The Legions of Fire

by David Drake

  “Yes, your ladyship,” Corylus said.

  Alphena grimaced. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to hit Corylus.

  Unexpectedly, Corylus—still hidden behind the trainer—went on, “Sure, Alphena. And it would probably be good for my knee. I’d like that.”

  Mother Juno, thank you, Alphena thought reflexively. She kept the words from reaching her tongue. Aloud she said, “But Brother, you have to come with me now. They don’t need you here, and I do.”

  “Surely there’s no impropriety in my remaining with my good friend!” Varus said in surprise. The dignity was there again, but this time it was offended.

  “It’s not that,” Alphena said peevishly. “I need to talk to you. You know history, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes …,” he said doubtfully. He looked over his shoulder.

  Lenatus bowed slightly. “We’ll be all right, your lordship,” he said. His relief at getting Alphena out of the way was obvious.

  Alphena’s renewed irritation turned to a grin when another thought occurred to her. It could be that Lenatus was just as glad not to be present while the two youths discussed things that might be dangerous for a servant to know.

  “What do you want to know?” Varus said as he came outside and firmly closed the bath house door behind him. He paused, then said, “Corylus is well-read too, of course; but I’m, well, probably the right person to ask.”

  “Let’s go out into the garden,” Alphena said, thinking of the crowd of servants who were probably clustering close to where she and Varus stood in the short hallway. The garden wasn’t large, but it would give them more privacy.

  With her brother following obediently, Alphena walked past the gymnasium and through the open door into the garden. As she’d expected, half a dozen of the servants she’d rousted from the bath house entrance were there, talking in muted voices with the night doorman. They stared in concern as she and Varus entered.

  “Leave now,” Alphena said. To the doorman she added, “You too, Maximus. Stand outside the gate until I call you.”

  She spoke calmly, but after her recent rage the servants fled through the back gate as though she were chasing them with branding irons. They’d reenter the house by the front entrance, as many of their fellows must have done already.

  As the doorman pulled the iron-strapped gate closed behind him, Varus slid the heavy bar through its staples. He walked back to face Alphena as she stood between the two fruit trees.

  “Now, Sister,” he said. “What is it you want to know in such secrecy? Not history, surely.”

  Maximus had taken his lantern outside with him, but the moon’s cool light was full on Varus’s face. He looked like the marble statue of a philosopher.

  Whatever happened tonight changed him, Alphena thought. Into a man, I think.

  “It is history,” she said. She swallowed. “At least I think it is. Have you ever heard of a man named Spurius Cassius? I think he must be dead.”

  Varus didn’t speak for a moment. Then he said, “I can check the lists of magistrates which some of the temples keep, and perhaps the Cassius family has records which they would let me see.” He smiled with quiet pride. “I dare say they would show me whatever they have,” he added. “For Father’s name, but they will have heard of my interest as well, I believe.”

  “But you don’t know of anybody yourself?” Alphena said in frustration. She had so hoped for an answer!

  Her brother raised his hand in curt negation. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “In fact the only man of that name whom I do recall has been dead for over five hundred years. He was one of the earliest consuls of the Republic, a great general who led our armies to several victories. But when he tried to become king, he was captured and executed in his own home. The house was pulled down over him and a temple was built on the site.”

  “Brother,” Alphena said. She wrapped her arms around herself as though she were cold. “Which temple was it? Do you know?”

  Varus frowned. “I’d have to check,” he said. “Does it matter to you? I think Cicero may mention it in the oration he gave when the Senate voted to rebuild his house. I’m sure I can find it somewhere.”

  “Was it the Temple of Tellus?” Alphena said, looking at the ground. “Tell me, was it?”

  “Why yes, I believe you’re right,” said Varus. “That’s the one Father is renovating, isn’t it? The dedicated gifts were brought right here to the garden, in fact. See the tusks? It happened while I was, ah, reading here.”

