In his nearly six years in the Bellatorio, Gaius Flavius had served under many incompetent commanders. But Millus Szerio had to be the worst. Most days Gaius could handle that. Most days he could consider the realities of bureaucratic incompetence with something akin to muted tolerance. Today was not one of those days.
Gaius heeled his horse on as he raced into the Bellatori camp, the frigid mountain wind cutting at his cheeks and sending his blood-red cloak flying behind him. Pulling up abruptly outside the Millus’s tent, he swiftly dismounted, plucking off his plumed helm and bracing it under one arm as he stalked toward the tent flap. The two foot soldiers outside snapped to attention, thumping their chests in salute. Gaius returned the gesture, trying and failing to regulate his tone as he spat out a greeting.
“Centus Flavius, here to see Millus Szerio.”
“Of course, Centus! The Millus is regrettably occupied at present. May we—”
“It is urgent,” Gaius said, gray eyes narrowing to hooded slits. “I’ll see him now.”
Not waiting for them to open the flap, Gaius pushed past, throwing it open as he stalked inside. The tent room was warm, in stark contrast to the frigid temperatures outside. Gaius stopped short at the food-laden table, overflowing with the most scrumptious of delicacies. The soft tittering of laughter filled the warm interior. Millus Szerio had guests.
As his eyes adjusted to the shadowed interior, they flew from face to face, finally falling on the portly Millus Szerio. He reclined lazily on his side, gesturing with the thick turkey drumstick he held in one hand.
Gaius gritted his teeth, somehow managing to restrain the sneer he felt bubbling beneath the surface. He instead snapped to attention, loudly thumping the metal gauntlet of his forearm against his embossed leather cuirass with a clang that brought the entire dinner party up short, staring at him in surprise.
Szerio was the last to respond, only glancing up when he noticed his conversation partner to have been distracted from the no doubt enthralling tale he’d been sharing.
“Yes, Centus? Can’t you see I’m otherwise occupied?”
“Sir!” Gaius responded, voice echoing. “I’m here with an urgent message from the front. My Bellators are poorly rationed, without the food or equipment we were promised. If we are to hold our position to the west—”
“Yes, yes, Centus, I received your communiques. The issue is being looked into.”
Gaius felt his teeth ache as they ground together. He resisted the urge to stare pointedly at the lavishly decorated table overflowing with sweetmeats and pastries.
“Sir, the men and women who serve under me need to be properly rationed if we are to fulfill our mission. We cannot leave the western front—”
“Centus!” A note of annoyance crept into Szerio’s voice as he leaned forward, drumming his fingers rhythmically against the chair arm. “I told you that the matter is being looked into. Now, please, you’re disturbing my guests.”
There was a soft tittering of laughter from the aforementioned dinner companions. A vein in Gaius’s temple throbbed, and his hands curled into fists of their own accord. His rising rage was truly making it difficult to see straight. This man was not fit to wipe the scum from the boots of even the lowest foot soldier in the Bellatorio, who served admirably and with honor. Whereas this man, no doubt descended from ancient Marian nobility, had barely even seen a battlefield before being commissioned as a Millus and charged with the war’s execution. Didn’t he understand what was at stake? How could he sit here in his warm quarters, eating delicacies, while men and women starved on the battlefield? It was unconscionable.
“You are dismissed, Centus.”
Gaius thought briefly about skewering Szerio then and there, taking his overpuffed ego down a few notches. Gaius’s fingers twitched toward his sword’s pommel, relishing the thought of unsheathing it and showing this man what a true Bellator looked like. Then he thought of his Bellators, huddling around barely concealed campfires, trying to keep warm and desperate for rations that only he could bring them. He realized with frustration that he’d have some difficulty doing that from inside a prison cell, which is undoubtedly where he’d end up if he treated this Millus as he deserved.
So instead, Gaius gave Szerio a curt nod before saluting and spinning on his heel as he stalked out of the room. He was met outside by Decius Braína. Her straw-colored hair was plaited in the Bellatori fashion, her icy blue eyes scanning the garrison. She raised one delicate eyebrow at him, and he realized with sudden embarrassment that he’d likely outpaced her some ways back. In the meantime, she’d caught up and wisely watered the horses after he’d dismounted in a rage.
“Any luck?” she asked, but seemed unsurprised when he shook his head, the success of his mission written on his face.
“Well, it was worth a try,” she said. “We could try the quartermaster directly, see what the garrison itself can spare.”
“It’s no use,” Gaius said, rubbing a hand across his face. “None of them will dare act without Szerio’s direct say-so. Reallocating rations is an offense worthy of court martial.”
She nodded. Decius Erin Braína had served under him for two years now. An uplander by birth, she’d grown up in a tiny fishing village near the Western Plains. Gaius didn’t much care for uplanders, typically. He found them uneducated, provincial in their outlook, and hostile toward outsiders. But Braína was different, curious about the world and smart as a whip. She’d done well in the Bellatorio and was respected by both commanders and subordinates. She’d quickly risen through the ranks, one of the few female Bellators to have received a commission. Even two hundred years after women had been allowed to enlist, it was still an uncommon profession for them to pursue.
“Well, what is it you’re plannin’?” she asked, offering him his horse’s reins. At his shrug, she raised an eyebrow. “You know as well as I do that this isn’t the end of it.”
Gaius was about to reply when a young messenger boy appeared, standing awkwardly in the periphery. Gaius turned to eye the boy pointedly.
“A-are you Centus Flavius?” the boy sputtered. “I-I have a message for you, sir.”
Gaius put his hand out for the message, intentionally ignoring Braína’s knowing look. He certainly wasn’t done fighting, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of having her suspicions confirmed. He flicked a coin to the boy in thanks, noting with satisfaction how the boy’s face lit up. The messenger thanked him profusely before scampering away.
Unfurling the scroll, Gaius scanned its contents, brow furrowing further by the line.
“What is it?” Braína asked.
“It’s a summons,” he said, voice disbelieving even to his own ears. “A summons from Imperator Lanus. He wishes to see me.”
Braína’s eyebrows had shot up at the first mention of Imperator Lanus, chief commander of the entire Western Imperium.
“That’s incredible,” she said finally. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Apparently, he’s making a brief stopover in camp tonight before continuing on his tour of the western front.”
“Well, this is perfect. Ask him about the rations.”
“Millus Szerio won’t take kindly to that.”
“Screw the old fatbag.”
Gaius’s head cocked toward her, eyebrows raised.
Her eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t give a fig about any of us. You tried appealing to him directly. You brought your concerns, and he’s done nothing. You are fully within your rights, no, your responsibilities as a commander, to take your request up the chain of command.”
Gaius nodded, considering. The thought made him uneasy. He disliked complaining to a commander’s boss about his behavior, preferring instead to settle his disputes in person. But Braína was right. He’d tried everything, and he wasn’t about to return to his Bellators empty-handed. If Szerio wouldn’t help him, then Gaius would have to go over his head.
