by Cass Morris
“You’d best make ready, then; I’d imagine there are several at the gate already,” Marcia said, also rising. “I will speak with you this evening.”
Whatever Galerius had been prepared for that morning, however, the sight at his front door baffled his expectations. In addition to his own clients, dozens of men from the Esquiline had come, each bearing some small gift of thanks for his intervention. Galerius was touched by their gratitude—and astute enough to realize that he had, perhaps by accident, won himself a great many future votes.
One plebeian cobbler, however, after tendering his thanks, had a question that left Galerius curious and confused. “Dominus, who was the lady who was helping you?”
Galerius’s eyebrows arched upwards. “The lady? There were no ladies with us.”
The man looked nonplussed. “I’m sorry, Dominus, I thought . . . My wife said there was a woman, clearly a patrician lady, one of great magic, who . . .” His eyes found his feet, shuffling from side to side. “I had gone out to try and secure our shop. I should not have. It left my wife and daughter unguarded. They were set upon, in our own apartment.”
Feeling pity for the man’s perceptible shame, Galerius reached out to clasp him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you did what you thought best. You are not responsible for another man’s villainies.”
The plebeian looked grateful, though disbelieving. “Well, sir . . . My wife said there was a lady who found them, who saved them. I thought, perhaps, your noble wife—”
Galerius laughed softly, though at least partly to cover his confusion. “I assure you, I would never have led my wife into such chaos.”
The man nodded. “Of course. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”
“There is no need.”
“If you do hear, though— Should you find out who it was, I should be grateful to know. We owe her a great deal.”
IX
CAMP OF LEGIO VIII GEMINA,
ALBINE-VENDELICIAN BORDER
Gaius Vitellius was beginning to have very strong feelings about Vendelicia. Namely, he was beginning to have strong feelings about the weather, the food, the mud, the boredom, and the weather again, which was considerable enough to merit a second mention. None were feelings that Gaius Vitellius would qualify as positive.
There had been a time, he allowed, when it was necessary for Aven to station a full legion between their provinces and the wilderness. More than once, Tennic tribes had tried to flow through the mountain passes towards the peninsula of Truscum; more than once, they had gotten a little too close for comfort. It had been over three hundred years since they had reached the city of Aven itself—but the city had a long memory, and no desire to repeat that humiliation. Just forty years ago, invaders had managed to press into upper Truscum, raiding villages, sacking towns, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. So there were times, of course, when Aven needed the strongest military presence possible on the northern border.
That time did not appear to be now.
By fate or chance, the Vendelicians had quieted in the last year. No one had trusted it at first, because everyone knew you couldn’t trust Vendelicians. They would swear pacts, vow to behave themselves, and then the second the legions turned their backs, there they were again, raiding and pillaging and pushing at the borders, just like before. They always claimed to have a good reason for it—the vows had not been bound in the right way, with the right words or the right spells; or the revived rebellion was the result of internecine strife amongst the Vendelicians themselves; or one chieftain had died and another, less friendly to Aven, had taken his place. And so, although a few months passed quietly, no one allowed themselves to relax too much, assuming that the relative peace would be unlikely to last.
But then more months had passed, and more, and then the whole summer went by and drifted into autumn with not so much as the theft of a sheep to break up the monotony.
It boded ill for the troops. A small garrison could get along quite well on its own, but a full legion, cooped up for months, meant trouble. There had been fighting, of course. Gaius Vitellius and the other tribunes had had their hands full keeping it at a minimum. The official legion punishment for brawling was a rather severe flogging, but too many of those could incite mutiny rather than serving as a deterrent, and none of the tribunes currently stationed with the Eighth Legion were the sort to enjoy doling out punishments. There had been complaints from some of the locals, particularly regarding the officers’ failure to preserve the un-meddled-with state of their daughters. A crop of bastards was coming in along with the autumn harvest. As though all of that weren’t bad enough, it had been raining for nearly three weeks solid. The men who could be fit into the fortress were doing well enough, but the cohorts still in tents were experiencing no end of trouble. The tent stakes slid in the mud and the weight of the rain made the canvas sag and sorely tested its oil-slick proofing. And the constant damp bred disease and fungus.
