The garrison had been kind enough to put Marcus up for the night, and feed him in the bargain. He did not sleep well. He was alternately too warm and too cold, and he was plagued by half-formed dreams, dreams where his brother was calling him from across an empty, formless void. Some time in the early morning, he woke and wondered if he should perform the ceremonies for the dead. He could say the prayers, burn the incense, even make the offerings of lentils and eggs to his brother's soul, paltry and insignificant as such things seemed. But there had been a funeral already, and even if their hadn't been, those were not Marcus' duties to do; it was for his father, or for Gaius' son, to make the first offerings. Marcus could not take that away from them, no matter what Gaius' soul might hunger for in the afterlife. Marcus rolled over, and fell again into the fitful dreams.
In the morning, Marcus sat at one of the long refectory tables, the urn cradled in his arms, as the hungry soldiers around him blurred and seemed to merge together. There was bread drizzled with honey produced by the bees that flew lazily around the garrison courtyard. There was watered wine, and mushy, year-old apples, but Marcus ate mechanically, hardly noticing the food. He did not look up when a young soldier sat down across from him.
“Uh, clerk?” The young man tentatively asked.
Marcus continued to rhythmically chew his apple, and the young man tried again.
“Clerk, sir, you – you're Gaius' brother, right?”
Marcus set the apple down on the smooth, worn surface of the table. He sighed. “Yeah.”
“I knew him,” the young man said. “I liked him.”
For a long time, there was silence.
Eventually, the young soldier spoke again, saying, “He would have wanted someone to follow up on this.”
He pushed a folded sheet of mulberry-paper into Marcus' hands, then stood up and walked away.
Marcus finished his apple and set the core down on the table. He watched as the breakfasting troops finished their meal and poured out into the autumnal sunshine. He put his finger into the sticky trail left by a forgotten drop of honey, then licked his finger, then grimaced. Only then did he unfold the sheet of paper.
Marcus was disappointed. It wasn't a letter from Gaius, or orders, or anything useful. It was just a sheet of paper with some words in Estavacan scrawled on it. They words weren't even in his brother's writing. He balled the sheet of paper up and stuffed it into the pouch at his belt, forgetting about it almost immediately.
And with that, Marcus walked slowly towards the gate. He considered stowing the urn in his saddlebags, but instead tied it to his back like Mulberry often tied the baby to hers. Mounting his horse, he rode off, stone-faced. He wanted, perhaps, to howl, to scream at the sky of the injustice done to his brother, his brother who had been kind and strong and capable, who had loved his family and his people, and who had been so very honourable. Marcus did not howl. He did not even cry. He only rode away, in silence. He did not notice the pair of black birds that wheeled overhead.