by Cass Morris
“Generals,” Vitellius said, “this is Bartasco of the Arevaci.”
“Lord Bartasco,” Sempronius said, according him a gesture of respect. “I know you by your wife’s praise.” He smiled. “And lest you fear, Lady Hanath will be with us shortly. She insisted on leading a patrol around the city to make sure no Lusetani lay in wait to ambush us later tonight.”
A faint smile touched Bartasco’s lips. “Yes, that does sound like her.”
“We owe our success to her—but more on that in a moment.” Aware that the others would not take their ease until he did, Sempronius jerked open the knot beneath his chin and removed his helmet. “I am Sempronius Tarren, Praetor of Cantabria, General of Legio Ten Equestris, and overall commander of Aventan operations here in Iberia. This is Onidius Praectus, commander of Legio Eight Gemina.” He glanced over at Vitellius, who barely seemed to register this introduction to his new commander. “In a moment we’ll be joined by my senior tribune, Autronius Felix.” He jerked out a chair and took a seat. Only then did Onidius begin removing his own helmet. “Tribune, I must commend you—and I intend to do so formally. I’ll be recommending you for the Crown of the Preserver.” That military honor, though not as prestigious as the Grass Crown or Civic Crown, was infrequently bestowed—and technically Sempronius would have to convince the citizens of Toletum to offer it to Vitellius—but it heralded that the bearer had served as the shield and savior to the lives of Aventan citizens or allies, and certainly Gaius Vitellius had earned that honor.
At the moment, however, he little looked like a hero. Now that they were out of public view, exhaustion had taken him over completely, and the Shadow dogging him seemed to fill the whole room. “All we did was stay alive,” Vitellius said, hollow-throated. “Those of us who could manage it, anyway.”
“And that alone is no small feat.”
“You should—” Vitellius swallowed, then tried again. “That is, I would recommend an award for the fishers of Toletum as well. Their efforts made the difference between life and starvation for us this past month and more.”
Sempronius nodded. “I shall see it done.” He continued as Onidius, then Vitellius and Bartasco, sat down. “Lord Bartasco, I would give you the same crown were you an Aventan citizen. As it is, there is an equivalent honor for auxiliaries.” Bartasco waved a hand dismissively, but forbore any demurral when Sempronius added, “There is an accompanying monetary award, as well.”
The door cracked open. “Please,” Felix said, already yanking his helmet off as he kicked the door shut behind him, “tell me there is wine.” He tossed his helmet aside and ruffled his hands through his dark, sweat-damp curls. “Else I’m going back out there with the lads. Nothing like a good bowl of grape to end a day of killing, eh?”
Vitellius’s jaw hung agape, and Sempronius guessed that he was unsettled by Felix’s irreverence. Onidius remained tolerantly expressionless, but Bartasco’s lips twitched in the direction of a smile again. He jerked his head toward a side cabinet. “We’ve an amphora in there. Help yourself.”
Felix did—and, to his credit, poured cups for everyone else as well. “So what’s the news?” he asked, after taking a deep swig. “How did you manage to keep the devils from devouring you for so long?”
“I’d sooner hear how you sent them back to Tartarus,” Vitellius said, too quickly. Sempronius probed with his magic at the Shadow, just a touch. This young man had a secret, something he did not want to admit.
Well, Sempronius could be tolerant for a time, and so he shared the story—the march from Segontia, the stalemate, the devastating attack launched a few days prior, and finally, their unexpected deliverance via the Arevaci women. The revelation regarding the source of the ladies’ immunity to the akdraugi finally cracked through Vitellius’s dispassion. First confusion, then shock, then revulsion progressed over his face, then the tribune rubbed at his forehead. “I suppose we must . . . we must be grateful for the reprieve, however . . . unsavory its origins.”
Sempronius wasn’t sure he would have described it as “unsavory,” but Vitellius’s discomfort with the subject seemed to exceed what Felix and Sempronius had experienced, for all that he had three sisters. “It was unexpected, but most welcome,” Sempronius said.
“Do the ranking men know?”
