by Cass Morris
“They are close enough! What if a scouting party managed to slip out of the gates? What if their reinforcements have arrived faster than we expected?”
“Then I expect they will have greater things on their minds than a few humble women passing through the forest.” Neitin’s chin was held stubbornly high.
She felt, rather than saw, Reilin’s scowl. “And I do not like that you have left your husband out of this decision. He ought to know, ought to be here—”
Neitin cut her off with a derisive snort. “When has the naming of babes ever been the province of their fathers?”
Reilin swatted at a branch that had the nerve to brush against her. “Your child’s father is no normal man.”
Cheeks burning with irritation, Neitin stomped on. Erregerra her husband might be, god-chosen, but not a god himself. This near-worship of him that had afflicted so many of the Lusetani aggravated her. ‘I loved him when he was just a handsome young warrior,’ Neitin thought. ‘Would that he had never been more than that.’
When they reached the riverbank, two figures already waited for them on the shore: one, the bearded form of Neitin’s uncle Otiger. Neitin’s own mother could not be there, but some of their family ought to be, so she had brought Reilin along, disapproving wench though she was, and she had begged the presence of her mother’s brother. Along with him was the midwife who had helped Neitin to bring her son into the world. She had a right to witness his naming.
And there, too, was Sakarbik, the Cossetan magic-woman whom Neitin had claimed and given protection. Reilin’s lips pressed into a thin line when she saw the dark-headed woman, but she held her tongue. Sakarbik had pledged herself to the boy’s protection; she ought to be there for his naming.
There was a ritual for this, but not one guided by any magic-man or magic-woman. Otiger and Sakarbik alike would only observe. This was simpler stuff, the right of any mother. Neitin had earned the authority for this through blood and tears, and no one could gainsay that. It was the privilege of every Lusetanian who had given birth, reaching back through the centuries.
She stripped the swaddling clothes off of her son and stepped out of her doeskin slippers. As she waded into the shallow water at the river’s edge, she felt a rush of gratitude that she had waited till midsummer for this naming; the process would have been unpleasant in the months immediately following the birth. Clutched to her breast, the boy wriggled and squawked. Recently, Neitin had begun to feel that he was trying to communicate with her. Words would be a long way off yet, of course, but his coos, burbles, and babbles seemed to carry a great deal of emotion. His little fist grabbed onto a lock of Neitin’s chestnut hair as she waded knee-deep into the cool, gently running water. He wanted to touch everything these days; Neitin had had to stop wearing the gold hoop earrings that had been a wedding gift from Ekialde.
A few more months, and he would be crawling, then walking. ‘Please, let the time not pass too swiftly . . .’ Neitin had brothers, back in the village that was her home. She remembered how soon they had left her mother’s side, how early swords and slings had been placed in their hands. ‘Not my son. Please, not mine.’
It was a perfect day for the ritual. Oppressively hot, true, but Neitin took comfort in the bright glare of the sun overhead. Beyond the boughs of the trees, bobbing softly in the breeze, the sky was a pristine blue, unblemished by even the suggestion of a cloud. If Nabia was ever listening to her daughters, surely, her ears would be open on such a day.
“Gods of my people,” Neitin said, as her son continued to chatter nonsensically, “I have passed through the gates of motherhood. I have paid the coin of blood.” Her lips twitched slightly even as she said the words. Once, they had seemed innocuous. Her mother had warned her that women’s lives were about blood, from green girlhood to the grave. But now, with the perverted use that Bailar made of that which gave life—
She shook her head. Here was no place for such intrusions. What mattered here, now, was the blood of life, not the blood of death.
“I bear my child in my arms,” she continued, “and I would introduce him to you.”
Closing her eyes briefly, Neitin took a moment to enjoy the feel of the natural world around her: the breeze that provided intermittent relief from the heat, the twittering of birds and the snap and flutter of leaves as they bounced from branch to branch, the low rumble of the brook as its waters rolled over rocks and logs. ‘Someday, my son, we will follow this river to its source. I will show you the Endless Ocean and the city of Olissippo.’ Her mother’s village was a little way upriver from that port. Neitin had visited, twice, in the company of her father and brothers, but it had always frightened her, so many people and so much noise. Perhaps her son would like it, though.
