Peculiarities

Cyrac watched the red-headed Decanus Justus rush out of the tent.

The boy's excitement reminded the Centurion of... a child, eager to play with his elder brother who'd returned from the war.

Hm. But such aphorisms were useless for the current generation. It had been two decades since the wars ended, after all.

The cheeky green-haired boy didn't look the part of the "elder." Cyrac would have guessed... 16? 17? Younger than Justus, at least. The whelpling wasn't even old enough to drink-- bless his heart.

Cyrac tried to recall what age that was, exactly... It was something he, himself, had never cared for.

When he'd heard Zehr speak, he immediately understood that he couldn't judge the boy by his looks.

Cold. Calm. Not speaking out of line-- yet able to tactfully express his opinion.

His demeanor screamed 'military veteran.'

...That, or 'spy.'

And the Flamescarred whoreson didn't as much as flinch when he was threatened with twenty hard, bloodletting lashes with a thrice-damned rope.

No... there was something off about that young man. He was leaning towards spy...

But then he remembered... in the standing army, the cold, dead eyes of his veteran peers wouldn't have flinched either. Maybe they'd moan and complain, but they'd submit to military law. That's what they were trained to do.

Cyrac drained the rest of his wine up in frustration. He was a leader of men, not a police investigator.

He looked over to his Optio, Sixtus. That man had good senses.

And he had good genes, with how well he aged. Sixtus was only ten years younger than Cyrac was... and didn't have a single grey hair!

Cyrac, on the other hand... he aged like milk.

The Optio sat up, pausing from his random and redundant gear maintenance check, "You're gnashing your teeth, Centurion. What's on your mind?"

"I was just pissed off that your hair's still as brown as the shite of my horse," Cyrac growled.

"If you'd like my secret..." Sixtus rubbed his chin, trying to look sagacious, "I recommend a balanced diet, at least six hours of rest each sun, and--"

"Exercise regularly and drink plenty of--" Cyrac scowled, "Shut the hells up, you patronizing thief."

The Optio chuckled politely, "If you're worried about your appearances, then I shall remind you to take advantage of being a 'wise, old veteran.'"

Cyrac rolled his eyes. As soon as his hair started to grey, his military subordinates stopped questioning him. Most people wrongly associate age with wisdom-- something that tends to be true, but isn't always.

Most old vets in the military rose in rank, not because of achievements, tactical prowess, or an unyielding loyalty to their country... but because they were useless donkeys that couldn't gain respect by talking to people like human beings.

"Old men are all full of shite," Cyrac grimaced. "Myself, included."

"But still, the younger generation listens to the older..." Sixtus smirked, "Myself, included."

Cyrac groaned, standing up out of his seat. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, "Sometimes, I wish I took up farming or a trade, after the wars..."

"And why didn't you?" Sixtus smirked.

The aging Centurion shook his head, "All I know how to do is be a part of a shield wall and yell at fish all day... Without the Rhodoks, I'd probably be on the streets, begging for scraps of bread."

"Nonsense, Centurion." Sixtus reassured him. He emptied the last of the rationed wine into his own cup, "You can always sell your flesh, in order to survive."

The thought was absurd. Cyrac narrowed his eyes, "I highly doubt women with coin would be willing to purchase my services."

"With respect, Centurion, you're limiting yourself to 50% of the population," The Optio chided jokingly

Optio Sixtus. Cold. Logical. And somehow, the milk-weaned prick still manages to be clever.

He was fiercely loyal. He was the fiercest enemy of any exercise he deemed wasteful. And as such, he fiercely defended his opinions, supporting them with both verbal wit and martial competence.

Sixtus was a perfect Optio. He'd make a better replacement Centurion when Cyrac finally retired.

The old Centurion always dreamed of owning a small plot of land. Either he'd live the rest of his days in an old shack or his Rhodoks would bury him beneath it.

Either way, he was certain he'd have no complaints.

"Sixtus," Cyrac addressed his Optio. The young professional had removed his armor and was scrubbing the dirt out of its sculpted muscles. "Tell me what you think of the youth with green hair."