Sempronius shook his head. “We kept the information to senior staff, at least for now.”
Vitellius nodded. “Well. It does, at least, tell us that this magic is not unconquerable. If we can find one chink in their armor, we can find another.” His voice was stronger, surer, when discussing practicalities.
“The blood of life,” Bartasco said, tugging absently at his beard. “Yes, there may be much worth examining in that. I will tell our magic-men to put their heads to it.”
“So,” Sempronius said, “that is the story, up to when we arrived at your gates. Now, tell me what has occurred here these past months.”
The tale that Vitellius spun was enough to harrow any man’s soul—or would have been, had Sempronius not faced the akdraugi himself by now. Men haunted and hounded outside the city, then trapped within it. That much, he already knew from Hanath. But how matters had worsened since her departure, that, Vitellius could tell him. The tribune gave an account of their losses—though he was strangely sparse in his descriptions, almost chary with what he revealed.
“Three thousand dead, between our legions,” Onidius said, sighing. “Not the start we might have wished for. May the gods damn Lucretius Rabirus. He should’ve brought his legions straight here, not dallied in Gades and then turned marauder along the Baetis.”
Vitellius’s blue eyes registered shock. “He—What?”
“Praetor Rabirus,” Sempronius said, his words slow and cautious, “has acted in . . . let us call it error, rather than flagrant disregard. And in doing so, he has caused more problems than he solved.” Sempronius waved a hand. “We can fill you in on that later.” With a solid victory under him, Sempronius would write to the Senate and insist they order Rabirus to do his duty until such time as new recruits could be levied.
“We will mourn all our fallen, as is appropriate,” Bartasco said. Iberian vowels tumbled about in his Truscan words. “But—and I would not want you to think me flippant, gentleman—but should we not take this moment to celebrate victory over the foes that have plagued us for so long? Should not our men and women feel that liberty?”
“We have nothing to celebrate with, Bartasco,” Vitellius said, wearily.
“But we do,” Sempronius said. “Our own supplies and plenty of loot from the Lusetani war-camp. Bartasco is right. We should give the men this night to glory in their survival.” Not to mention that a formal celebration would likely curtail any urges toward less appropriate ways of marking the end of the siege. “A sacrifice to the gods, to start, to give thanks for their ever-watchful eyes, and then a proper celebration, or at least as much of one as we can manage.” He looked to Onidius. “Do you agree?”
“I do, Sempronius. Mars knows we could all use a little relief after dealing with those fiends.”
“Excellent. Why don’t you go introduce yourself to the centurions of the Eighth, start getting them integrated back with their fellow cohorts? Bartasco, you should seek out your lady wife.”
“With pleasure, General.”
“Felix, go see about taking Bartasco’s suggestion and making it reality.”
“With even greater pleasure, General.” Felix grinned, gave a sloppy salute, and was out the door. Onidius and Bartasco were close behind him, and Sempronius’s eyes landed on Vitellius.
* * *
Vitellius knew he had not been dismissed for a reason. Sempronius Tarren had a reputation for insight, but even a fool of a commander would know that he had not yet received all pertinent information about the siege. General Sempronius’s cool brown eyes, though, pierced him to the core, flaying away his obfuscations.
“Now, Tribune, if you would be so good as to fill in the edges of the story of this siege.”
Vitellius’s eyes dropped to the table, still covered in papers, most of which were now irrelevant. “It isn’t . . . It’s only a problem that should now be resolved, since the Lusetani magic-men have been killed or driven off.”
“But if it might rear its head again, I should know about it.”
“I know.” And he did. Vitellius wasn’t trying to hide anything from Sempronius. Only it was so hard to speak of, such a blow to have endured out here in the wilderness, bereft of comfort. “We . . . have had illness.” He hastened to add, “It isn’t contagious. It was sent by the Lusetani, in their mist. No one caught it except that way, so if they’re not here to send it again . . . But it . . . it hurt our numbers. More of our casualties were due to this plague than to combat. And . . .” His eyes drifted toward one of the empty cots. “I’m afraid Bartasco and I both lost our seconds to it.”