“As mother of this child,” Neitin said, holding him up to the sun, “I name him: Matigentis.” The root of the name meant “goodness.” Neitin hoped it would be enough to protect him from the perfidies of the environment he had been born into. “I beg of you, gods who surround us, hear his name and know his face. Endovelicos, protect him as the sun rises and sets and rises again. Nabia, let him always find peace in your waters. Trebarunu, let him always find his way home.” She swallowed over a lump in her throat before she made her final plea. “Bandue, look away from him, forget the sight of his face, let him never answer the call to your banner.”
She wasn’t looking at the others, but she felt their gazes on her in that moment. ‘Well. Let them be scandalized. I will not give my son over to this madness, not if anything can be done to prevent it.’
Matigentis’s chubby legs waved in the air, and his head flopped to one side, his pale brown eyes searching for his mother. Neitin drew him back down to her chest as an anxious whimper started up. He quieted quickly, even as Neitin knelt down, slowly so as to keep her balance. The cool water soaked her tunic to the waist and her knees rubbed against the uneven riverbed. She brought Mati down to the surface of the water, just enough so that it wetted his back and legs. “He is yours to protect, Nabia,” she whispered. These words were not part of the ritual, but Neitin felt them important to say. “Look after him well.”
* * *
Central Iberia
Marching through shrubland with little tree cover had become a nuisance, and the men of the Tenth and the Fourteenth grumbled as they went along. The men of the Eighth, however, fresh from the rain-soaked hinterlands of Vendelicia, almost seemed to be enjoying it. “Damned hot,” General Onidius commented. “But at least it’s dry!”
Lack of water was rarely a boon to an army, however. The Aventans had few maps of the Iberian interior, but Sempronius knew what direction to head, and they had the stars to guide them. Unknown to anyone else, Sempronius was also using one of his gods-given blessings to find his way to the northernmost tributaries of the Tagus River.
Shadow ran strongest in him, but he had enough Water that, if he focused, he could always find water when he needed it. The talent had been of use to him during his tribunate campaigns in Numidia, and he found it valuable again now. Over such a great distance, the thread was thin, and concentrating on it gave him a headache—but by the summer solstice, his magical instincts led the legions to the Henarus River. This, he knew from the reports that Gaius Vitellius had sent to the Senate the year before, was the path that the vexillation had taken.
Here, the depredations of the rebel tribes were evident. The legions passed fields that should have been green with crops, orchards that should have been budding with fruit—dead, scorched, barren. ‘Wasteful.’ Sempronius knew the strategy behind such tactics, but still, something inside him revolted at the squandering of good food.
Each morning, before the legions had fully broken camp, Sempronius sent cavalry detachments out scouting, with instructions to look for allies and enemies alike. Two days past the solstice, one such expedition paid off. Autronius Felix came galloping back to Sempronius at the head of his kno
t of scouts. “There’s a town not far ahead,” he reported, “and it looks friendly. We’re in Arevaci territory now, or so our man from Tarraco says.”
Sempronius nodded. The Arevaci had featured prominently in Young Vitellius’s dispatches. “Show us the way, then.”
* * *
The town, which Sempronius learned was called Segontia, was the largest they had encountered since leaving Nedhena. Still small by Truscan standards, it nonetheless boasted a solid—and apparently newly reinforced—border fence, as well as signs of prosperity like fresh paint and decorative door-ornaments. The town guards had been alerted that the legions would be approaching, but still went wide-eyed when they saw the massive troop movement.
“Set the men to making camp,” Sempronius instructed his tribunes as he dismounted outside the town’s walls. “It’s early yet, but we may as well spend a night here while we get the lay of the land. Felix, you’re with me.”
