by Cass Morris
Once he had changed into a fresh tunic, Rabirus opened the flaps of his tent. Only a moment later, the lanky senior tribune of the Fourth Legion entered, saluted, and awaited Rabirus’s acknowledgment. Rabirus was not too swift with it; it was always best that military inferiors believed you had matters of great consequence on your mind, so Rabirus shifted a few papers on his desk before saying, “At ease, tribune.”
“Sir.”
The man in question was Cominius Pavo, the son of one of Dictator Ocella’s advisers. The elder Cominius had not kept himself in favor, and Ocella had eventually had him executed, but the younger members of the family had been obsequious enough to spare themselves. Cominius Pavo had served his first campaign in Phrygia and earned a reputation as a dependable officer. Rabirus hoped that dependability would translate into loyalty. “What news?”
“Letters from Corduba, sir,” Pavo said. Then his throat worked. “And, ah, from Praetor Sempronius.”
Rabirus scowled. He’d had a spate of messages waiting for him when he arrived in Gades. All were addressed to him, not to Governor Fimbrianus, even though Sempronius knew damn good and well that Rabirus had not left Aven until spring. An irritating, presumptuous reproach. Each one indicated that a copy had been sent to the Senate in Aven as well, and most of it was damned tedious. Since entering Iberia, Sempronius had detailed every troop movement and skirmish in exacting specification—or so it was meant to seem. Rabirus suspected embellishment. Surely the Eighth, Tenth, and Fourteenth legions had not been so beleaguered as their general claimed.
“Tell me, then,” Rabirus said, waving a hand irritably as he settled himself into his chair. “But don’t read the damn thing out loud. My head aches already without having to suffer through General Sempronius’s overblown rhetoric.”
Pavo nodded, broke the seal on the letter, and scanned it a moment before speaking. “He wishes to advise you—and the Senate—of the magical situation, as it seems to stand, with the Iberians.”
Rabirus sat forward in spite of himself; he had felt sure the rumors of dark blood magic were exaggerations, fabrications that the Vitellian boy had spun in order to support the Senate’s move toward war. What he had heard in Gades, though, had him wondering what the truth was. Not that he thought truth was what he was likely to hear from Sempronius Tarren.
“He . . . he says he has encountered the Lusetani and their allies in battle several times since the start of summer. His progress from Tarraco to Segontia went reasonably well, but from Segontia to Toletum, his legions were slowed by . . . strange and mystical encounters.” Pavo’s face expressed a minor war of its own, not sure whether to believe the words he spoke. “The Lusetani are summoning spirits, similar to what we would call lemures. They have what he describes as a draining effect on the troops. A mist descends that muddles their minds and saps them of strength.”
That followed the stories that Fimbrianus had told him back in Gades, but Rabirus gave no physical sign of acknowledgment. “What else?”
Pavo’s eyes skipped down the paper. “There’s a great deal of detail on the spirits, sir. You may wish to see for yourself . . .” But at Rabirus’s pointedly unmoved expression, Pavo cleared his throat and continued. “He has made his way within a few miles of Toletum, but cannot reach the city. The barbarians—mostly Lusetani, he says, though some Vettoni are filling out their ranks as well—have effectively blocked the only land approach.”
Rabirus’s lip curled. “Then he’s not the military man he claims to be. The fool should have the capacity to break a siege, particularly one engaged by barbarians who hardly know what to do with a wall when they encounter it.”
“He . . . acknowledges that.” The tribune’s eyebrows furrowed. “He details two main difficulties: the infrequency of communication with the garrison in Toletum, and further magical interference.”
An inelegant snort escaped Rabirus. “Likely story. Blame his incompetence on barbarian magic.”
“Something about their magic is hindering their approach. He has men working on finding a way to break it, he says, and scouts looking for an alternate approach. They used an Air mage to get a single message in and out of the city, but apparently there was some risk in doing so, and he cannot venture the birds regularly. He suggests that if we were to make our way to Toletum, we might be of assistance in approaching from across the river . . .” Seeing the expression clouding Rabirus’s face, Pavo trailed off.
