by Cass Morris
If not dreaming spared Sempronius that torment, he would gladly accept the trade.
On the night before the Kalends of November, though, Morpheus did see fit to visit him with a message.
He found himself back in Abydosia, standing under a dark sky on the banks of that land’s massive, dark-rolling river. Except it wasn’t rolling; the Iteru lay still and quiet, unnaturally so. Not frozen. Sempronius had seen frozen rivers, high in the mountains in winter, but the Iteru would never freeze, not unless Pluto himself ascended from the netherworld and dragged its waters back below with him. And the river did not have the glossy sheen of ice atop it. Rather it was as if the Iteru had simply decided not to flow.
He looked up, trying to gauge the season by the stars, but thick cloud cover had blotted them out. Behind him, he heard the rustling of grass and the laughter of jackals. Then, as his gaze dropped back to the river, he did see movement. Not the usual flow of water, but the ripples that came with something moving beneath.
Crocodiles, he realized. Slowly moving toward him, their tails betraying them only to the sharp-sighted. Black shapes under black water under a black night. Three, headed straight for him. He took a step backward, but as soon as he did, the jackals hiding somewhere in the grasses grew louder. He could only watch, then, as the crocodiles came toward him, dark shapes full of hungry malice—
In the waking world, Sempronius’s eyes flew wide, but before he moved a muscle, he examined his tent. Corvinus lay asleep on a cot near the doors, bundled under blankets. He heard nothing unusual, only Corvinus’s slow, steady breath and the breeze buffeting the canvas walls. It was too late at night for any activity in the camp. Even the sentries would be still at their posts.
But then, a faint scrape, off to the left side of the tent. As Sempronius’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he fixed them in the direction of the sound.
One—two—three shapes, crawling through the darkness.
Moving as slowly as he could, Sempronius slipped a hand under his pillow, gripping the hilt of the dagger he kept there. He forced himself to wait, tensing his muscles, until one of the three figures had moved within striking distance.
Then, Sempronius was on his feet as swiftly as he could manage, whipping the bedsheet away from himself and toward the other two attackers, while lunging at the closest with his dagger. “Corvinus!” he roared, even as his blade missed its mark, his opponent twisting just out of its way.
The attackers had leather armor and curved blades slightly longer than his own, though not the size of a gladius. Sempronius had only his sleeping tunic and the dagger. But he couldn’t allow poor odds to make him timid. He stabbed again at the first attacker, then turned to ram the second with his shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Corvinus had woken at Sempronius’s shout and immediately ripped the ties from the tent flaps. “Lictors! To the praetor!”
A hot pain flared in Sempronius’s hip; one of the enemy blades had made contact. Sempronius seized the edge of a table and swung it hard, overturning it in the direction of his attackers, then did the same with a chair. Anything to keep them at a distance, for just another moment. He flung a dish at one of them, then an inkpot—anything he could lay his hands on. Inelegant fighting, to be sure, but Sempronius had always thought it better to stay alive, no matter how ridiculous he looked. He backed up toward the tent wall, snatching up a pillow as he went: a poor shield, but at least something he could use to help deflect the blades coming at him.
Two of Sempronius’s lictors came rushing in, followed by Autronius Felix, fire in his eyes. Though the lictors were in full kit, Felix was no better armored than Sempronius, but that wasn’t about to stop him joining the fight. With a mighty bellow, he hurled himself at the attacker closest to the door, bearing him to the ground and punching with abandon. Felix wrested the blade from the man’s hand and immediately buried it in his throat.
Only one of the other attackers turned to fend off the lictors; the man closest to Sempronius kept his attention doggedly fixed on his initial target. Instinctively, Sempronius reached out for his Shadow magic. It came easily in the midnight-black tent. He could have used it to disappear, or as near to it as made no difference, but he couldn’t do that in front of the lictors. So instead he flung his power at his assailant’s eyes.
