since a friendly word was exchanged between us.
Roskia wasn’t a proud man, and he’d never been interested in the decadent lives of the Magistrates.
He was a legionnaire with a different kind of power, rising through the ranks of the rebellion and earning the favor of not only his own soldiers but also the entire legion.
He’d been a recruit from the Lower City only a year after Vale and I had been enlisted by our families.
But Roskia had gotten his footing quickly and made a place for himself among the legionnaires despite his low birth.
What he lacked in integrity, he made up for with charisma, and there were few legionnaires who weren’t inspired by him.
“I hope this is a friendly visit,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.
His eyes floated past me. “I see you’ve got a new tribune.”
The tribune didn’t so much as flinch beneath Roskia’s attention, his jaw set and piercing eyes focused. I had to admit it was impressive. Roskia was an intimidating man.
“How many does this one make? Four? Five?” Roskia mused.
From the look on his face, he’d noticed the instinctual clench of my jaw. Again, my mind went to the insignia that painted the Lower City. It was one thing to inspire a rebellion. It was another for it to put a target on your back that got others killed.
When I said nothing, Roskia gestured to the wooden bench on the other side of the table. “Would you like to sit?”
“No, thank you.”
“I imagine you’re here to thank me for the gift.” His smile flashed.
The memory of the limp, colorless bodies dangling from the bridge recast itself across my mind, making my stomach turn again.
“I’m sure the Commander will want to speak to you about that himself,” I said.
Roskia glanced to his tribune with a smug smirk.
Demás stood stoically at the back of the tent.
I’d heard only a handful of words spoken by him since I’d first met him, but he always seemed to be listening.
I’d gotten the sense that he’d become something of a trusted advisor to Roskia, extending his role of tribune beyond protection.
Roskia’s eyes returned to me. “If he’s worried about his father, the Consul, tell him that I’d at least give him the courtesy of letting him cut the man’s throat himself.”
“I’m here to summon you at the request of Commander Saturian,” I said, getting to the point.
“Summon me? For what?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
The grin crept back onto Roskia’s lips. “A bit beneath you, isn’t?”
I didn’t take the bait. “You’re expected at the Illyrium in the morning.”
We stared at each other, the silence making my tribune visibly nervous.
He didn’t strike me as timid, but I’d already observed that he had a sense about people.
Roskia was the only legionnaire I knew who hadn’t been changed by war.
He was the same sharp-eyed soldier with measured words he’d been in training.
The only difference was the pattern of scars that now covered his arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his tunic.
“Demás.” He knocked a fist onto the table and his tribune stepped forward, helmet low over his eyes. “It seems we’ve been invited to the Illyrium at last. Gather a small contingent. We’ll leave command with the morning patrol.”
Demás nodded in reply before turning on his heel. Once he was gone, Roskia’s hand lifted between us so I could grip his forearm and he, mine. “Tell Saturian that I’m grateful for his invitation and that I’m happy to accept. We’ll be there before the sun rises over the gates.”
My fingers tightened around Roskia’s arm and I held him there just a moment before I let him go. “Commander,” I corrected him. “It’s Commander Saturian.”
It wasn’t an innocent slip. It was the palest shade of disrespect, and he’d wanted me to bear witness to it.
“Commander,” he repeated, mouth tilting in a wider grin.
I started toward the tent’s opening, where my tribune was still waiting, hand gripped even more tightly to the hilt of his sword.
“Matius.” Roskia leaned on the table with both hands, eyes still on the maps.
I stopped short, turning back to him. “What is it?”
“Just a reminder that in a few days”—his gaze lifted slowly—“everything changes. We won’t be rebels anymore. We’ll be rulers.”
His eyes flicked to the sky behind me, in the direction of the Citadel.
I could see him imagining it—standing in the Forum in the white Magistrate’s robes.
It was a fate that would have never been possible before all this.
That had been our purpose, hadn’t it? To open the streets of the Citadel District and take its power from the Forum?
To build a city that was for all Isarians, not just the highborn?
I met his gaze, trying to see what lay beneath that look. “And?”
“And then you’ll understand.” His voice lowered. “You’re not the only one the gods are watching.”