“What news from Corduba?” Rabirus asked. Corduba was the largest inland settlement in Baelonia, another six days’ travel upriver. A mining town, with as muddled a population as every other settlement of notable size in Iberia. ‘Weakness on the Tyrians’ part,’ he thought, ‘not to have held themselves aloof from the locals. And further weakness on the Aventan traders who followed.’
Pavo shuffled the papers. “They beg for aid, sir, from their praetor. They are not besieged, like Toletum, but they are raided. Their workers are kidnapped as they go to the lead mines and stone quarries. The city council fears that the Lusetani are selling them as slaves, to their allies in the north and west.”
A troubling proposition, if any of those kidnapped were Aventans. If the captives were taken to the port town of Olissippo at the mouth of the Tagus, there was no telling where they might end up. The traders there had contacts all across the Middle Sea, and even northward to the western coast of Armorica and the wild isles beyond. What the Iberians did with their own people was their own business, but if they had dared to trade in Aventan flesh, that insult could not go unanswered—little though Rabirus wanted to be responsible for answering it.
The young tribune still hovering in front of him cleared his throat. “Sir, if I may . . . I would not want this to be taken as criticism of your strategy, merely as my duty to keep you informed of the mood and inclination of your troops.”
Instinctively, Rabirus’s eyes narrowed. Plucky initiative was not a characteristic he valued in a military subordinate. “Go on,” he said, with ice enough in his voice to counter the insufferable Iberian heat.
Pavo either didn’t notice or was determined enough to sally on anyway. “I am confident in your strategy to remain south of Praetor Sempronius’s fight,” he said. “With so many unknown variables, particularly. Until we know more, better to keep our distance and not endanger any more legions in what may be folly.”
Rabirus stared. “What a keen military mind you have, tribune,” he drawled. He was beginning to re-evaluate his hopes for the young man. What sort of tribune thought his senior officer needed his approval?
“Corduba, though, may have given us an advantageous opening,” Pavo went on, undeterred by Rabirus’s cool demeanor. “The men are eager for a fight. The men of the Fourth, mostly, more than any others. They feel the loss of their missing cohort. The prefect of the Fourth . . . Well, he’s not a man with your wisdom, sir. All he knows is that his men are fighting, somewhere, and he’s not a part of it. The rest of the legion takes their cue from him, you know. They would all rather be fighting. It is, after all, their job.”
“Their job,” Rabirus interjected, “is to obey my orders.”
“Indeed, sir, of course,” Pavo said, his cheeks coloring. “All I mean to say is . . . They would be grateful, sir, for orders that took them into battle. I think they’d like to feel of use. Clearing out the bandits from around Corduba, redeeming some citizens from captivity—well, that would be just the thing, sir. Without involving them in the Cantabrian campaign.”
“As it happens,” Rabirus said, “I had intended to check in with our friends in Corduba, after we reached Hispalis. That they have sent a message merely expedites matters.” He forced himself to smile. “I’m glad your instincts are so well-honed, tribune.”
Pavo’s face twitched with uncertainty, but he nodded. “Shall I make your intentions known to the prefects, sir?”
“No. There’s no need for them to look so m
any days down the line.” Rabirus wagged an admonishing finger in Pavo’s direction. “And you shouldn’t let them bully you into giving up the information. Your subordinates will trust in strength. If you scurry to answer their whims, they will not respect you.” He lifted his chin. “We’ll inform them once we’ve reached Hispalis. And then, yes. Let us find someone for them to fight.”
* * *
Camp of Legio X Equestris, Near Toletum
“In any other situation,” Sempronius said, rubbing at his forehead irritably, “this would be the end of the siege. We have the enemy pinned between town walls and an advancing army. Our forces far outnumber theirs. And yet we cannot touch them.”