"The Duplicarius? Zehr, I believe his name was. He's a damn good scout and he keeps to himself." Sixtus twirled the brush in his hand, turning and offering a smile, "And when he does speak, he does so with respect, confidence, and honesty. He's a perfect soldier-- I'd hire a whole century of him."

Cyrac tapped his finger on the table. He wished he could place his finger on what bothered him about the youth, "You don't find him... strange?"

"Everyone is strange," Sixtus shrugged, returning to his brushing, "Is there something especially strange about the Duplicarius?"

"It's the way he acted, I think... He's rejected the honors offered-- and from what Decanus Justus has said, it's probably mostly his doing that over half the Second Cohort survived..."

Cyrac scratched his beard in thought, "He knows rank, too. He called me Pilus Prior and Centurion..."

"--Which is the way you prefer it."

Cyrac rolled his eyes, "Right."

Sixtus propped up his armor, nodding at his work, before searching through his sack for a rag and some polish, "As far as skill is concerned, he's likely an old veteran. As for rejecting the honors, there must be a reason for trying to keep his head down... Perhaps he's wanted for murder? Or desertion?"

"Hah. Perhaps..." Cyrac mulled over the thought, "But the youth is no coward-- not by Justus' account. And there was him not flinching when I ordered him lashed."

"Right..." The Optio responded, still focused more on his work than the conversation. "Maybe he's innocent from whatever he's running from. It wouldn't be the first time a political play saw an Immunes discharged from the military."

Sixtus polished his armor to a professional sheen, glowing in the lamplight, "Hm. There was one thing I found odd... The young Duplicarius had rather... unique eyes."

Cyrac frowned, "Elf blood or something-- shite, that's probably why he looks so young. We're not like the Tyrion military, proper. Out here in the field, we don't give a snake's arse about how he looks or who his mummy and daddy are-- just whether or not he can complete a mission"

"Cyrac, please." Sixtus narrowed his eyes, "I am of the same mind. I merely mention it as a theory to explain the Duplicarius' apprehension. We both know that our nation's sentiments tend to be... unkind towards those with outsider blood."

The old Centurion nodded, "Right..."

"Allow me to ask a question of you, old friend."

Sixtus tilted his head down and raised an eyebrow, "Do *you* trust him, Centurion Cyrac?"

Cyrac scoffed, "Seven hells, I trust that one more than all the Decani of the Second Cohort combined."

The old Centurion felt his forehead creasing as he pursed his lips. How quickly his own answer allayed his fears.

Sixtus held his abdomen as he guffawed unapologetically.

It was ridiculous. Even Cyrac had to laugh at his own folly.

The peculiarities of the young Duplicarius didn't matter. The Rhodoks were all in this shite situation together.

...

Tycondrius had told Justus there was trouble he needed assistance with.

The young Decanus responded with a look of shock, followed shortly by sheer terror.

Tycon narrowed his eyes. He feared the young man was going to relieve his bowels on the spot.

"What? No. I killed two deer on the way here and I need help carrying it back."

He was in a hurry. The meat was strung up on a tree outside of the village walls, ripe for a hungry wolf or stray Iredar to chance upon.

Justus' doe eyes grew wide as eggs, "You did what? H-how did you carry them this far?"

Tycon felt his lips twitch, as he stopped and stared, ""I... dragged them. I pray you're aware that it is easier to drag heavy items than it is to carry them."

Admittedly, that was a good question. Tycon's Iron-Rank physique allowed him to carry his prizes back with ease.

Tycon was hiding his rank, something he doubted that Justus had gleaned. The young Decanus was somewhat of an idiot.

Justus laughed in embarrassment, "Oh, right, haha... Yeah, that makes sense."

One of the Munifices offered an apologetic smile, "H-heyyyy... Uhhhh... Duplicarius? Maybe the two of us can help out and... maybe join you for a meal?"

"What?" Tycon squeezed his eyes into thin slits, "No. You bastards nearly got me lashed. Sod off."