Quick conference with the town guards confirmed what Sempronius had pieced together from Vitellius’s letters: Segontia was an Arevaci stronghold and, usually, one of its largest population centers. Now, however, it was a town of women, children, and the elderly, left with only enough of a garrison to fend off the Vettoni raiding parties. The bulk of their fighters, along with their chieftain and his wife, had gone south with the Aventan vexillation. “If you can crush the Lusetani and the Vettoni,” one of the guards said in Tyrian, the only language they had enough of in common for conversation, “then do so, swiftly.”
“I assure you,” Sempronius replied, “that is my intention.”
“Sir!” Onidius Praectus, rushing up from the gate. “Riders approaching!”
In a flash, Sempronius broke into a run toward the half-constructed camp. “Find Felix, tell him to get the pikes ready. Have the centurions sound the alarm—”
But the town’s guard was at his heels. “Sir, I—Yes! I recognize that banner.” Then he laughed. “And I recognize the riders, I believe! These are our people!” A slight frown overtook the joy of recognition. “But . . . not all of them.”
“You’re certain?” Sempronius asked.
“Yes, General. Those are Arevaci riders, no threat to you. I just don’t understand . . .”
As his voice trailed off, Sempronius looked back to Onidius. “We don’t need to sound an alarm, then, but have the centurions stand ready, in case our Arevaci friends here are fleeing from something.” He shielded his eyes with one hand, peering at the riders as they drew closer.
It was a small party, as such things went: perhaps twenty riders. At their head was an unexpected sight: a tall woman whose skin was a far deeper brown than that of the Iberians who surrounded her, with her hair worn in a series of little knots all across her skull. Sempronius recognized the style, as would any of the officers and legionaries who had served in Numidia: men and women alike favored that style in the area near Cirte, the trading post which had served as Aven’s main base during the wars of the previous decade. She was dressed, though, in Iberian style—and as she came closer, Sempronius saw that her tunic was shorter than most women would wear it, exposing long, muscular limbs.
She dismounted unceremoniously but with a lithe grace, before her horse had even come to a complete stop. One of the girls riding at her side caught the beast’s reins. Her eyes flicked over the assembly briefly before she made straight toward Sempronius. She knew enough of Aventans, then, to identify the ranking officer.
Sempronius inclined his head respectfully as she approached, and she returned the gesture with brisk efficiency. “You must, I think, be General Sempronius Tarren.”
“I am, honored lady,” Sempronius said, and watched as relief drew some of the tension out of her shoulders.
“I am Hanath, wife of Bartasco, leader of the Arevaci.” Sempronius recognized the names; Vitellius had mentioned both in his letters. “We have been besieged in Toletum with Tribune Gaius Vitellius. Thank the gods you are here.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Sempronius saw that his command tent was still in the process of being erected. “It will be a little while before I can offer you shade and a place to sit, madam,” he said, “but will you take some water and speak with me?”
She nodded briskly, then jerked her head toward the town. “May I lead you to my home?”
“I would be honored.”
Corvinus, anticipating their needs, was already on hand with two skeins of water. Hanath took a long, deep quaff from hers, then dribbled a bit of the water over her face and the top of her head. “Forgive me, General,” she said. “We have ridden hard.”
“There is no need to explain,” Sempronius said, gesturing at his own dusty clothing. “We’re barely off the road ourselves.” They started down the central street, Hanath marching purposefully and Sempronius lengthening his own stride to keep pace. Corvinus and one of the women who had ridden at Hanath’s side fell into line behind them. “Tell me the news from Toletum.”
“None good,” she said. “The city is not starving yet, but the threat is there—and I worry for the winter, since they have not been able to plant.”
There would be a need, then, to bring food up from the coast, once the city was recaptured. Sempronius made a mental note to tell his quartermaster to start working out a preliminary plan, to be adjusted once they saw just how bad the devastation of Toletum’s farmland was—and how many citizens were left alive to be fed.
“We have been harried in a fashion that beggars belief,” Hanath continued. “What the Lusetani are doing—dire magic is involved, General. And I worry it will get worse.”
