by Cass Morris
“No, sir,” he heard himself say. “I began this endeavor, and I mean to see it through.”
Sempronius stepped forward to clap him on the shoulder, as General Sallust had often done. It was a different gesture from Sempronius, however. Less empty. He held Vitellius’s shoulder until Vitellius looked him in the eye. “Then you should know that you can trust your instincts. They have not misguided you yet.”
Vitellius wet his lips with his tongue, searching for the words. He’d never had trouble expressing himself before, but since the damned spirits and the damned plague and Mennenius’s damned death, he hardly seemed to be able to string thoughts together. “It is hard, sir,” he said, “to trust one’s instincts, when one’s instincts led to so many deaths.”
“It wasn’t your instincts that led to their deaths,” Sempronius said. “It was Lusetani blood-magic. But I know saying that doesn’t change the responsibility you feel. It’s good, that you feel responsible. A commander who isn’t concerned for the lives under his control will be careless with them.” He gave Vitellius a little jostle. “But you cannot let that responsibility drag you into waters so deep that you cannot rise from them.”
He released Vitellius’s shoulder then. He took his helmet from his man and tucked it under his arm.
“Ride with me today, then, if you don’t want to go back to Aven. Onidius will spare you for the space of an afternoon—and if you’re amenable, perhaps longer as well.”
“You’re thinking of rearranging the cohorts?” Vitellius asked. It made sense, with the losses each legion had suffered. Better to get two at full strength and fill the third with new recruits than to have all three weakened.
Sempronius nodded. “I wouldn’t want to separate you from your cohort, of course, not with all you’ve been through together. Well, we can speak more on that later. Today, we shall talk strategy. You, Felix, the Lord Bartasco, the Lady Hanath, and I.” Sempronius let a slight grin creep onto his features, and there was a spark in his eyes. Far more animated than Vitellius had ever seen in Governor Sallust. Far more keen. “We shall come up with a plan that will bring victory for Aven, and vengeance to lift the souls of the dead off of your shoulders.”
* * *
Near Corduba, Baetis River
Rabirus received two messages just before the Kalends of October.
The first came by way of a bird that Rabirus was growing to hate the sight of: one of Sempronius Tarren’s, or rather one belonging to his pet Air mage. Word would have reached Sempronius by now of Rabirus’s escapades with the Tartessi, and Rabirus opened the letter expecting a prolix castigation. Instead, the letter contained an account of the Aventan victory at the Battle of Toletum and the lifting of the siege upon that city. Sempronius had at last discovered a way to counter the Lusetani magic; his cavalry had slain a great many of their magic-men, and though their war-king had not been taken or killed, the Lusetani forces had scattered.
‘He’ll be trumpeting this news back in Aven as well.’ Rabirus had been counting on his own victories overshadowing Sempronius’s entrenchment. He had taken two more villages near Corduba, one of which had actually been the camp of some of the bandit slavers who had been harassing the city. There had been few citizens of Corduba left, as most had already been sent to Olissippo for trade, but redeeming those from captivity had won Rabirus a small measure of regard in the town. He had sent a cavalry unit in pursuit, to try to overtake the traders before they reached Lusetani territory. Finally, his own good news to share, his own tale of victory to be read out in the Curia and the Forum. ‘Just when I thought I was getting ahead . . .’ But Rabirus’s luck had turned again, so swiftly. ‘What’s victory over a few raiders compared to liberating the largest town in central Iberia?’ Even if it was no more than huts on a hill, the people of Aven would know no different, and the story would sound impressive enough to swell Sempronius’s reputation all the further.
Sour as that was, the lack of chastisement concerned Rabirus almost as much. A man like Sempronius wouldn’t let such a thing slide. An enemy’s error was something to take advantage of. If Sempronius was not chastising him privately, then some public condemnation would be forthcoming, Rabirus was sure. ‘But the serpent will bide his time, wait until he can do the most damage.’