It wouldn’t make much difference in such a dark room, but it was enough. Sempronius saw the blink of confusion as the temporary blindness hit, saw the man lose focus on him. In that breath of hesitation, Sempronius stepped forward and drove his blade into his attacker’s gut, then shoved him backward, right into a lictor’s sword.
The third man was already on the ground. Sempronius couldn’t see his wounds, but they had not been immediately fatal. The would-be assassin was wheezing wetly, gulping for air.
Sempronius knelt beside him. “Who sent you? Tell me, and we may be able to find you a medic.” The man gave a damp chuckle, shaking his head, then grimaced in pain. Sempronius tried again, in Tyrian. This time, he saw a flicker of understanding in the man’s eyes, but still, there was no response. “Tell me!” Sempronius demanded. “We have mage-healers, we can—”
The attacker snarled something then, in an Iberian dialect that Sempronius had not yet mastered. He committed the words to memory, though, even as the man coughed up a glob of blood—then spat it at him, and died.
“Sir!” Both lictors snapped to attention, and the more senior of them spoke. “Sir, I cannot—There’s no excuse, sir, I—”
Sempronius held up a hand. “A moment, please.” Swiftly, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic, then, pushing past the lictors, Felix, and Corvinus, he stepped outside of the tent.
The night breeze snapped over his sweat- and blood-damp skin. A half moon hung low in the sky, grazing the top of the camp’s wall. Sempronius closed his eyes and thanked the gods for his deliverance. ‘Pluto and Nox, Jupiter and Mars and Juno and anyone else who had a hand in this, I throw myself before your feet in gratitude. Whichever of you sent me that dream of warning, I owe you a white bull.’
He stepped back into his tent to find Corvinus lighting lamps while Felix and the lictors examined the corpses.
Corvinus cleared his throat. “Sir, you’re—” He gestured at the wound on his hip. “I’ll fetch a medic.”
“Wake Gaius Vitellius, too, while you’re at it.”
“Already here, sir,” came the young man’s voice, from the tent flap. “I heard the commotion and—”
“Good lad,” Sempronius said. “Then, Corvinus, find a handful of centurions and set them to searching the camp for anyone else who doesn’t belong.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vitellius rubbed at his face, still clearing sleep from his eyes. “What in Mars’s name happened?”
“The General was attacked,” Felix said, a bit sharply, holding his blood-covered hands up in the light.
“Yes, I can see that,” Vitellius shot back. “But how?”
It was a fair question. A fortified camp was not the same thing as a marching camp, or even a less permanent standing camp. They had walls of timber, proper gates, watchtowers—all things that should have made it impossible for even a few of the enemy to sneak inside. ‘It would have been harder still if we’d traded my command tent for a building.’ But Sempronius had insisted that barracks and stables take precedence.
“Was it an attempt by Ekialde, do you think?” asked Felix.
Sempronius considered. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. There does seem to be magic about it.”
Felix snorted. “I should hope so. If three armed assassins got into a fortified Aventan camp without magic, we should all hang up our shields and go home right now.”
But Vitellius, who had, of course, been among the Iberians much longer, was shaking his head. “I don’t know. For all their perfidious magic, the Iberians are like the Tennic tribes when it comes to warfare and ho
nor. All that time I was out in the open, before Toletum, and Ekialde never sent assassins after me. He waited until he could face me in battle. He tried to ensorcel me, then, but he made the attempt face to face, sword in hand. This subterfuge, knives in the night . . .” Vitellius shook his head. “I would not swear beyond all doubt that it isn’t the Lusetani. They may be learning perfidies anew. But it doesn’t strike me as Ekialde’s style.”
“We are meant to think he’s behind it, at least.” Felix brought a light next to one of the dead men; he had unmistakably Iberian features, broad-faced and russet-toned.
“Go find Bartasco and Hanath,” Sempronius said, nodding to Vitellius. “I want to ask them about this.”
* * *
Perfunctorily, Bartasco and Hanath examined the dead bodies: checking their weapons, their jewelry, flipping them over to get a better look at their clothing and their tattoos. Then they stood, looking at each other. “Counei, I think,” Hanath said. “And far from home.”