“Tribune Vitellius mentioned as much in his early letters, but we’ve had nothing from him in some time. Is he well?”
A slight smile touched Hanath’s lips, lightening the severity of her expression. “He was when I left him, General. A good man, that. He has done honor to your people.”
“His family will be glad to know of it.”
“Here!” Hanath gestured to a house, one of the largest buildings lining the central square of Segontia. “Still standing, I see!” She tried the door, found it barred, and gave a barking laugh. “Glad to see my people have not been lax in securing the place.” Raising a fist, she pounded hard, three times, on the door. “But if no one is home, we may as well have waited for your tent to be raised!” She turned, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe and folding her arms over her chest.
Sempronius could see now how well-toned her muscles were: he would not have mistaken her for a woman of indolence at first glance, but now he realized that she was a warrior indeed. A quick glance at the bow-wielding girl behind Hanath confirmed that she, too, was familiar with the arts of Mars. ‘Or Bandue, I suppose.’ It was not as usual a practice among the Iberians as among the Tennic tribes north of Maritima and Albina, but it was no transgression, as it would have been in Aven or Athaecum.
“How many men have you here?” Hanath asked.
“Three legions,” Sempronius answered. “Minus the cohorts of the Eighth that are already in Toletum. Near fourteen thousand fighting men, in all. More, if the legions from Gades join us.” He did not mention how little faith he put in Rabirus’s leadership to make any sort of difference in the tides of war. “Six hundred horse of our own. We had Lacetani cavalry with us until recently, and we were hoping to pick up some Edetani and Arevaci horse now that we’re in your territory.”
Hanath’s eyes closed briefly, as if in prayer. “Fourteen thousand, plus horse. Yes. That should be enough.” She rubbed her thumb over her fingertips. “Ekialde’s numbers are difficult to ascertain. I do not believe we have ever seen the full force gathered. Even now, he holds the siege with his own Lusetani, but sends his allies out raiding. Sometimes they don’t come back. Sometimes, they come back with new recruits. The allied tribes have less loyalty to him.”
Sempronius filed that useful fact away. He had already seen
what havoc the Vettoni were wreaking, and he had heard similar stories from other regions. A strong show of force from Aven might be enough to make those allies question if continuing to stand by the Lusetani was really worth it.
“I would estimate his full power to be at ten thousand men, but—” Hanath gestured broadly. “It could be as many as twenty, if he were able to assemble them all at the same time. If every supposed ally answered his call.”
“Still no major challenge for three Aventan legions,” Sempronius said. The numbers were not dissimilar to those they had faced in Numidia. “But the real trouble, we are given to understand—”
“Is not only from their blades,” Hanath finished. “Yes, I will tell you all, incredible though it will seem.”
Sempronius risked a small smile. “You may find, Lady Hanath, that I am capable of believing all manner of improbable things.”
She snorted. “Good. We may all survive the longer for it.” She glanced back at her attendant. “We have letters, by the way. Some are for you, General, but others should be sent back to Aven.”
Sempronius nodded. “We shall send them immediately.”
“The roads have stayed open that far?” Hanath asked, with an inquiringly arched eyebrow.
“I have other means,” Sempronius said. “Birds, directed by one of our mages.”
Hanath’s liquid brown eyes opened wide. “Magnificent! It has been many years since I have seen such. I am glad you have them at your disposal. Perhaps we are not so alone as we have feared.”
“Lady Hanath,” Sempronius said, fixing her with his gaze, “the allies of Aven will never be abandoned. I pledge this to you on the spirits of my ancestors and on the duty I owe my gods.” Then he let his expression soften a bit. “Though I do apologize that we have not been swifter in reaching your side.”
Another snort. “General, as you might have guessed,” Hanath gestured at herself, “I am not from Iberia. I grew up in Cirte. I have faith in Aven’s duties to her allies and client states—but I also know something of how your people work. My father always said if there were six Aventans in a room, there were seven opinions.”