It was all a headache that Gaius Vitellius would far rather do without. He had entered the army at twenty-one and had been in Vendelicia for most of the five years since. He had attained the highest rank among the tribunes and was approaching the age when he would be eligible to join the Senate. ‘The military is certainly one way to attain honor,’ his father had written, ‘but with the Dictator gone and the city again safe for a son of the Vitelliae, you must consider establishing yourself for your quaestorship. I have some good friends who would assist you in the law courts.’ A necessary tedium, putting in his time as an advocate, and life in the city would certainly have more social advantages, but part of him would be loath to leave the legion.
And so it was with these thoughts on his mind, idly planning out the next few years of his life, that his governing legate, Sallust, found him.
“Tribune!” Sallust barked. Vitellius snapped to attention but was not alarmed by his superior’s tone. He had learnt, in his years at this post, that Sallust only had one volume, and it was strident. “At ease, tribune!” Sallust said, though sounding no more at ease himself. “I have a task for you.”
“Eager to serve, as always, Legate,” Vitellius said, trying to sound as stoically dutiful as he could manage, though internally hoping for something active and exciting that did not involve, for example, overseeing the relocation of the camp latrines. They had flooded three times in the past two weeks; no ground seemed safe.
Fortunately for Vitellius, his superior officer had something other than inundated waste facilities on his mind. “We’ve heard some strange rumors from Iberia.” Vitellius nodded. The men had spoken of little else since the traders from Nedhena had brought up the autumn supplies. “I’m sure it’s nothing, lads, just a few tribesmen irritating the smaller villages when they think no one’s looking, but it’s worrying the traders. They’re starting to squawk about what good is Aven’s protection if it can’t keep trouble like that down. Can’t have that, can we, lad?”
“No, sir.”
Shaking his head, Sallust drew a parchment out from his belt. “I’ve had a letter from Governor Fimbrianus, in Gades. Fine politician he is. Damn lot of dithering to get to the point, which seems to be that the Fourth Legion is already tucked into its winter quarters, and he doesn’t want to send them out.”
Vitellius tried not to let his face betray his confusion. Digging in for the winter was hardly necessary so early in the year in seaside Gades. ‘So why wouldn’t Fimbrianus want to send out his men to deal with the problem?’ Vitellius could think of no reason—except that the threat was more serious than anyone had let on, too serious for the undermanned, undertrained, and unblooded Fourth to handle.
Sallust seemed to catch the thought on Vitellius’s face. “I hope all it means is that his men are too soft for tromping about in the wilderness. It could mean that they’re aware of conditions we’re not. Well. Whatever his reason, Fimbrianus asked me to send someone down towards Toletum
to sort things out. Fancy stretching your legs?”
“A vexillation, sir?” Vitellius asked, not wanting to mistake Sallust’s meaning. A vexillation meant a small command of his own—a chance for a young tribune to make a name for himself—and putting down rebellious tribesmen in Iberia was far preferable to watching the mud rise in Albina.
“Of course, Tribune!” Sallust bellowed. “I thought one cohort, but the arms-master talked me up to two after what he heard from those southern devils he trades with. If you need cavalry, you should be able to pull it from the local allies in Iberia. I’ll give you some names to inquire from. Let me know if there are any centurions you’re friendly with that you’d like to take along.”
“Yes, sir,” Vitellius said, a few names jumping to mind. Then, another thought sparked. “Sir, might Titus Mennenius accompany me?” Vitellius’s closest friend in the legion, Titus Mennenius, was younger than Vitellius and most junior of the legion’s six tribunes.
Sallust frowned. “Two tribunes with a single vexillation? Seems a bit excessive.”
“Yes, sir. But he might benefit from the exercise, sir. Young as he is, there hasn’t been much chance for action here.”
