by Cass Morris
A somewhat rueful grin crept onto Hanath’s face as she slapped the towel down and took up the wine. “It is the simplest thing in the world, General,” she said. “We are bleeding!”
Sempronius furrowed his brow, perplexed. “But none of you were wounded before the battle,” he said. “None of you are—”
Realization dawned, prompted as much by Hanath’s barely suppressed glee as by his own reasoning faculties.
“Oh.” He blinked a few times, unsure how to respond to this information. “You mean you’re—That is, at least some of you are—”
Unable to contain her amusement any longer, Hanath’s grin broke into outright laughter. “You are, I think, as surprised as the Lusetani!”
Sempronius was not a man much given to blushing, but he could feel his cheeks heating. It was ridiculous, of course. There was nothing shameful about it, particularly not if it was an advantage he could harvest, but it was an arena of life with which he had little knowledge or experience. None, really. His wife Aebutia, dead these past eight years, had always been most discreet about her biological necessities, and certainly Vibia had never shared such intimacies while they were growing up. As such, Sempronius found himself uncomfortably at a loss for any language with which to discuss the matter.
“What?” Felix, a man with neither wife nor sisters, asked. “I still don’t understand.”
Hanath was laughing harder now, too hard to speak, so Sempronius found himself awkwardly trying to explain to his junior officer. “Lady Hanath means that she and some of her maids are . . . currently experiencing the effects of the moon’s cycle upon their bodies.” Felix’s expression remained blank. Sempronius grasped for a less circumspect yet still tactful explanation, but discovered he could come up with nothing that wasn’t couched in metaphor.
Hanath finally took pity on him, with her customary bluntness. “We are bleeding from our nethers, Tribune,” she said, still grinning as she watched for the effect this information would have on Felix.
“Oh,” Felix said, echoing Sempronius’s initial perplexed reaction. Then, “Oh! Oh. That’s . . . Er.” He rubbed at his forehead. “I would’ve thought that would’ve been inconvenient to riding a horse . . .”
Hanath cracked up again, leaving Sempronius to try to restore some dignity to the conversation. “So I take it,” he said, in as unflappable a voice as he could summon, “this somehow worked as a counter-charm to the Lusetani magic.”
Straightening, Hanath nodded. “I am sorry,” she said, though her continued grin and the mirth in her voice did not indicate that she was, in fact, at all sorry for Sempronius’s and Felix’s discomfort. “I know that many peoples of the Middle Sea have prohibitions against speaking of such things in mixed company.”
“Not a prohibition, exactly,” Sempronius said. “More a . . . custom.” His face contorted slightly as he tried to picture any of his fellow senators having this conversation. “A rather intransigent custom. Such things are the domain of women, in our consideration. A religious mystery, really. Men prefer not to . . . trespass upon it.”
Hanath waved a hand. “Yes, you Aventans do like your neat lines dividing up the world, whether or not they align with reality. As though moon-bleeding and child-bearing were all that makes a woman.” Her voice turned more analytical and serious. “I think it is not to do with who bleeds from where, but with the magic of life triumphing over the magic of death. The Lusetani are using blood magic—and a form with which the Arevaci have little knowledge. But that is not the only sort of blood magic there is. Not all blood is stolen through violence. The Iberians consider moon-bleeding to be sacred, in itself, and it can be used for magical purpose.” Her strong shoulders moved in considering shrug. “My people have similar customs, though you may never have encountered them while in Numidia. We can ask the Arevaci magic-men you have here to confirm, but to me, this seems sensible.”
Once Sempronius could detach himself a bit from the awkwardness of the specifics, he could contemplate the thaumaturgy more carefully. Hanath was right; it did make sense. Just as Aventan magic had inimical elements, opposites with the power to counterbalance or even negate each other, Iberian magic must have similar forms of internal balance. That at least one of them should rest on the difference between a life-giving force and a life-draining one reminded him of some of the philosophies of the Abydosians. ‘It might be a worthy project, to catalog the commonalities between such things across the peoples of the Middle Sea.’