“I agree.” Bartasco turned to Sempronius. “Southern tribes, for certain. You can tell that from the weave of their garments and those tassels on their sleeves. None of the central tribes favor that style.”
“And the weapons,” Hanath said. “The grip is much different than what we use.”
“But this—” Bartasco nudged with his foot at one man’s head. Two earrings were studded into his upper ear. “This is how the Counei, in particular, communicate rank.”
Felix swore in a grumble. “Another tribe has turned against us?”
“Perhaps not,” Bartasco said. “These may be mercenaries, only.”
“Their lands do not stand so very far from the Lusetani,” Hanath countered. “They may have been suborned through fear or bribes or gods know what persuasion.”
“Bad news for us if they have.” Sempronius pinched at the bridge of his nose, then went to his desk, unearthing the map of Iberia that the scout Dorsus had been helping him to compile. He was glad Corvinus wasn’t in the room to see him do so. Sempronius had wiped the blood from his hands and pressed a wad of fabric onto his injured hip, but he was nowhere near pristine enough for his steward to consider him allowed near papers. “Bartasco, show me. Where are the Counei villages?”
“Far south,” Bartasco said, gesturing. “The Tartessi are not far from here, you know, near Corduba, between the rivers. But the Counei are not mountain people, not river people, even. They live in the flatlands near the sea. Some south of Olissippo, but mostly eastward, toward the mouth of the Baetis.”
He had pointed to the city of Gades.
“Son of a bitch,” Felix muttered.
Bartasco and Hanath glanced among the three Aventan leaders: Sempronius and Vitellius stony-faced, Felix ruddy and cursing. “We’re missing something,” Hanath said.
Sempronius looked at the lictors. “Gentlemen, if you could remove these bodies. Strip them of anything valuable or identifying. We may need to send a message to someone later on. Summon the healer-mages to look the bodies over for marks of magic. The Arevaci magic-men may be able to discern whatever charm allowed them to get into our camp unnoticed.” Bartasco nodded approvingly. “Once they’re done, have someone drag the bodies to the forest line. The wolves and crows can have them.”
At that moment, Corvinus returned, with one of the legion’s physicians in tow. Sempronius held up a hand to detain them. “I promise I’ll subject myself to your ministrations in due course,” he said, “but I am in no danger of bleeding to death, and there are more important matters.”
The medic ducked his head deferentially, but Corvinus gave him a hard glare. “Dominus, I must object—”
“Yes, Corvinus, I know you must. Come in, and you may chastise me to your heart’s content once we’re done.” He looked again to the medic. “I’ll visit you in the infirmary shortly.”
The medic nodded. “I shall make sure the building is warmed ahead of your arrival.” The medic couldn’t resist one admonition before parting, however. “Do drink something while you’re still here. Water for your health and wine for the pain.”
Corvinus set about pouring a cup for him. No one else spoke while the lictors dragged the bodies of the assassins out of the tent. Once they were gone, Felix stuck his head out of the tent, looking around, then nodded in assurance that no one was lingering outside.
“So what’s set all of your feathers a-ruffle?” Hanath asked, while Felix knotted the tent flaps back together—those that Corvinus hadn’t torn in his haste to summon help.
Sempronius was in the middle of swallowing the well-watered wine that Corvinus had pressed on him, so Vitellius supplied the answer. “Lucretius Rabirus, who was recently abandoned by the Fourth Legion. His seat is in Gades.”
“Not that he’s in it,” Felix grumbled. “The Fourth left him because they couldn’t believe he was withdrawing entirely from conflict. But he may have sent these men our way before he tucked tail and fled back to Aven.”
Bartasco looked from Sempronius, to the map, to the bloodstained rugs where the dead bodies had lain. “You think he sent these men to kill you?”
“I cannot say for sure, of course, but it would not be the first time he has tried.”
Bartasco nodded solemnly. “Son of a bitch, indeed. To kill a man in honorable combat is one thing, but this . . .”
