Gilded Serpent Danielle Jensen (i can read with my eyes shut .TXT) 📖

The men on the perimeter nodded at the group as they passed, eyes going first to her, but as several of them recognized Marcus, it was he who garnered all the attention. Word spread ahead of them as they walked through the camp, men getting up from their leisure to watch them pass, their faces not particularly friendly. A large tent loomed ahead. The dragon standard, a 29 beneath its claws, gleamed where it was embedded in the ground by the entrance.

“If you’d wait a moment, sir,” Carmo said, “I’ll see if the legatus has time to see you.”

Marcus didn’t answer, only scratched at his cheek, expression furrowed with annoyance. A crowd of soldiers had gathered now, none of them saying anything as they watched on, but there was a feral quality to their eyes that made Teriana’s pulse race faster. They shouldn’t be in any danger from these men, and yet …

Carmo stepped back out. “He’ll see you now.”

While the camp itself was identical to that of the Thirty-Seventh, it was like stepping into a different world inside this commander’s tent. The furniture was heavy and ornate, the chairs well-padded, and the ground layered with thick carpets in vibrant colors. Rather than maps spread across the table, there were platters loaded with food, the plates porcelain and the flatware polished silver. Crystal decanters of wine were set among the platters, and lamps of colored glass illuminated the scene. It was like being in the tent of a king or a senator, nothing like the spartan furnishings Marcus kept in his own command tent.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Teriana’s eyes shot past the laden table to the large chair on the far side of the tent. Though to call it such was a misnomer, because it looked to all the world like a throne.

A man dressed in a red tunic and legion armor lounged on the chair, one leg slung over the arm, a glass of wine held loosely in one hand. Judging from his golden skin, this legatus was Cel by blood. His white-blond hair was shaven almost to the scalp, his eyes a vivid emerald green, and his face not at all hard on the eyes.

“Hostus,” Marcus said, his expression bland. But his fingers flexed at his side and his hair was darkening with sweat at the temples, both of which betrayed to her his nerves. “It’s been a long time.”

“Did you miss me, my little apprentice?”

“No.”

The man laughed, and Teriana struggled not to take a step back, though she wasn’t entirely certain why. There was something about him that screamed danger. As she glanced again at Marcus, she saw a bead of sweat roll down his cheek and realized that he wasn’t just nervous around this man. He was afraid.

Apprentice … The word rolled through her mind, and it dawned on her that this was the legion that had trained the Thirty-Seventh after they’d left Lescendor. That this was the man who’d trained Marcus.

“Aren’t you supposed to be conquering the Dark Shores in the name of the Empire?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but you know me, Marcus.” Hostus took a drink from his glass. “I’m endlessly curious.” He gestured at one of the men in the room. “Pour the boy a drink. Let’s see if he holds his wine better than he did at sixteen.”

The man splashed crimson wine into a glass and held it out to Marcus.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Drink!” Hostus screamed the word with such fury that Teriana stumbled backward, nearly falling.

Marcus stood his ground. “I don’t have time for power games, Hostus. My presence is required in Celendrial, so while your hospitality is as pleasing as I remember, we will be on our way.”

“We?” Hostus rose from his chair, and for the first time since they’d entered, his gaze settled on Teriana. She forced herself to meet his emerald eyes, tracking his progress around the table. “Of course. This is the Maarin girl you cut a deal with.” He made a tsking sound. “Always negotiating when you should be taking; did you learn nothing in our time together?”

“Did you?”

Hostus huffed, then his lip curled up. “Aren’t we brave now that we’re all grown up.” He stopped next to Marcus, leaning close enough that his lips were practically brushing his ear. “But I still remember the sound of your screams when I beat you bloody on the floor of this tent, boy.” He swayed from side to side. “Like music. Like poetry.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Then in a flash, the older man reached out and caught Teriana by the back of her shirt, dragging her sideways and forcing her to her knees.

“Let her go!” Marcus snarled, reaching for his weapon, but the other men already had theirs out and leveled at him.

Hostus slid his hand under her scarf, fingers catching her hair. Then he twisted his hand, pulling her head back to reveal her throat, and she clenched her teeth at the sight of the knife in his hand.

“Neither Cassius nor the Senate will be pleased if you kill her,” Marcus said. “Satisfy your pleasures elsewhere.”

Chuckling, Hostus pressed the tip of the knife against her throat, scoring a burning line in her skin as he slid it down to her collarbone. “Cassius will be just as happy to see this one dead, and what the Senate doesn’t know, they can’t gripe about. I’m willing to bet a fair bit of gold that no one knows that you’re even here, Marcus. And I think we both know that Cassius wouldn’t weep to learn you’d met an untimely end.”

He was going to kill them. Or more likely, torture them and then kill them. They needed to escape, but how was that even possible in the middle of a camp ruled over by this man?

“I think it will be you who does the weeping if Cassius discovers you killed me and therefore lost his chance at