Harnessing that magic of life for his own purposes, though, was something Sempronius could fix his purpose to in the here and now.
“So, if this temporary immunity is tied to your, ah, internal functionings,” Sempronius said, moving from the abstract to the practicalities, “how can we . . . That is to say, is there some way to . . . ?” Again, however, his knowledge failed him.
Hanath took up the line of his thought anyway. “You want to know if we can make strategy of this?” She paced a bit, tapping her thumb against her lower lip. “Perhaps . . . I never noticed the effect in Toletum. Tribune Vitellius preferred to keep us off the walls, so we rarely took the brunt of the akdraugi attacks to begin with.”
“And it, ah, it doesn’t seem to affect all of you at once,” Sempronius observed.
Hanath shook her head. “No. In nature’s courses, there would never be enough of us rendered immune at one time to neutralize all the Lusetani magic-men. We would be too vulnerable to other attack, and they could slip our pursuit, as they did today.” Felix made a noise of disappointment, but Sempronius sensed Hanath’s mind was still calculating possible advantage. “But there may be a way. There are herbs which can bring on bleeding. If we could find enough to supply every woman in the camp, all at once . . .” She wagged her head in consideration. “We would have to act swiftly thereafter, and we could not do it again, at least not for many months. A little of the herbal mixture brings on bleeding, but much of it poisons.”
“But it might give us advantage enough to break the siege, at least,” Sempronius said, “if we knew we could safely send your ladies out ahead of us—to make an end of the rest of the magic-men, then have the legions follow swiftly behind—”
Hanath’s grin had changed, no longer prompted by hilarity, but by the slightly bloodthirsty glee he had seen before. “Yes, General,” she said. “That, I think, might work. Without the akdraugi, you could engage the Lusetani warriors and,” her lip curled, “cut them to pieces.”
“How quickly can you get the herbs?” Sempronius asked. “The Tartessi may be—”
“Yes, we do not have much time.” Hanath’s brow creased. “I will send riders tonight across the river, to find the nearest villages. They should have what we need. So, two days, perhaps three.”
The flap of the command tent snapped open. “Sir! Messengers from the Eighth and Fourteenth, sir!”
“In, in,” Sempronius said, gesturing hurriedly.
Sempronius’s burgeoning confidence was challenged by the sight of the bedraggled men who entered. Their faces, wan with care, bespoke horrors, and they looked as though they could hardly remain upright—yet when Sempronius bid them to sit, neither would. It was something, at least, if they had pride enough left for that. “Corvinus, bring water,” Sempronius said. “Which of you is from the Fourteenth?”
“I, sir.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“General Calpurnius is dead, I regret to report,” the first messenger said, “along with many others. It was . . . it was a right mess of a battle, if you’ll forgive my saying, sir. Never got so much as a javelin volley off. Only half the legion was in formation when the Lusetani reached us. General Calpurnius ordered a retreat almost immediately, but we suffered heavy losses before we were able to pull back out of range of the akdraugi. Once we did, the Lusetani broke off their attack.”
“Gods forbid they face us on equal terms,” Felix gro
wled, fire in his eyes.
“Indeed,” Sempronius said grimly. “Who has command of the Fourteenth now?”
“Legate Severus.” The messenger swallowed hard. “Sir, I want to make sure—That is, when you report this battle, say that General Calpurnius died well. Had he not been determined to help cover our retreat, he might have lived. He fell with sword in hand and should be honored as such.”
Sempronius nodded. “I shall inform the Senate and his family of his courage. Take water and a fresh horse. Tell Legate Severus to bring whatever remains of the Fourteenth here.” Sempronius was not eager to discover just how abysmal the losses were, but delay would not make them less. “And the Eighth?” he asked, looking to the other messenger.
