Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [300]
"I know," I said.
Every free hour was filled with drilling, now. We rehearsed Gallus Tadius' plan of engaging and falling back. By now, there was no squadron but had developed some degree of proficiency. I had to own, as much as I disliked it, that I took a measure of pride in our progress. We invented friendly rivalries, staging mock invasions of one another's territories. The squadrons acquired nicknames—ours was Barbarus, of course—but we were all part of the Red Scourge. We drilled in the streets, we memorized alleys and byways, and the horn signals that would carry Gallus Tadius' orders. We stashed caches of food and water-skins in the emptied lower stories of buildings, worked out plans for ambushes and pitfalls.
There was a fierce camaraderie in it like nothing I'd ever known. All the men in Barbarus came to know one another in a way wholly outside my experience, at once superficial and intimate. For the most part, I didn't know their histories, their hopes and dreams… indeed, we seldom knew one another's surnames. But I knew that Orfeo wanted revenge for Bartolomeo Ponzi's death and was apt to be hotheaded. I knew that quiet Constantin never flinched at a feint and was a good man to have at your side. I knew that Matius struggled to hold his position when he locked shields with an opponent, and Baldessare could always be counted on for a jest. I knew somewhat about all of them.
All men; ordinary men.
What they thought of me, I couldn't say. At first, there was a mixture of awe and disdain, which seemed to be the common attitude toward D'Angelines among the Caerdicci. And too, word had gotten about that I was a Prince of the Blood, that I had cut off the Duke of Valpetra's hand and he wanted vengeance for it. But after the bout with Gallus Tadius, I did nothing to draw attention to myself and worked without complaint. I found a leather-worker to repair the chin-strap on my helmet. In the rain and muck, one muddy, helmeted conscript looks much like any other, D'Angeline or no. In time, they forgot.
Eamonn, they adored.
Truly, he had a knack for leadership. He was clever, good-hearted, and fearless, and he had a gift for making men like him. No one seemed to care that he was a prince in his own right and half-D'Angeline to boot; he was Eamonn. He won their respect with Gallus Tadius' praise and his own actions, and their affections with a grin. He worked as hard as or harder than any man in Barbaras during the drills, bareheaded in the rain, his red-gold hair plastered to his skull and his loud, cheerful voice calling out orders.
I didn't begrudge him, not a bit. It was a heavy burden. And there wasn't a man among us, myself included, who didn't know beyond a shadow of doubt that Eamonn would be the first to advance and the last to retreat. Betimes, I wished for his sake that he showed a little less valor.
Gallus Tadius did us one kindness, though. There were twenty-four squadrons all told, and Barbarus would be stationed near the rearguard. If the wall was breached and Valpetra's men were engaged, we would be among the last to peel away before the rearguard made its final stand in an effort to halt the enemy. The section of the city Barbarus was to defend lay in the farthest outskirts, backing up against the gatehouse itself.
It was the most safety he could offer us… save, of course, forbearing to execute us for treason if we refused to fight for Lucca.
I thanked him for it anyway.
He gave me one of those long, gimlet stares. He'd gone back to his old ways, going without sleep, and his face had resumed its hollow-eyed, fearsome aspect. There was no trace of Lucius behind the mask. "You're welcome," he said.
That was all.
* * *
Chapter Sixty
We were breaking our fast at the villa when the horns blew. There were a dozen signals Gallus Tadius had devised, but the one that signaled the advent of a flood was simple and unmistakable; a single sustained blast, repeated over