Kushiel's Scion (114 page)
To their credit, Barbarus squadron scarce hesitated. For the space of a heartbeat, my voice was the only one echoing Eamonn's; and then the others arose. As though we had set spark to tinder, it spread, until his name resonated throughout the city.
"Lu-cius! Lu-cius!"
There were tears on Lucius' face, which was etched with lines I suspected would never be gone; not wholly. He had worn the mask of Gallus Tadius too long. I shouted for him, rejoiced for him, grieved for him; for myself, for Helena, for Gilot, for Lucca's dead and all those things that might have been had intrigue and warfare and humanity's incalculable cruelty not intervened.
He belonged to Lucca now.
As I belonged to Terre d'Ange.
After the cheering ran its course, Lucius met with Quentin LeClerc and Marcus Cornelius, the commander of the Tiberian legion. It was a smaller force than I'd reckoned; only seven hundred strong, plus a delegation of thirty mounted D'Angelines. Tiberium no longer fields a mighty army as it did in the days of empire. I wondered what they would have done if they hadn't found the city in chaos, Valpetra's men already dispersed. Lucius must have wondered, too, for he asked them.
Marcus Cornelius shrugged. He was a stolid veteran in his late forties, with plain, pragmatic features. "The Senate reckoned Valpetra would back down."
I didn't think he would have, but I supposed it didn't matter now. The Duke of Valpetra was dead. His body lay where it had fallen, untouched. By all accounts, Silvanus and his men were eager to quit the city and put the debacle of the siege behind them. Arms, armor, horses; all their goods would be forfeited.
"You mean to simply let them go?" I asked.
"What would you have us do?" Lucius asked reasonably. "Feed and shelter them? No, they'll go, and they'll take their dead with them."
The Tiberian commander agreed to lend his company to the task of overseeing the exodus, giving the exhausted men of the Red Scourge a chance to rest, and Lucius dismissed us with a gracious word of thanks. Many left; others stayed, Eamonn and I among them, watching as the long file of soldiers began winding their way out of the city, the living carrying the dead, heads bowed beneath the cold drizzling rain, defeated and dispirited.
"Such a waste," I murmured.
"Aye." Eamonn shivered. The white bandage Matius had tied around his head was soaked through with bright crimson blood. "I think I'd like to lie down now."
Quentin LeClerc insisted on escorting us to the Tadeii villa. At my request, he'd already dispatched several of his men to assist Publius Tadius and the Lady Beatrice in restoring order to the estate. One of his men dismounted with a bow and proffered the reins of his mount. I watched the other surviving members of Barbarus squadron limping through the streets and shook my head.
"I'll walk."
Instead, Eamonn rode. It seemed fitting to me. He was our leader; Captain Barbarus. I walked beside his horse's head. A few of the men raised their hands in salute to him as we passed, weary and proud. All throughout the city, we saw the extent of the damage the flood had caused; debris and rubble, animal carcasses beginning to bloat.
Although dusk was only beginning to fall, the Tadeii villa was ablaze with lights, a welcome beacon. I felt the full extent of my exhaustion as I plodded toward it. My legs were leaden, the muscles of my arms aching with exertion. The courtyard had already been cleared, but the grounds were floodswept, the grass flattened, bushes uprooted. I peered toward the rise of high ground and found it empty.
"Is the Bastard safe?" I asked the D'Angeline guardsman who met us.
He blinked at me. "Your highness?"
"My horse," I said wearily. "The spotted one."
"Oh, the hellion!" He grinned. "Aye, your highness. In the stables. The straw's sodden, but the grain is dry."
"Good." I rubbed my eyes. "Good."
Quentin LeClerc spoke to me about plans to safeguard the villa and the city, the disposition of his men and the Tiberian company, plans for our swift return. I nodded, listening with half an ear, until he took pity on me.
"Rest, your highness," he said. "We'll speak on the morrow."
Inside the villa, the Lady Beatrice laughed and wept, covering her mouth with her hands, her eyes shining in the lamplight. She would have fallen upon us had I not begged off with an apology. She wore a gown of finespun wool, dyed a rich saffron hue, and I was acutely aware that Eamonn and I were besmirched from head to toe with things best left unmentioned.
"What…" she whispered. "What of my son? They said he lived."
"Your son." I drew myself up and bowed, formal and deliberate. I bowed once to her and once to Publius Tadius, silent in the background. "My lady, your son, Lucius Tadius da Lucca, is a hero today. I imagine he will be here presently."
"And Gallus Tadius?" Publius' voice was rough.
"Gone," I said.
True and not true.
His shadow would always be there, lurking behind Lucius' eyes, carved into his features. It would hang over the city he had conquered as a living man and defended as a dead one. It dwelled beneath the marble slab that covered the mundus manes, and in the scorched, stubbled fields outside the walls. It would live in the memories of ordinary men who had been transformed into the Red Scourge. I didn't think any of us would forget him.