Vitellius could feel the weight of Sempronius’s regard on him, but the general could not possibly judge him worse than he judged himself. He had brought Mennenius to this gods-forsaken place. He had been the one to ask that Mennenius come along on the vexillation. He had decided to keep the cohorts together, rather than sending Mennenius and half their number toward the coast before the siege tightened around them.
“I grieve for your loss,” the general said at last. He stood, rounded to the table to stand beside Vitellius, then clasped his shoulder. “You have had to endure much more than any vexillation leader ought to have. To lose a friend on top of that is a heavy burden for the gods to have laid upon you.”
The reaction surprised him. Vitellius’s old commander, Sallust, would not have been so empathetic. “Thank you, sir.”
“This is your victory as well. You should celebrate it with us. But if you chose to get some rest instead, no one could blame you.”
Vitellius needed no convincing. He chose rest.
* * *
Only once he was satisfied that he had drawn the whole story, miserable details and all, out of Tribune Vitellius did Sempronius leave the command quarters. As the relieving army brought in food, drink, and oil for lamps, he went past them toward the Aventan temple at the far end of the square. No grand sky-reaching pediments here, but a plain mud-colored building with a flat low ceiling. The wooden statues it housed were small and poorly carved things, but Sempronius found a certain nobility in their rough-hewn features. The figure in the center was obviously Jupiter, and to his right was Mars, but the female statue on his left might have been either Juno or Minerva.
The proper sacrifice would’ve been a white bull, of course, but Sempronius didn’t think there were any as near as Tarraco. The gods would have to make due with a pair of spotted goats, his gratitude, and a promise for a more fitting animal given over to them at some point in the future. He gave thanks to his patron deities as well, for guiding him. ‘And while I am not known to you, gods of the Arevaci, I am grateful to you as well.’
By the time Sempronius emerged back into the streets, the local citizens had struck up music. Not now the booming military drums or blaring trumpets that had been a thin shield against the akdraugi, but cheerful tunes, bouncing with the rattle of sistrums and the lilt of flutes. He saw Hanath, returned from her patrol, embracing her husband Bartasco, tears in both their eyes. ‘An odd pair,’ Sempronius thought, ‘and yet, a fitting one.’ The incandescence of their love was obvious, and a sudden wistful pang struck Sempronius.
The Iberians were dancing in the streets, much to the bemusement of many of the Aventans. In the city of Aven, dance was typically relegated to religious rites or theatrical entertainment, not an activity for citizens to engage in. A handful of the legionaries were country folk, though, who sometimes danced at festivals, or else were men who had spent enough time in Nedhena or border towns to have picked up an affinity for the terpsichorean arts, so the Iberians were not alone in their frolicking.
Sempronius sat aside, along with General Onidius, all of the patrician tribunes, and most of the centurions, whatever their origin. Men who needed to maintain a strong sense of authority could hardly cavort in the streets. There was still merriment to be had, in wine and the improvised feast. Sempronius listened as the men around him traded stories of what they had encountered. ‘No doubt by the time these stories reach Aven, each man here will have personally driven off a thousand fiends with nothing but his fortitude and a glare.’ If it helped bolster their spirits for the next fight, Sempronius was glad for their hyperbole.
In the midst of the festivities, a woman sauntered toward Sempronius, an impish look in her eyes and a distinctive sway in her narrow hips. Sempronius recognized her as one of the Arevaci maids that traveled with Hanath. The legionaries had been warned to stay well away from them—not that any needed warning after they saw what Hanath could do with a spear, or what the girls themselves could do with arrows. Bloodshed maintained a healthy respect. Yet here was this girl, bold as brass, striding up to him with a come-hither smile on her face.
“General Sempronius,” she purred, refilling his cup to the brim with wine. “So much to celebrate, is there not?” Her Truscan had both Iberian and Numidian accents; she must have learned it from Hanath.
“Indeed there is,” Sempronius replied. “At last, we have a victory worth writing home for.”