“General Onidius escaped with minor wounds,” the second man reported, “but we had to abandon our camp. The eagles and standards are secure, but I must assume that our camp was thoroughly looted. Our losses were severe, but not, I gather, as bad as the Fourteenth’s.” He did not sound proud of that. Many legionaries would have thought it better to die than to run.
“I cannot thank you for ill tidings,” Sempronius said, “but I honor you for your valor. The same message to Onidius—bring the Eighth and cut back this way.” He turned to Corvinus. “A wax tablet. I want to have the battle plan sketched out before Onidius and Severus arrive. Felix, go find Eustix and tell him to ready a bird; I’ll have a letter for the Senate tonight as well.”
Corvinus waited until Felix and the messengers were out of the tent before asking, “And what will you be telling Onidius and Severus when they arrive?”
Sempronius rotated a crack out of his wrist. “That we have a plan for true victory, at last.”
* * *
Lusetani Camp, Near Toletum
“What happened?” Ekialde demanded, thrusting off his buckler and casting it to the ground. He had arrived back at his war-camp, flush with victory, the markings on his skin singing with Bandue’s brimming power—only to learn of the disaster that had befallen the easternmost prong of his forces. A dozen magic-men cut down by a cavalry force. The warriors there driven off without inflicting bloody ruin upon their foes. Ekialde needed answers, and perhaps fortunately, Bailar was waiting for him in his tent. “What in Bandue’s name happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Hearing those words from his uncle stopped Ekialde mid-pace. He rounded on Bailar, not sure if he was more terrified or furious. “You don’t know?” he asked. “How is that possible?” Before Bailar could answer, Ekialde jabbed a finger toward the entrance of the tent. “The magic-men there were Vettoni, not Lusetani, but that was your magic they were using. Your summoning charms. Were they too weak for this endeavor? Were you faulty in teaching them?”
“No,” Bailar replied, swift pride in his voice. “No, they have performed this rite before. They have been beside us as we tormented the men inside the city. They knew what they were doing.”
“If it was neither their incompetence nor yours,” Ekialde said, “then what under Endovelicos’s blessed sky happened?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Ekialde snapped, but he could hear the note of pleading behind the fury. If Bailar’s powers failed him, all could be lost. He had come to rely so much upon his uncle’s magic. ‘Too much, perhaps.’ He thought of his wife, how she had warned him, and for the first time, he worried that perhaps Bailar would lead to exactly the ruin she feared. “Tell me how you will fix it. Tell me how you will ensure it will never happen again.”
Silence. Bailar had no ready answer, no slick words to assuage Ekialde’s worries. His proud chin had a downward cast to it, his brows drawn together in thought. “The stars were favorable. The omens were so clear.”
“Are you sure,” Ekialde snapped, “that you were reading them correctly?”
He sank heavily onto his bed, suddenly desperately missing his wife. He had not seen her, nor their son, in too long. It was too dangerous for him to travel to the western camp, and certainly too much a risk to bring them here. Neitin’s voice soothed him, even when she was cross. ‘I have valued her too little, in listening only to Bailar’s counsel.’
XXXIV
City of Aven
“It was just instinct,” Latona told Rubellia. “And I can’t seem to replicate it.”
They had met at the Temple of Venus every day that Latona could manage to get away, since the night that she had caught fire in her palm. All the practice had been for naught, however. Try as she might, Latona had not been able to grasp the flames like that again. She could, with focus, touch fire without burning, though even that had resulted in a few blisters before she got the hang of it. Yet all her efforts could not convince the flames to leap back to her fingers and dance along her skin.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Rubellia said, bestowing one of her typically warm smiles on Latona. “I say, without humility or aggrandizement, that there are likely few people in all of Truscum who know more about the history of Fire mages than I do. What you did—it’s unheard of in centuries. Since the founding of Aven, possibly. An astonishing feat.”
“What good is that if I can’t do it again?” Latona grumbled wordlessly, rubbing her hands through her curls. “I’ve read and re-read every text Alhena has purloined from the Temple of Saturn for me, and none of them are any help, either.”
“I’m not surprised. You’re in rather uncharted territory, my dear.”