I wouldn't.
Still, it was only a shadow.
The private baths were filled with murky floodwater, but the kitchen had been scoured and fires lit in the stoves. Lady Beatrice had ordered vats of water heated and a tin washtub dragged into the guest quarters. I let Eamonn have the first turn at it, while Beatrice found salve and hunted up clean linens to use for bandages. They had sent for a chirurgeon, but all of them were busy tending to more urgent needs. Afterward, the servants refilled the bath and I tied a fresh bandage around Eamonn's head. He ate a bit of black bread and hard cheese, drank a good deal of water, and went straightaway to bed.
Lady Beatrice had offered her attendants, but I'd declined them. Alone at last, I stripped with care. The woolen shirt and breeches I'd worn were stiff with dried blood, some of it mine. I was half afraid to see what lay beneath my clothing.
The washtub steamed invitingly, smelling faintly of roses. Someone had scattered a handful of dried petals in the water. It made me think of Lady Denise Fleurais' garden sanctuary, and I whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to Blessed Elua at finding myself alive. By the warm glow of a trio of oil lamps, I assessed the damage.
It could have been worse, much worse. The shallow slice on my left thigh was crusting over, and the triangular gouge on my upper right arm was narrow enough that it needn't be stitched. I'd taken a myriad of nicks and cuts during the fighting on the portico, but none that wouldn't heal on their own. Mostly, I was bruised.
There were massive constellations of bruises already blossoming beneath my skin, their hues indistinct in the lamplight. Except for the one on my right forearm where Valpetra's javelin had dented my vambrace, I couldn't even remember what had done it, whether they were inept blows I'd taken or impacts resulting from my own attacks.
It didn't matter. I was alive.
I eased my body into the washtub. Every wound, no matter how small, stung in protest. The gash on my thigh cracked open and bled, and the tub was so small that I had to sit with my knees drawn up tight. I didn't care. For a long moment, I rested the back of my head against the rim of the tub and simply sat there, luxuriating in the heat.
I sat there for a long time, until the water began to cool. Then I took up the ball of soap and scrubbed myself, thoroughly and methodically. My hands were stiff and aching from clutching weapons all day long, the knuckles swollen and split, battered against the shields and armor of my opponents. Although I'd washed them before tending to Eamonn, there was blood ingrained all around the beds of my nails. They looked like someone else's hands.
Someone good at killing.
When I had finished, I climbed dripping from the tub and dried myself on a clean towel, leaving blotches of fresh blood on the linen. I smeared salve on my wounds, bandaging the worst two, using my teeth to tie a knot around my right arm.
Somewhere in the villa, I heard the sound of Lucius' returning and his mother's glad cries, his father's voice filled with a new note of respect. I should go greet him, I thought, but I was too tired. No, let them have their moment. I was a guest in their household and I had fought for Lucca, but I had no place here, not really.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted it so fiercely, I ached with it. I wanted to walk into Phèdre's study and sit at her feet, leaning my head against her knee. I wanted to pour out my heart to her, while she stroked my hair and told me there was nothing inside me that I needed to fear, only shadows.
I wanted to be a child again.
Her child.
But I wasn't and I couldn't. And so I took myself to my lonely bed and lay awake for a long time, staring open-eyed onto the darkness, thinking about Canis and Domenico Martelli, the Duke of Valpetra, my fellow soldiers who had died and the men I had killed, until sleep took me unaware, and I slept and dreamed of war.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Three days later, we departed Lucca.
It took that long to get the city restored to some semblance of order. Marcus Cornelius' men loaned their aid unstintingly, helping clear away wreckage the flood had left, digging graves for the dead, posting a guard at the massive gap in the wall. There wasn't much to be done about the breach, not until the Masons' Guild could procure the vast quantity of materials needed to repair it. Between the breach and the short harvest, Lucca faced a hard winter.
Lucius spent long hours in council with the Tiberian commander, Gaetano Correggio and various Luccan aristocrats, the flamen dialis and his priests. They came to a settlement regarding aid from Tiberium in exchange for certain trade rights to be granted in the future.
They came to a settlement regarding Helena, too. The priest declared a mourning period of six months in order, after which she would undergo a ceremony to effect the dissolution of her unwanted marriage. In the spring, she would be free to wed Lucius.
I took no part in the discussions. At first, I spent my time worrying about Eamonn, who slept for almost a solid day, waking only briefly to eat. The chirurgeon who came at last to examine him peered at his eyes, slapped a poultice on his wound, and shrugged. Eamonn promptly went back to sleep, slept through the night, and woke in good spirits the following morning, declaring himself ravenous.
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