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and barren place, the night before a distant memory. Conlan had learnt over the years that caution was the watchword when drinking with fellow soldiers. They were heavy drinkers at the best of times, but since the battle of Sothlind the remnants of the Third legion had entered into a frenzy of overindulgence. It was as if the very act of survival had reinforced each individual legionary’s sense of mortality, and now they fell upon life with a passion that only existed for those who had come close to losing it.
    “You know this really is an honour, boss,” said Jonas, perky as ever despite drinking enough the night before to enfeeble and ox.
    “Yes,” Conlan replied, his voice sounding dull to his own ears. “I feel very special.”
    Jonas clapped him on the back. “No need to be sarcastic, right?” He gestured ahead to where Proctor Villius led the way through the bustling street. “Not every day that you get to buy some new clothes, is it? Such a noble escort as well.”
    Conlan chuckled, his head throbbing again as he did. Up ahead, Danus Villius strode through the crowd with solemn grace, as if every step was planned and deliberate. “Is it me or does he walk a bit like General Martius?” Conlan sidestepped a burly man who bore a cask over his shoulder.
    Jonas smiled, “Walks, talks… shits for all I know. Reckon he’s got a serious case of Martius worship.”
    “Can’t argue with that.” I would have been the same not that long ago , Conlan thought.
    “Cabbages!” a stallholder shouted in Conlan’s ear as he walked by. “Fresh picked cabbages!”
    It was market day and all down the street people were setting up stalls and bustling around in preparation for a hard day hawking their produce.
    “You ever think about applying to do a stint as a proctor?” Jonas asked. “Reckon it’d be pretty interesting to see how command works.”
    Conlan shook his head. “Why would I want to do that? You still have to do front line duty even after you’ve spent three years pandering to the needs of some general or legion father. Can’t see the advantage, unless you’re desperate to lead; but even then you have to win the vote, and you know what the boys are like with the posh lads.”
    “You reckon he’s one of them, do you?”
    Conlan studied Villius. The man was impeccably turned out, his uniform spotless. His blue cloak shimmered in the morning light, probably woven with silk and cotton rather than the wool of the common soldier. “I reckon his parents are probably connected. Up and comers, maybe; either that or minor nobility. Must be pretty influential to land the job. Most men would kill to be proctor to the primus general.”
    “Yeah. Either that or he’s good at his job.” Jonas reached out and grabbed an apple from a stall as they passed, casually spinning it up into the air and catching it.
    “Hey, you! What d’ya think you’re doing?” the stallholder, a short, stocky woman with florid cheeks and thinning black hair, shouted after him.
    Jonas spun around to face her. “Surely you wouldn’t begrudge a veteran a bit of breakfast, madam?” He flashed a dazzling smile.
    The stallholder held out a hand, the other resting on an ample hip. “Not if ya pay for it,” she said, giving Jonas a scathing look.
    Jonas laughed and reached into his purse. “How could I resist when you ask so nicely?” He withdrew a tiny copper coin and casually tossed it toward the stallholder, who caught it with surprising grace.
    “Ah,” the woman waved a hand dismissively, “be off with ya, scoundrel!” A small smile lit her face.  
    At the end of the street, they turned left. Leaving behind the bustling market street, they began a gradual climb.
    “Where do you think he’s taking us?” said Conlan. He had expected them to head straight for the legionary armourers’ works, but they were heading in the opposite direction.
    “Reckon we’re going to Bezel square.” Jonas took a huge bite from his apple.