Sallust’s florid face was still furrowed, but Vitellius knew the expression for one of consideration, not necessarily disapproval. “Very well. Take him as far as Nedhena and see what you can learn there, then decide if he needs to go along further or not. I’ll expect regular reports, Tribune.”
“Of course, sir.”
* * *
CITY OF AVEN
A few days after the riot, the Senate was finally able to convene, though it was with the barest of quorums. The Curia felt hollow, too few voices ringing against its white brick walls. Galerius Orator sat in the front row of wooden benches with the other ex-praetors, watching as the rows of men filed in, most wearing only the senatorial red stripe on their togas, not the purple stripe that indicated the man had held the rank of aedile, praetor, or consul. Ocella had been most afraid of men of proven worth.
The hastily appointed interim censor took his place of honor in a low chair. The office was an august one, responsible for the electoral rolls, administration of state finances, and matters of public morality, and in the absence of consuls, the most powerful of elected offices, presiding over Senate business. Usually there were two, but in such circumstances, scraping up one man with the necessary qualities had been challenge enough.
Behind him stood six men in black-bordered togas: the Augian Commission, all devoted to the arts of Water, Light, Air, or Spirit, those elements which could most easily see the magic of others at work. They were a cohort sworn to administer matters of magical justice and order, including the prevention of thaumaturgical craft within the Senate’s bounds.
Galerius heard Arrius Buteo before he saw him; true to his cognomen, which meant “buzzard,” Buteo squawked and hollered and generally raised a fuss wherever he went. ‘Now what could have set him off so stridently in the short time he’s been back in the city?’ Not, he recalled, that it took much to set Buteo off. Ever-conniving Lucretius Rabirus was at his elbow today, nodding along at Buteo’s stream of opinions even as he scanned the Curia with an acquisitive eye.
The entrance of General Aufidius Strato diverted all attention. He was an imposing figure: tall and broad-shouldered, with deeply bronzed skin and fathomless dark eyes. The chaplet of oak leaves wound in his glossy black curls, a marker of great honor, only emphasized his likeness to Mars. The more enthusiastic Senators rose to their feet, applauding him with considerable vigor. Not everyone, Galerius noticed, was so encouraging; the General had won great victories, to be sure, but many Optimates disagreed with his methods, believing that he provoked conflicts rather than settling them. As one of the few ex-praetors present, Strato joined Galerius and Aulus Vitellius on the front bench.
The last of the stragglers settled in, yet the senators’ rows were not half-filled, and the consuls’ chairs remained conspicuous in their vacancy. The interim censor, chosen by virtue of seniority, rose shakily to his feet. “August fathers,” he said, “it is good to see you returned.” He paused, worrying his lower lip. “Even if there are too few of you. Far too few. There is much that must be remedied. Our priority must be to hold general elections for all offices. Venerable fathers, does this seem right and just to you?”
With general agreement voiced, there was no need to show a division with a formal vote, and the Senate moved to the question of how elections would proceed: an issue on which everyone had an opinion, and few in accord. Arrius Buteo rose, proving that the Optimates had not wasted their time. “Before we speak of holding elections and setting dates and opening ourselves to the flood of inadequate campaigners,” he said, his harsh voice bouncing off the walls, “we ought to examine the circumstances that brought our hallowed congregation to such a dismal state. The past few years were not a misfortune, august fathers, no—they were a punishment.” Galerius resisted the urge to rub his temples; Buteo’s implacable moralizing could give a man a headache faster than anyone he’d ever known. “The gods saw how we have degraded ourselves. We have allowed foreign influences to pollute our noble Aventan purity. Even our oldest families—whose sons and daughters occupy some of our most sacred offices—have allowed eastern harlots and northern barbarians into their bloodlines.” His eyes flickered towards the cluster of Terentiae, a noble family known for their famously eclectic taste in marriage matches—and who had a daughter who was a Vestal Virgin. “We have allowed degenerates and savages within our walls, even within this very Senate! We scarce deserve to call ourselves Aventan, muddled as we have become. We deserved no better than we got. But now—now we have an opportunity! We can regain our noble origins, rededicate ourselves to the founding principles of the Republic, and conciliate the gods, that they never visit another horror like Ocella on us.” Buteo cast a supercilious gaze around the Senate, clearly imagining that the assembly hung on his every word. “I propose that, as we re-fill our ranks, we hold the number of men in the Senate to one hundred, as suited our Founders.” He gave a sharp, self-satisfied nod.