Hanath’s lips had curled in disgust. “This is how it was done in Numidia, in years past. The lords feuded, and they were as likely to send a single assassin into a rival’s tent as to face them on the field. Dishonorable, but often effective.”
Sempronius gave her a rueful smile. “I believe those words could sum up Rabirus’s overall method of engaging with the world.”
* * *
After Sempronius let the medic stitch up the gash on his hip, the others eventually went back to their own tents and presumably to sleep. Against Corvinus’s objections, Sempronius chose to stay awake, walking the camp until the sun rose.
The mages wanted to wait for daylight to examine the would-be assassins’ bodies. Sempronius questioned the already-chastened sentries himself—as much to make sure the centurions weren’t misapplying blame as anything else. If they had missed anything mundane, they’d be executed for dereliction of duty. ‘But men should not be blamed for supernatural hoodwinking.’
As he suspected, no sentry had seen or heard anything abnormal. They had all been at their posts, alert, and each man could vouch for the others.
As a white dawn rose over the plateau, setting a crisp frost on the ground, Sempronius returned to his tent. Little though he liked to admit to physical failings of any kind, he collapsed on his cot, exhausted, as Corvinus began tying up the tent flaps behind them. He stared up, lacing his fingers together on top of his chest. “I may need to rethink my strategy here, Corvinus.”
“Sir?”
“Mars prohibits magic on the battlefield,” Sempronius murmured. “But with what our enemies are willing to use against us, it may be time to test the bounds of that proscription. I cannot think that he wants his armies at such a wretched disadvantage.”
Corvinus sat in a chair near Sempronius’s cot, looking concerned. “Dominus, you don’t mean to . . . to flout Mars?”
“I hope to honor Mars in all my deeds,” Sempronius said. “And I’ve no desire to risk exposure. I just think we might want to explore options.” And it couldn’t be blasphemy, not really, if done to serve the gods in the end.
XLV
Central Iberia
It was even colder than it had been the night that Matigentis had been born, though winter had not yet come in truth. More than a month, yet, till the winter solstice. ‘My child has not even had a name for half a year.’ A strange thought, somehow.
Mati no longer needed to be carried everywhere, though Neitin hated to have him out of sight. He could pull himself up to stand, and he had recently become absolutely unsto
ppable when crawling. His speed was astonishing, not only to see so small a body moving so fast, but because he moved across the earth with the trusting innocence of one who had never yet encountered pain. Utterly fearless, Mati had wanted to investigate everything, hauling himself up onto the cots and benches in his mother’s tent. Every time he called out “Ma!” Neitin’s heart twisted.
Tonight, he had been left in the custody of his doting aunts, while Sakarbik led Neitin out of the camp and into a copse of trees at the riverside.
“But why tonight?” Neitin hissed, burrowing her cheeks into her cloak. It was spotted and soft, made from the fur of wildcats. Ekialde had bestowed it upon her as a bride-gift.
“The moon,” Sakarbik said, shrugging off her own woolen cloak. She wore only a short-sleeved tunic underneath.
‘Does the magic within her keep her warm?’ Neitin wondered. ‘Or is it just stubbornness?’
Sakarbik looked skyward. The moon itself was not visible, but a silver effulgence glowed from behind the spiky evergreens. “Full moons and new moons are for amateurs,” she said. “The real power comes here, at the cusp of things. That’s where you can seize real power, at the time when the world wants to turn and change, not when it’s teeming or fallow.”
“And we stand halfway between autumn and winter, so it could be doubly powerful.”
Sakarbik twitched an eyebrow, as though suppressing the instinct to look impressed that Neitin had sorted it out. “Just so.” She took a few steps away from Neitin, turning her face again to the sky and spreading her arms wide. Her palms were up, her fingers spread, not so much as though she would receive the gods’ grace, but as if she intended to claw it from heaven. She began chanting, her voice low and musical. Neitin had heard her sing before, lullabies to Matigentis, but out here in the wilderness, the sound fit better. Singing to the stars, Sakarbik’s voice had in it the wolf’s howl, the rush of river water, the rumble of far-off thunder.