“I am wondering,” the girl went on, “if you might not be looking for a more private way to celebrate?” She set down the wine jug, and her fingers curled around his shoulder. “The gods, I think, would want us to feel alive on such a night.”
Sempronius took her hand, feeling the strong muscles in her fingers and palm. “I thank you, my dear.” She was lovely. Lithe muscles, well-toned from years of an active lifestyle. A fall of brown hair, a few shades darker than his own. Warm hazel eyes, full lips, healthy teeth, clear skin, and—he could not help but notice as he glanced her over—high, round breasts, just the kind that appealed to most Aventan men. In an objective assessment, she was a winsome girl, and likely pleasant bedsport. But Sempronius brought her hand to his lips, kissed it, then gently let it fall. “I am afraid my attentions could not possibly do you justice,” he said. The girl blinked, then pouted. She knew she had been turned down, but Sempronius hoped in such a way that she could take no offense. “If I might—” He gestured toward Autronius Felix, dicing at the far end of the table with a pair of centurions. “My tribune there, Felix, is a fine man, and, reputation would have it, an attentive lover.” Bolder than he would speak to an Aventan woman, but a risk he thought worth taking to divert this Arevaci maid.
The girl regarded him a long moment. Then those kissable lips turned up at the corners. She shrugged her shoulder, her tunic slipping low on one side. “Whoever waits for you in Aven, General,” she said, “I hope she knows what a fortunate woman she is.” Then she sashayed over toward Autronius Felix, who wasted no time in looping an arm around her waist and pressing his lips to her neck. She giggled, evidently no worse off for having been spurned by a general. A tribune, it seemed, would do just as well.
Sempronius smiled, raising his cup again—carefully, considering how close to overflowing it had been filled. A pretty girl, and lively, but those attributes alone had never been quite enough to captivate his attention or move him to the worship of Venus. He required something else, something extraordinary. Even Aebutia, his wife, had stirred only obligatory interest. She had been an exemplary wife: soft-spoken, doe-eyed, with a fine plump figure and supple rosy skin. He had cared for her, honored her intelligence, trusted her ability to manage a household, been attentive to her in public, and done his duty in private, but she had never moved him to true passion. He had never thought much about it, but now he wondered. ‘What was lacking, in such an excellent specimen of Aventan womanhood?’
Nothing, of course. There had been no fault in Aebutia. But then, a man might look
at a sumptuous banquet and yet feel no appetite.
Sempronius could not help but compare her in his memory and the Arevaci girl in the present to the woman who had so thoroughly captivated him, enough that he yearned for her across a distance of thousands of miles, and no less for the separation of these many months. Vitellia Latona was a beauty, to be sure: her patroness, Venus, had done well by her, bestowing not only magical gifts, but voluptuous curves, shining golden hair, and eyes as bright as emeralds. But Aven was full of beautiful women.
No, something else in her struck him to the core. Her intellect, her generous spirit, her vivid sensuality—all these played a part, but even more so, the strength he sensed in her, the fortitude. That core of steel beneath the loveliness. The strength which had allowed her to endure a Dictator’s predations, a world gone mad, an attack from a vicious Fracture mage. All he had seen in her, and all he suspected she could be, if she found the temerity to reach for her ambitions.
Just thinking of her heated his blood. He thought of the words in her most recent letter to him, the evident passion with which she contemplated the thaumaturgical mysteries, the elegant pen strokes with which she wrote her valedictory ‘Ever yours in friendship.’ He remembered the look on her face the day he had left with the Tenth Legion, the yearning in her eyes, the words unspoken in the press of her hand against his. He remembered her focus, desperate yet so strong, when she purged poison from his blood, saving his life. He remembered her dressed in fuchsia and gold at the Saturnalian revels—and he remembered that gorgeous gown sliding off, revealing nature’s glory.
Sempronius glanced again at the Arevaci girl, now sitting happily on Felix’s lap, and wondered briefly if he had been a fool, not to take relief where it was freely offered. But no. ‘What an empty experience that would be, and unfair to the girl.’