by AM Kirkby
***
After the Curia, there had been things to arrange: logistics, commands, assembly points, interim administration while he was with the army. Servius had done this so many times, and every time he'd come back determined to make the process automatic next time; to have deputies already in place, to have lists of provisions drawn up and ready, to have each century know exactly where to assemble, and its order in the march. But over his long experience, however many holes you plugged, chaos poured in from fresh ones; so though he was supposed to have all his commanders ready and waiting, Tarquin was missing, and neither of his under-officers could be found, and although the men were supposed to carry most of their own provisions and all their own armour, there were seven loads of wheat and dried goods that were supposed to be sent out from the Janiculum gate, but only six had arrived. A strategic move seemed so simple, like pushing counters forwards on a board, but it was only in the moment of decision that one felt that certainty; and immediately after, the world contracted down to finding sacks of grain, mislaid weapons and lost horses, tracking down the drunks and the gone-on-leaves and the late risers.
As so often these days, he felt worn out by the performance, as if he himself had become paper-thin, and his shadow had sucked the life out of him; as evening approaches, he thought, all men grow shorter, and their shadows longer. He longed for the privacy of his rooms on the Palatine; it was a relief when he finished the dispositions, arrangements, directions, dispensations, distributions, and could make his way back, to a shady room where he could bar the door for a few hours on the man these people needed him to be. He'd sent half his lictors off on errands; from twelve down to six. He'd sent Gnaeus and Mamarke off, Mamarke who had looked shocked, who clearly didn't relish the thought of fighting his own countrymen; he'd put Mamarke in charge of the baggage, that should keep him out of trouble. Another complication he didn't need.
He walked between the two rows of lictors, and felt more their prisoner than their king. He put the mask of ceremony on his face, feeling the stern lines carving their way into his flesh. And suddenly he thought of that boy who came the first time to the general's house, and wondered; what would he make of all this? He could feel the springtime breeze of Velzna, hear the horses moving restlessly in the stable; he saw his mother turn away, and felt the deep sadness of the abandoned. A lictor said something to him, but he didn't hear it.
Then, suddenly, everything was noise, and movement, and he was being shoved violently to one side, and he saw a chariot swerving, coming straight for him, like Vanth riding out of her hell with her hair flying and her hounds off the leash.