“But there has to be something somewhere!” Latona spoke more out of desperate hope than true belief. “Who knows what texts might be lurking in the temples of Athaecum or the Great Library of Chrysos?”
“You should go someday,” Rubellia suggested.
“Ha! I think I stretch my luck with Father and Herennius quite enough as it is. I can’t imagine them letting me go jaunting off across the Middle Sea.”
Rubellia’s head bobbed in acknowledgment. “Perhaps not—but who knows what the future holds? One or the other of them may take a foreign posting, someday.”
“That would be something.” Latona grabbed Rubellia’s hand and pulled her down to sit on the couch, then leaned her head on her friend’s shoulder. “Thank you for all your help, Rubellia, truly.”
“I’m happy to be of what service I can. I feel little enough use fighting the Discordians directly.” Rubellia put an arm around Latona. “I don’t think I have warrior’s mettle in me the way you and Vibia do.”
A barking laugh escaped Latona. “What a way to put it!” But even as long-accustomed instinct told her to demure, a small burst of pride blossomed in her heart. Women were not meant to have such ambitious desires, not meant to take joy in acclaim, but Latona could not deny the pleasure she felt in such praise. And not only on her own behalf—Vibia had shown more grit, more tenacity, more dedication to the cause than she had anticipated, and Latona admired her for it. ‘I have been unfair, in my assessment of her. All her spikiness is the product of magnificent self-governance. She holds herself to such a high standard, and she has been willing to dig into this right up to the elbows.’
Rubellia kissed her temple. “What else are you, my dear, if not warriors? Mars wouldn’t have magic on a battlefield, but we’re not in his dominion here.”
“So we’re magical gladiatrices, then?” Latona had to grin; Merula would appreciate the comparison.
“Of a kind.” Rubellia sighed in mock-despair. “What I am, is a teacher. I’ve always known that. It’s the best thing for a High Priestess to be, in my opinion. But I confess, in this, you’ve outstripped my ability to teach you.”
“I still need you,” Latona said, softly. “Uncharted territories or not, I’ve a great deal to learn about navigating it all.”
Rubellia nudged Latona’s head up from her shoulder, then cupped Latona’s face in her hands. “You’ll learn it, my dear, one way or another. I’m most worried about you
burning yourself out in the meantime.” She rubbed a thumb under Latona’s eyes, where Latona knew there were dark circles. “How many times since the Kalends have you and Vibia gone out a-hunting?”
“Four,” Latona confessed. She wished it had been more, but between her husband, safety concerns, and Vibia’s spare rations of patience, that was impossible. “But, Rubellia, there’s so much to do.”
Their expanding network of eyes and ears had brought in harrowing tale after harrowing tale. From the Quirinal to the Aventine, the Discordians had clearly been hard at work. Most were umbrae, which only appeared and thus could only be traced at night—when Latona and Vibia were least likely to be able to hunt them. They had found, too, more traces of the curse-powder that set men to fighting in the streets. Vibia thought it seemed weaker than that which had afflicted Autronius Felix in the Forum the previous year; Aula, analyzing it from a political rather than magical bent, called it “subtler,” and that was concerning, for it bespoke a long-term plan, not merely one designed to excite an immediate uproar.
“There is much to do,” Rubellia agreed. “More than you could do by yourself if you had every hour of every day in which to do it.”
“We can’t put a stop to it until we find the Discordians at the heart of it,” Latona said, more argument in her tone than she typically used with Ama Rubellia, “and we can’t find the Discordians if we don’t hunt down—”
“There are other avenues.” Rubellia’s voice, by contrast, was silk over steel. She was so kind by nature, so loving, but Fire’s strength was in her, too. “Your sister is a prophetess; Proserpina may reveal many truths to her.” Her full lips curled in a smile. “And if not, then wit and work will have to suffice. But remember, magic takes a great deal of energy. Spirit magic more than most! You’ll do no one any good if you work yourself into weariness.”