Galerius sighed. Absurd, of course. Aven had grown too large and too complex for a mere hundred men to manage. Adjudication of the law courts alone would consume the time of any Senator left in the city under such a proposal. ‘Fools,’ Galerius thought, pursing his lips at the few of Buteo’s loyal cronies nodding along with him. ‘Damn fools.’ This sort of thing had always kept Galerius from throwing in his lot with their faction, even when it might have benefited him to have friends with their sort of clout. He sympathized with the affection for days past, but they were precisely that—past.
“Furthermore,” Buteo continued, “we should roll back all those laws which have allowed the dilution of the Senate’s purity. No descendants of freedmen or immigrants can be allowed within these hallowed halls. No provincials, and no plebs but those whose family names appear in the initial rolls. And—” Here his eyes found the few black-bordered tunics in the room. “No mages. This is my call—my challenge to you, august fathers. Do we have the fortitude to be the good men, the great men that our gods demand that we be?”
Buteo ceded to Rabirus, speaking in support, then a chain of other men rose in succession. For all his morally superior bluster, Buteo was not popular, nor was his proposal. There were too many men in the Senate who might lose their standing if Buteo could convince a majority to agree to the rescinding of rights.
Rufilius Albinicus eloquently voiced opposition and managed to turn attention towards setting dates for an election, but that set off a squabble about the eligibility of men who had been forced to abandon previous offices mid-term by Ocella’s proscriptions. His attention wandering, Galerius’s eyes fell on Sempronius Tarren, who had a keen expression on his face. ‘What might that be about?’ When the current speaker finished, before the interim censor could appoint anyone else, Galerius said, “August fathers, I mo
ve that Vibius Sempronius Tarren offer his opinion.”
A slight murmur went up at the idea of a man of only thirty-four years, comparatively low in rank, being asked to speak, but Sempronius rose with dignity, holding up one hand in the traditional oratory pose. “I thank you, Galerius Orator, for the honor. Venerable fathers, I propose that all offices and commands be elected anew. Including—” He paused, glancing around the room. “—the governance of our provinces and legions afield.” A murmur went up; generally those positions went to men who had recently vacated the office of praetor or consul. Ocella’s mandates had stymied matters, however, and many of the current governors had been settled into their regions for years. “Furthermore, I think it imperative that we assign all praetorships and their attendant legions before the end of the year. The news coming out of Iberia concerns me, venerable fathers, concerns me greatly. I anticipate that we will see a need, before the year is out, to prepare for war. Indeed, we ought to begin preparing now, that the commands be settled in ample time to muster the extant legions and to make travel provisions.”
‘Well, that’s put the cat among the pigeons,’ Galerius thought, as Rabirus shot to his feet to argue.
“Iberia? We hardly have matters here in hand, and you would have us launch a foreign campaign?”
“You would certainly be in an excellent position to know the city’s troubles,” Sempronius said, “having been at the right hand of the man who authored them.” That set Buteo and several others to sputtering in indignation, but Sempronius pitched his voice over theirs and continued. “Certainly there are enough men of worth left in this city—particularly if we’re willing to expand our narrow confines to see them—to handle matters at home and abroad. If we cannot defend our provinces when they cry for aid, we lose all respectability.” His eyes flicked, quickly but significantly, towards the famous generals present, Aufidius Strato and Publius Rufilius Albinicus. Strato, man of little political acumen though he was, knew an invitation when one was extended to him.