Neither Felix, standing to his right, nor Corvinus, on his left, had anything to say. They had, as Quintilis waned into Sextilis, tried any number of stratagems, coordinating attacks between the three prongs of their force. Nothing had worked. One legion could advance, but another would have to retreat. Thus far, Sempronius had been correct, that the Lusetani magic-men could not field enough of their fiends to counter all three components of the Aventan forces at once. They were agile in their deployments, however, capable of shifting focus once their opponents were sufficiently overcome by perfidious magic, so that no legion could gain enough of a sustained advantage to press on through the forest.
It was small comfort that it seemed the only power capable of breaking the famous discipline of the Aventan legions was a phalanx of unholy spirits dredged from the netherworld.
Sempronius had faced magic in battle before. The Numidians used drums to invoke the warrior spirit into their armies, and the strongest of their mages could summon sandstorms, ideal for driving off a foe or covering a retreat. But such measures were temporary, and could be overcome. Too, Sempronius had read every military history there was to read in the libraries of Aven. He knew the stories of magic used in battle by cultures whose magic was governed differently than the elements used by the Aventans, Athaecans, and Tyrians. The enchanted arrows of the Scythians, the bard-mages of the Tennic tribes, the fearsome sorcerers of Parthia, all had their catalog. Yet even in those, there was nothing like this—nothing to halt an army in its tracks through spiritual force alone.
To be mired in unseen mud, unable to advance . . .
‘Maddening.’ Sempronius had never before encountered a problem that neither his mind nor his magic could find an answer to. ‘And I haven’t yet,’ he thought, setting his jaw stubbornly. ‘Just because I haven’t found the answer as of this morning doesn’t mean I never will.’
The most recent packet of letters from Aven had included one from the Lady Latona. Two, in fact; one was for her brother, should they ever reach the poor soul, but Sempronius was reluctant to risk sending Eustix’s birds across the Lusetani lines.
Latona’s words had been carefully chosen, as always, nothing that might get either of them in trouble were the missive intercepted. Sempronius’s Shadow magic could feel certain threads in them: the fear of discovery, the deceit of not saying quite what she meant, the mingling of frustrated hopes and painful worry. Modestly she accepted his praise for the magic in the focale she had woven; effusively she wrote all she could tell him of the protective effects of Fire magic. It had confirmed his guesses, in part, and given him some nuance to talk over with the sole Fire-forger attached to the Tenth Legion. The man was no weaver, of course, but he was going to try crafting some amulets. Sempronius had written to the magistrates of the coastal cities, too, to see if there were any Fire mages among their citizenry with the talent to do as Latona had done.
‘I hope, yet I doubt.’ Latona was extraordinary, more powerful than she knew. A less gifted mage might be able to re-create her efforts, with enough time, but time was a resource running ever shorter.
The letter had also turned his mind toward the one thing left he hadn’t tried. Had feared to try, if he were to be honest with himself. Summoning his gods-given gifts inside the commander’s tent veered too close to the edge of perhaps the one prohibition he had never yet flouted, the decree of Mars separating the affairs of war from those of magic. His whole life, Sempronius had defied man’s law. Defying a god—and one whose favor he needed—was another matter.
‘But would this flout Mars’s will? He commands there be no magic on the field of battle, and here, now, no such fight is engaged.’
He thought on it a long while, as he, Felix, and Corvinus watched the sun dip low, drenching the sky in bloody red light. Then, at last, he made up his mind. Boldness had ever been his friend.
“Felix,” Sempronius said, “go and see if there are any new messages from the other two camps, if you would.”
“Sir.” Felix jogged off after a perfunctory salute.
After he was out of earshot, Sempronius said to Corvinus, “Bring a bowl of water to my tent—the darkest bowl you can put your hands on.” Corvinus nodded, understanding. “And inform the guards that no one is to be allowed in or even near my tent. Tell them—tell them I am seeking counsel of the gods.” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, untrue. “I must not be disturbed, even at direst need, short of the Lusetani launching an assault on our ramparts. Anything less than that, they must take to Felix.”