  “Tonight the statue told me I was going to marry Spurius Cassius,” Alphena said. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. She went on, knowing that she was blubbering. “And he’s dead! He’s dead!”

  “Ah …,” said Varus. “I …”

  He put his arms around Alphena as she cried. He was very awkward, but she appreciated what her brother was trying to do.

  But in her heart, Alphena wished he were Corylus instead.

  A CELTIC FOOTMAN, one of the three waiting at the door to Varus’s bedroom suite, said, “Your lordship, Master Corylus is already inside. We told him you were in the library, but he said he preferred to go to bed.”

  “Very good, Asterix,” Varus said, more polite in his acknowledgment than most people would have thought necessary. Politeness, even to a slave, cost nothing. He’d heard philosophers say, “A man has as many enemies as he has slaves,” and during riots and other unrest, a servant’s hostility could be fatal to his master.

  The Republic was at peace now, though of course that might change when the Emperor—not a young man—died. Even so, Varus was polite simply because he preferred to be. As a general rule he didn’t care much about other people, but he found life more pleasant when those nearby weren’t angry with him.

  Another footman inside the suite whisked the door open and bowed as deeply as if he were welcoming an imperial delegation. “Your lordship!” he said.

  Varus forced a smile. The fellow was new and apparently hadn’t been told—or didn’t believe—that pomp made the young master uncomfortable. I’ll speak to Agrippinus in the morning, he thought.

  “You may leave the suite now,” he said aloud. “Are there any more of you here?”

  There were, of course: three male servants and the maid who was responsible for straightening the bedclothes stepped forward to call attention to themselves. Corylus, beside what would ordinarily be the night servant’s alcove, smiled a greeting standing.

  Varus gestured. “You may all leave, please,” he said. “If we need anything during the night, we’ll call for it.”

  The servants bustled from the room, though the new footman seemed so confused that he was on the edge of arguing. The maid slapped him on the back of the head and hissed a warning. Two servants fought to slam the door behind them.

  “Perhaps we could go out in the courtyard?” Corylus said, raising an eyebrow.

  “And have spectators on the balcony as well as at ground level?” Varus said, smiling at his friend. “Here, sit on your bed and I’ll draw up this”—he picked up a square wicker stool; its legs were only four inches tall, but it would keep his buttocks off the floor—“seat.”

  Corylus liked to be outdoors; so did Varus, for that matter. But Corylus thought of “outdoors” as the great forests flanking the Rhine and the Danube. Here in Carce it meant an open space surrounded by people listening.

  “Did you find anything useful in the library?” Corylus asked politely, seating himself when Varus did. He was being extremely cautious. That was natural after what had been happening, but it saddened Varus to see his friend—his only friend—feeling that he too might be a danger.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Varus, smiling at the thought. “I read Vergil to calm down; as you probably guessed, since you courteously chose not to disturb me.”

  Corylus laughed. “Well,” he said, “I hoped that was what you were doing. Though I might have suggested somebody lighter than Vergil.”

  “The Aeneid not
only has structure, it is a structured universe all by itself,” Varus said, letting his mind slip back for a moment into the great epic’s measured cadences. “The structure of our world seems to be melting away like ice in the sunshine.”

  He shrugged and realized that the gesture had been more violent than he’d intended. “I didn’t try to find anything dealing with our problem. I wouldn’t know where to start. Even Pandareus didn’t know where to start!”

  “We’ll deal with things as they come up, my friend,” Corylus said gently. “I’ve had the advantage of being with soldiers in the field. You learn fast there that you can’t plan for the worst things, but that doesn’t mean you can’t survive them. At least you and I can trust our leaders.”

  “Pandareus and Atilius, you mean?” Varus said. “Yes, you’re right. And this Menre who spoke to Pandareus—he must be on our side too. Perhaps he’ll appear shortly and give us some direction more useful than simply telling our teacher to come to Carce.”

  They chuckled together. Varus felt better just for being with his friend. Corylus was in his way just as solid as Vergil’s perfectly constructed epic.

