Dishonourable soldier

The news arrived with the morning light, whispered among the soldiers in hushed, disbelieving tones. Porcius, once hailed as a promising leader and favoured son of Decimus, had fled during a critical battle. His retreat left his men without command, and the enemy seized the moment to surround and slaughter them. It was a devastating blow, not only to the legion’s morale but to Porcius’s name. Syrus is in the training yard when he hears the murmurs. Disdain, curiosity, and a trace of schadenfreude tinge the whispers. Though not aimed at him, he feels their weight. Porcius disgraced, but his blood ties him to Syrus all the same.

A creak from the villa’s door draws his attention. Tiberius steps into the yard, his steady presence reminding Syrus of all he has learned under the man’s guidance. Tiberius’s face stays calm, though a thoughtful cast softens his sharp features. He moves toward Syrus, hands folded behind his back.

“Syrus,” Tiberius begins, voice carrying the tone of a mentor addressing a favoured pupil. “Walk with me.”

Setting aside his practice sword, Syrus follows without hesitation. He falls in step next to the General, the morning air brushing their faces as they head toward the villa.

Tiberius speaks at last. “I assume you’ve heard the news about Porcius.”

Syrus’s jaw tightens. “He fled. He left his men to die.”

Tiberius glances at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not,” Syrus says evenly. “He’s always been selfish. He relied on his name and rank, thinking it would shield him. This was inevitable.”

Tiberius nods in agreement, his focus still straight ahead. “It was. Cowardice in battle is inexcusable, and Porcius will face the consequences. Still, I felt you should hear it from me.”

Syrus studies the General’s profile, bracing for a lesson or criticism. “I feel no pity for him,” Syrus admits. “He made his choice, and his men paid the price.”

Tiberius’s expression becomes thoughtful. “Nor should you pity him. Pity isn’t the same as understanding, and in this case, there is little to understand. Porcius acted out of weakness, and weakness in command costs lives.”

Syrus braces for more, but Tiberius sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You’ve shown, time and again, that you are nothing like him. You should be proud of that.”

Syrus blinks, not expecting such direct praise. He’s spent so long proving himself, to Tiberius, to Annabeth, to Alexandros and to himself. Hearing these words feels strange. “Come,” Tiberius says with a rare smile, releasing his shoulder. “There’s something waiting for you inside.”

They cross the villa’s outer courtyard, bathed in the bright light of sol. Warmth softens the sharp lines of columns and statues along the way. Tiberius’s steps are deliberate, his gaze distant, as if deep in thought. Syrus trails him, curiosity piqued.

“You’ve impressed me, boy,” Tiberius says, breaking the silence. “When I first brought you under my wing, I hoped the rumours were true, that having a monster in our ranks would strike fear into our enemies.”

Syrus doesn’t flinch, even as the words echo a suspicion he’s held for years. “I am sorry to disappoint,” he replies lightly, half-teasing.

Tiberius lets out a soft chuckle but then coughs, holding up a hand to stop Syrus from helping him. After a moment, he recovers. “It’s all right. I realised long ago they were wrong. There is no monster. Instead, I found a mind sharper than any blade, a tactician Rome should claim with pride.”

Syrus inclines his head in acknowledgment, though his attention drifts when Tiberius looks to a garden beyond.

Through the stone archways, Syrus sees a white marble statue catching in the light. It’s a figure of a woman, her features serene; her gaze lifted as if to the heavens. Syrus stops, drawn to the delicate folds of her robe and the quiet strength in her stance, an echo of Rome’s ideals, grace woven with resolve.

Tiberius’s voice gentles. “That was my wife. Annabeth’s mother. She had it made before she passed, a gift, though I suspect she knew it would serve our daughter more than me.”

Syrus’s chest tightens as he stares at the statue, noticing something familiar in the upturned tilt of its head. The subtle defiance mirrors Annabeth’s determined spirit.

“She was strong, like Annabeth,” Tiberius goes on, voice holding a rare warmth. “But strength alone doesn’t protect those we love. It must be met with purpose.”

Syrus remains silent, the faint scent of winter blooms mixing with the crisp air. He feels a weight settle over him, this statue is more than a memorial. It’s a testament to what Tiberius hopes to preserve.

Tiberius’s tone grows reflective. “When I saw you and Annabeth together…” He trails off, eyes softening. “She is all I have left of her mother. I want her to be happy.” He turns fully to Syrus, expression grave. “I want you to marry my daughter.”

The words strike Syrus like a physical blow. His heart clenches, breath catching in his throat. “Marry?” he echoes.

Tiberius misreads his shock, eyes narrowing. “Is there a problem?” he demands.

Syrus swallows hard, fighting to steady himself. “No,” he answers, shaking his head. “Just… surprised. I never thought you would entrust her to me. I assumed you’d choose someone else.”

Tiberius studies him for a moment, then sighs. “I did once. We arranged a union when she was young. But you came along and stole her heart. I see it in how she looks at you, and more importantly, how you look at her.”

Syrus struggles to speak, voice low. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Say that you’ll protect her,” Tiberius insists. “That you will never falter.”

Syrus meets the older man’s gaze, resolve flaring in his hazel eyes. “I swear it, Dominus. On my life.”

Tiberius nods, features relaxing as he claps Syrus’s shoulder. “Good. Let us enjoy this day before the gods take it from us.”

They enter the main hall, and Syrus halts in his tracks. The room buzzes with light and laughter, familiar faces turning to greet him with warm smiles. A table overflows with food and wine, its centrepiece a small honey cake adorned with figs and dates. Alexandros stands at one end, arms crossed, a proud grin on his worn face. At the table stands Annabeth, her emerald eyes brightening as she notices him.

“Happy birthday, Syrus!” the crowd cheers in unison.

He feels his chest tighten, heart hammering as he takes in the sight. He has never celebrated his birthday with others. It was either alone or with Annabeth and Alexandros, but yet here he is. Surrounded by those who care, the burden of the past feels a little lighter.

Annabeth crosses to him, smile radiant as she reaches for his hand. “Everyone couldn’t let your day go unnoticed,” she says softly, teasing. “Even if you’d rather hide in the training yard.”

Syrus chuckles, though his voice trembles with emotion. “I don’t deserve this.”

“Nonsense,” Alexandros interjects, stepping forward with his usual gruff warmth. “You’ve earned every bit of it. Stop sulking and enjoy yourself.”

Syrus can’t help but smile back, truly smile, as he squeezes Annabeth’s hand. He glances at Tiberius, who nods in approval. For the first time in years, Syrus allows himself to embrace the joy of this day, even as a part of him still wrestles with the doubt. In this moment, at least, he dares to believe his life could be more than a curse, it might be worth celebrating.