The second message came that night, as he sat down to write a letter of his own, to Arrius Buteo. When a knock sounded at his door, he called “Enter!” but did not bother to rise. He outranked everyone else in the camp, of course, and if they were going to pester him of an evening, they should know they were trespassing on his time.
Two men entered: one, the junior tribune set to attend Rabirus that night, and the other, a sturdy-looking man with dark hair and a foxy face. Keen, Rabirus assessed him. He had the look of a military tribune and could easily have been the son of some senatorial family of middling regard—but Rabirus did not recognize him. He seemed scarcely older than Rabirus’s own son, and was not in military kit, but a simple deep-blue tunic with a maroon cloak.
“Sir,” said the tribune, “this young man said you would be wanting to speak with him? Said he has news from Aven.”
The young man had no letters with him, so whatever news he had must have been locked inside his head. Rabirus was somewhat inclined to turn him away for his presumption, but again, something in the keenness of his face caught his interest. “Very well, then. Let him in. I’ll call for you if you’re needed.”
Once the door shut, the young man strode toward Rabirus’s desk, inclining his head politely, but not subserviently. “Praetor Rabirus. Thank you for your time.”
“Who are you?” Rabirus saw no need to be anything but blunt. “And what news have you?”
“I’m called Publius.”
Rabirus arched an eyebrow. “And your nomen? Who are your people?”
But the young man shook his head. “That isn’t important right now. All you need to know is that I represent someone in Aven. Someone whose interests align with yours.”
Rabirus settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, Publius No-One, from Nowhere, you’d best speak quickly to make your worth known to me.” He shrugged, his expression a dismissive sneer. “I already know a great many men in Aven whose interests align with mine. I know who they are, and I know I can trust them.”
“Senators,” Publius said. “Politicians. You know those men. I represent someone from . . . a different arena, shall we call it?” Visibly unconcerned by Rabirus’s derision, Publius ambled across the tent, trailing his fingers along the edge of Rabirus’s desk. “He regrets he could not meet with you in person, but he is not in a position that allows for travel.” A short, mirthless laugh passed from Publius’s lips. “Nor is it the sort of thing he could safely commit to a letter.”
Rabirus gave no vocal response, but stared at the young man, endeavoring to communicate in every line of his body that he had yet to be impressed and that this whole matter was swiftly growing tedious.
Publius did not seem to notice. He glanced around the tent idly as he spoke, his eyes roving over the sparse furnishings and decorations. “My patron became aware, some months ago, of your recent efforts to direct political matters in your favor.” Publius turned to face Rabirus, his expression suddenly sharp. “Fires on the Aventine and curses in the Forum? Whatever next, Praetor? Knives in the Curia?”
At that, Rabirus tensed and sat forward. “Speak carefully,” he growled. “What does your patron think he knows?”
Publius chuckled. “It took a little time to fit the pieces together, I’ll grant you. After all, poor Pinarius Scaeva was hardly in a state to give a solid accounting of the events. Such a pity, when a mage falls to pieces like that, but I suppose when one plays with dangerous toys—”
“Publius,” Rabirus said, his voice hard. “Enough. I am intrigued, I will confess it. But I do not work with men whose names I do not know. Tell me who
m you represent, or you can head straight back to Aven, for all I care.” Publius’s fair eyes gazed at him a long moment. Rabirus was being weighed, appraised, and he did not care for the feeling. ‘Another in the long series of indignities I’ve suffered in this gods-forsaken hinterland.’
At length, Publius’s expression relaxed, as he seemed to come to some sort of decision. “Yes. I think it should be safe enough.” Rabirus made an impatient gesture. “I was sent here by my patron, Sextus Durmius.”
It took a moment for the information to fit into the correct mental slot, but then Rabirus fit the name to a man: a man wearing the black-bordered toga of a mage, standing in a place of honor in the Curia. “Durmius Argus, you mean. Commissioner Durmius Argus.”
“The same.”