  The wooden staff leaned against the wall of the alcove, beside the headrest where Corylus could snatch it instantly if an alarm awakened him in the night. It had been wiped clean of fur and blood, then apparently waxed. Alphena must have told a servant to polish it before returning it to its owner.

  Which forced Varus to think about his sister.

  And about his friend. “Alphena was holding a marriage divination in the Temple of Tellus tonight,” he said, looking at the mosaic floor. In the center were Neptune and his bride Amphitrite, while all manner of sea creatures swam in the border running along the walls. By sheer effort of will, he raised his eyes to meet those of Corylus.

  “She—and my stepmother—heard a voice saying that she was going to marry Spurius Cassius,” he continued, keeping his voice calm. “I think that must mean the would-be tyrant of five hundred years ago. The temple was built where his house was.”

  Corylus smiled. “And here I was wondering if our rhetorical training would ever be useful in normal life,” he said. “Cassius is the rhetorical model of a man who reached the highest level in the Republic, consul and even dictator, and then fell to the depths of ignominy to be executed for treason. He was so perfect”—his grin grew playful—“that I wondered if he was real or just the creation of orators who weren’t above improving history for a really good example.”

  “I recall mention of him in the Chronicles of the Claudian Family,” Varus said. “I believe he was real. A very clever, dynamic man, but unfortunately a man who wouldn’t stop at anything to gain the power he wanted.”

  He thought back to the week he’d spent in the library of one of his father’s senatorial colleagues. He’d been looking for information on the First Punic War for his epic, but he’d found a great deal of other interesting information also. The oldest scrolls had been written on leather, not papyrus.

  “That he was executed,” Varus continued, looking into his friend’s calm eyes, “was both the law and common sense: the Republic would be in danger for as long as he lived. But the particular savagery of his execution and the fact that his house was pulled down over him—I think that must have been because the other senators were terrified of him.”

  Varus made a deprecating gesture, turning his palms up and then down again before him. “That’s how I would have described him,” he said, “if I’d written an epic on the early Republic as I considered doing: an enemy as great as Hannibal, but growing in the heart of the Carce instead of attacking us from the outside.”

  A pang of embarrassment twisted his face. I was such a fool to think that I could be a poet!

  “Varus?” Corylus said. His voice was perfectly calm, but a hint of worry pinched the corners of his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Varus said. “It wasn’t anything important; I was thinking about my poetry. And that’s certainly”—he didn’t even try to hide the bitterness and embarrassment—“not important.”

  Corylus cocked his head to the side. “I think you’re wrong,” he said. “Poetry mattered to you, and you were willing to put in the effort to do it. Not many people really try to do anything.” He smiled and added, “I’m proud to know you.”

  Varus opened his mouth to snap, “And did you like my epic?” His mind caught the reflexive sourness before it reached his tongue, though.

  He smiled broadly and said, “Thank you. I put in enough effort to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have no talent for poetry. Perhaps I should have concentrated my efforts on swordsmanship like my sister.”

  Corylus’s face became completely blank. Varus winced at the expression and said, “I was joking. Yes, I know you’ve seen me doing sword exercises. Although it could be that I’d still make a better gladiator than I would a poet.”

  “If you put in the effort, Lenatus and I could turn you into a passable swordsman,” Corylus said carefully. “It would take a lot of effort.”

  “Whereas Alphena is pretty good, isn’t she?” Varus said. The conversation was where he needed it to be. He’d vainly hoped that his pause in the library would show him the way to broach the difficult topic; sitting down and talking to his friend had been the right answer.

  “Yes,” said Corylus simply. He looked directly at Varus, but his face wasn’t giving anything away. “Not as good as she thinks, but good. If she were sparring instead of hitting the post, she’d learn she lacks strength. She’s got lots of stamina, though.”

  “You’re not going to be sparring with her tomorrow, though,” Varus said. He didn’t make the words a command, but he wasn’t asking a question either.