“At once, Dominus.”
* * *
Sempronius stared down at the surface of the water. Corvinus had brought him a clay bowl painted black on the inside, making the liquid within as dark as possible. Still, he yearned for the flawless surface of his favorite tool, the obsidian mirror nestled in the base of a trunk back in his home in Aven. That was far too precious to risk on campaign, so he had to make do. Shadow was stronger in him than Water, but the talent for scrying was still in him—if more a challenge to access, without his preferred instrument.
A stiff breeze rustled his tent, brushing the fabric against the dusty earth. Beyond that, the muffled noises of the camp, laughter and grumbling and the clank of armor. Sempronius ignored it all. Dulling his senses did not come easily, not to a man so primed to notice the world around him and assess threats and opportunities alike, but slowly, he framed his mind to the purpose. The ambient sounds of the camp faded away. So too did the oppressive heat of the night, the humid air plastering his tunic to his skin, the flicker of the only lamp left lit.
“I call upon Pluto, Lord of the Underworld; I call upon Nox, Lady of Night; I call upon Neptune, Master of the Seas; I call upon Lympha, Reader of Souls.” He whispered his invocations, refusing to allow any hint of trepidation to enter his voice. However strange it felt, calling upon them in such circumstances, he had to steel himself to the task, or the gods would not heed his call. “Governors of Shadow and of Water, I, Vibius Sempronius Tarren, entreat you. Look here, gods; look here and answer me.”
Slowly, the magic rolled to him, out of the dark corners of his tent, up from the bowl of water before him. In it, Sempronius felt the touch of the gods’ hands, the weight upon his shoulders that had been with him since childhood. He knew what they wanted of him: to protect their people, their nation of Aven, and to put it on the course to a glorious destiny. So they had showed him before, many times, and one such vision had led him to Iberia. As they had shown him the way before, he had faith they would do so again.
“I am stymied,” he confessed. “I seek guidance, if I am to do your will in this land. Gods who have blessed me, show me the path I must take.”
The surface of the water rippled, as though it had been struck by a pebble. Then it clouded over, growing milky-white in delicate whorls. The gods were listening—but for long moments, it seemed as though they had nothing they wished to say. The very idea tightened Sempronius’s breath inside his chest. Frustration? Or panic? He didn’t care to examine the feeling too closely; he far preferred to push through it toward more productive energy.
“Please, blessed lords and ladies,” he said. “My soul is yours to command. I seek to satisfy your will in all things. My life is bent to your desire
. But against these fiends, I know not what power to call. Mars forbids our magic against theirs. Swords and shields are of no use.” He worked his jaw a moment. “If I cannot defeat them, then Aven’s glory dies here, in the Iberian dust. Our enemies will scent our blood and attack. Our allies will think us a painted banner with no strength behind it. Show me the way out of this net, and I swear to you, I shall make Aven the center of a federation of nations such as the world has never seen.”
It was the Aventan way: to implore the gods, but to remind them, too, what use you were to them.
Sempronius hardly dared to breathe as the swirling mist on the surface of the water continued to shift and flow. The gods were listening; he knew it, he could feel their presence with him, their gaze like a hot sun on the back of his neck. Why would they watch and listen and yet deny him the advantage that knowledge would provide? ‘Am I being tested? Have I something left to prove to them?’
When the clouds on the surface of the water began to coalesce into an image, Sempronius’s shoulders sagged with relief. He bent closer to the bowl, eager to inspect the divine message.
Yet instead of the usual flurry of images cascading upon each other, only one would present itself. A spear, with blood on the tip.
Sempronius stared at it, waiting patiently in case another message should come. Stubbornly, only the spear remained, glistening on the surface of the water. A spear, and nothing else. No background to give him a sense of time or place. No hands holding it. No wound made by it. Nothing else to lead him to a path. Just a spear.