An incredulous huff of air left Rabirus’s nostrils. “If you had led with that, we might have arrived more swiftly at a profitable conversation!” Rabirus had never known which members of the Augian Commission had been on Ocella’s payroll, peaceably looking the other way when one of Ocella’s pet mages crossed a line in doing his bidding, and which of them had been suborned even further, procuring mages with particular talents for Ocella when the need arose. Ocella’s paranoia led him to keep his various informers and supporters hidden from each other at times, and the mages in his employ, he kept most secret of all. Even Rabirus, as good as Ocella’s right hand in the last years of his power, had not known all of their identities.
Now, it seemed, he could make a fair guess at one of them, at least.
Rabirus gestured to the other chair in the room, sitting across from his desk. “Make yourself comfortable, if you wish,” he said, “and then tell me how it is that Commissioner Durmius, who I thought to be concerned with overseeing only Aven’s magical citizens, knows of my work in defense of the city.”
Publius did not rush to sit, but still moved with a casualness bordering on insolence. Who was this young man, and where had he come by such self-regard?
“When Pinarius Scaeva was found wandering the smoldering Aventine Hill last year,” Publius explained, easing himself into the chair, “it naturally raised some concern. A priest with a divine blessing on him, a man who had served the Temple of Janus well and faithfully for years, suddenly out of his wits? What had happened?” He spread his hands in an open gesture. “Well, the Commission was called upon to investigate.”
‘The Vitellian woman had something to do with it. I don’t know how, but she managed to overcome him, and something about that broke his mind.’ But Rabirus would not say that to Publius. If neither he nor the Commissioner had figured that out already, it was information Rabirus would keep close. For all that it might be information he could call down against her, it might cut against him as well. Ordering an attack on a patrician matron was certainly something that could be used against him, if the Commissioner proved an unreliable ally. ‘And if it became generally known, my career would be over.’ No one would vote for a man who had ordered such a breach of the leges tabulae magicae. Even Arrius Buteo might shrink away from him for that.
‘I did what I had to. I do what I have to, for the good of Aven, to protect us all. What transgressions I take upon my soul in the meantime are no one’s concern but mine.’
“Exactly how the Commissioner got through to Scaeva, I cannot say.” Publius shrugged loosely. “I’m not a mage, myself.”
Rabirus wasn’t willing to take that statement at face value, not without more information about Publius Of Unknown Origins.
“But he managed to make some sense of Scaeva’s ramblings and the shattered remnants of his memory. And you, Praetor, figured prominently in the story, such as we could piece it together.”
Rabirus remained still, unwilling to show what a chill was now coursing through his veins. For all that Publius seemed amiable, it was concerning that such matters could be pulled from Scaeva’s mind, even in his broken state. Not that Rabirus was ashamed of what he had done, but he knew how many of the common people would not read his actions in the right tenor.
A slow smile crawled over Publius’s face. “No need to fear, Praetor. I assure you, the Commissioner and our other allies understand entirely what you have done and why you have done it.” He laughed, oddly high-pitched, too mirthful for the conversation. “Why! If we were going to seek legal action against you, it wouldn’t have been me turning up on your doorstep! You’d have been recalled by the Senate and hauled into court—if, of course, you hadn’t chosen to flee into genteel exile rather than face prosecution.” Another sly smile. “No doubt you know plenty of safe bolt-holes. Bithynia, perhaps, or Palmyrea. I’m sure you have friends there, who would take you in.”
Was that a threat, of some kind? Rabirus had to assume so. ‘Just because a dog fawns does not mean it will not bite.’ If he failed to please, failed to fall in line with whatever Commissioner Durmius wanted . . .
Rabirus cleared his throat, trying to look unconcerned. “So he has the measure of me, it would seem. What is it, then, that sends you here?”
“The Commissioner knows that you served at Ocella’s right hand, but he knows, too, that it was at best a stop-gap, a way to keep hold of the reins of power against the day when proper order could be restored.”
Rabirus nodded. “That has always been my aim,” he said. “The mos maiorum should dictate our ends as well as our means.”