  “Not tomorrow or any other time, Varus,” Corylus said. He stood up, but that was just to make him less uncomfortable. To show he wasn’t trying to threaten his friend with his height and strength, he turned sideways. His hand squeezed the corner of the alcove. “I wouldn’t do that, and Lenatus wouldn’t let me if I tried. And”—he grinned again, but from his tone this wasn’t a joke—“if he needed Pulto’s help to convince me, he’d have it.”

  Varus stood also. “She’s my sister,” he said to the wall fresco of a Cyclops standing on a rocky cliff. “After she’s married, she’s her husband’s concern. But for now she’s my sister.”

  Corylus put his arm over his friend’s shoulder. “Varus,” he said, “believe me, it never crossed my mind. And I don’t mean just because of the difference in our stations. Alphena doesn’t interest me.”

  Neither of them was mentioning Alphena’s father. Varus grimaced. With me the closest thing in the family to a man, no wonder Alphena behaves the way she does!

  “I do believe you,” Varus said. “But it’s pretty obvious, even to me, that she’s interested in you.”

  Corylus said, “Well, she’s going to have to put a lot more snap into her backhand cuts before I’ll give her more than a peck on the cheek.”

  Varus felt his torso turn to ice. He stared at his friend’s perfectly straight face—then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Corylus,” he gasped. “You told me, so I should have just shut up. As I’m doing now.”

  “Do you believe that Cassius is behind …,” Corylus said, as though Alphena’s name hadn’t come up at all. He gestured with his right hand. “That Cassius sent your visions and all the other things? Because I still think Nemastes is involved.”

  He paused as though wondering whether to speak further, then went on. “A woman I met when the dogs attacked me said Nemastes was responsible. And I don’t think they were dogs. They were wolves.”

  He sighed. “Also,” he said to the mosaic of Neptune and Amphitrite, “I was in a forest, not Carce. I just ducked into an alley and I was. I don’t know how that could have happened either.”

  “You had sap and pine needles on your tunic,” Varus said. Corylus was wearing a tunic borrowed from a footman of roughly the right size. Varus was too stocky to loan his friend any g
arment but a toga, all of which were cut to a standard size. “Along with the blood. I suppose you could have gotten them in Carce, but if you say you were somewhere else, I don’t have a problem believing it.”

  He waited till his friend raised his face, and added, “If you say you were dancing with nymphs in the moonlight, Corylus, I believe that too. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know I trust you.”

  “We weren’t dancing,” Corylus said steadily, “and there wasn’t much moon. But I think she was a nymph. A rose nymph. In the forest. Though it was firs, not pines.”

  “Well, I was happy to have a three-hundred-year-old Egyptian as an ally,” Varus said. “I’m not going to turn down nymphs and dryads. We need all the help we can get, it seems to me.”

  He was still at a loss about what was happening, but it didn’t bother him as much as it had before he and Corylus began to talk. Some of the things hiding in his ignorance were good; and as for the bad surprises—he and his friends had survived them so far. Though—

  “I hope nobody sends a wolf after me,” Varus said aloud.

  Corylus grinned, but the expression wasn’t entirely one of humor. “It was a pack of wolves,” he said. “And the only thing that saved me was the woman, mainly because she sent me back to Carce.”

  He cleared his throat while looking at the wall, then faced Varus again. “Your father knows Nemastes,” he said. “And your father is the one who’s rebuilding the temple where this Cassius spoke to your sister. Varus, is Saxa …?”

  Varus swallowed, appreciative of the way his friend had let the question trail off. He said, keeping his voice calm, “My father isn’t a conspirator, Corylus. He isn’t capable of conspiring, even if he were willing to. I can imagine him weeping in his bed for days, but he wouldn’t have sent Alphena and Hedia into a trap if he’d known what he was doing. And he certainly couldn’t have set a pack of wolves on you.”

  The thought amused him, though he knew his smile was a poor excuse for one. “Like as not,” he said, “he would have fallen into the wolf pen if he’d tried.”