“Ah.” Publius held up a corrective finger. “There’s where Dictator Ocella had it wrong, and where you do as well, if you’ll forgive me, Praetor. If restoration of proper order is your desired end, you must work at it through a different means.”
Rabirus’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
“Imposing order on an unwilling populace, on the defiant and the willfully ignorant—that’s never going to work. The people of Aven have grown fractious and stubborn. They do not want order, not inflicted upon them by severe laws and restrictions.”
“And what remedy is it that Commissioner Argus proposes?”
A sly smile. “Just the opposite, of course. Feed the chaos until the world bloats itself on madness. Lean into the disorder already present in their lives, and give them surfeit of it until they sicken.” He came forward swiftly. “Then, only then, will the people cry out for order and justice.”
“An overcorrection, you mean.” Rabirus was still, considering. “Let the disease run its full course.”
“As with a fever. Sometimes it must burn hotter before the body can return to health and vigor.” Again, the sly grin. “You know this, deep down, Praetor. If you didn’t, you would never have engaged Pinarius Scaeva.”
With a small shrug, Rabirus shook his head. “He was a useful tool. It might have been another.”
“Oh, no, Praetor. That you chose Scaeva was far more than chance. He has been an agent for our cause since long before you engaged his services.” Publius reached inside his tunic, drawing out a pendant of some kind, on a long chain. Bronze, Rabirus could see. Unhurriedly, Publius unhooked the clasp, then leaned forward, passing the pendant over to Rabirus.
A disk, about the size of Rabirus’s palm, with words engraved on one side, around the image of an apple. Brow creasing, he turned the disk over and saw the embossed image there: a woman with long, streaming hair, dressed in battle raiment, with spiked wings protruding from her back. Her shoes were sharply pointed; her gown had a checkered pattern on it. One hand clasped a trident, cruelly barbed; the other, another apple.
Only with considerable discipline did Rabirus manage to keep his jaw from gaping in astonishment. “Discordia,” he breathed. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, quite serious,” Publius said, “as is the Commissioner, and others who believe that the tablet needs to be scraped clean before the new order can be written upon it. What better way than embracing the Lady Discordia’s capacity for destruction?”
The room felt over-warm. Rabirus’s nostrils flared as he
struggled to maintain composure. The implications staggered him. A Discordian in the Temple of Janus. A Discordian on the Augian Commission. A Discordian wandering freely into the midst of his army. How many more might there be?
“We suspected you did not know Scaeva’s true allegiance,” Publius said. “Had you known, would you have chosen another tool?”
The knee-jerk reaction was to say of course, he would never have contracted a member of a blasphemous and forbidden cult—but the words stuck in Rabirus’s throat. “No,” he admitted at last. “No, I daresay I would not.”
“There you are, then.”
A contemplative silence fell over the room. Rabirus turned the pendant over and over in his hand, as though some message might reveal itself. “You still haven’t said what it is that brought you here.”
For the first time, the placid amusement faded from Publius’s eyes. “We have a problem, in the city. We’ve put some efforts into motion, but we’ve met with pushback far earlier than anticipated. I won’t bore you with the thaumaturgical details—but we would like you to return to Aven to help amplify the message we are trying to send.”
“Why not treat with Arrius Buteo, then? That man can amplify a message like no one I’ve ever known. And he’s conveniently already in the city.”
“We don’t trust Arrius Buteo,” Publius said, some of the smugness returning to his expression. “We don’t know him as well as we know you.” He spoke lightly, but Rabirus heard the threat nonetheless. ‘Do as we require, or everyone else will know what we do.’
Not that Rabirus was unwilling to return to civilization, but the prospect presented any number of problems. “How am I supposed to justify leaving Baelonia months before my term is up? With legions still in the field?”
Publius shrugged. “That is not my knot to unravel. But we would be much obliged if you worked it out quickly. The autumn storms will be starting soon—and it would be most convenient if you were to return to the city before the elections.”