by Cass Morris
The people needed a show of strength, a reminder of his capability and administrative acumen—but he had to somehow convey that without also reminding them how near he had stood to the Dictator. His best tactic, then, was an appeal to self-interest.
“The office of praetor should be magisterial, not bellicose. Measured and cautious, focused on the good of the state, not war-mongering, not caring more for foreign provinces than for Aven’s own citizens!” Rabirus gestured openly at the crowd that had gathered around him. “Good men, hard-working men, like yourselves. You deserve the attention and support of dedicated praetors.”
“What about praetors who will bring money into Aven?” someone shouted from a few rows back. “Don’t we need them, too?”
“Sempronius Tarren would send your wealth overseas!” Rabirus bellowed, stretching a hand out over the crowd towards his opponent. “He would fund foreign wars to benefit Iberian tribesmen in their animal skins, not the toga-wearing men of Aven! The money he would generate—if he generated any at all, instead of just spending it on his own glory in a foreign war—would go to Tyrian traders, not into your purses!”
Some men were murmuring in agreement, but others—too many others, to Rabirus’s eyes—seemed skeptical. “We do business with the Tyrians, though, don’t we? And the Athaecans?”
“We need Iberian metals,” someone else hollered. “Why shouldn’t we support the man who would bring more trade our way?”
“Such men are misleading you,” Rabirus called back. “They see your noble intents and turn them to ill use! Mark me, gentlemen, an Iberian war would not improve your lives.”
“And what do you mean to do, Rabirus?” Sempronius said, pitching his voice to carry above the crowd. “If you care so much for the citizens of Aven—” He spread his hands wide. “Tell us your platform. What improvements will you make?”
“I will defend their rights against encroachment by foreign influences.”
“How?” Sempronius said. “Those are fine words, and no mistake, but I hear no plan behind them, no action you will take.”
Rabirus’s face was paling slightly, but he went on. “I will support their businesses, that Aventan acumen and ambition may thrive in the world.”
“How?” Sempronius asked again. “What initiatives do you propose?”
“I will support the good men of Aven, the righteous and the pious men on whose backs this city is built—”
“How?” A third time. “Good friends, Lucretius Rabirus wants you to believe that his focus is on the people of this city, but he offers only empty words.”
Furious to have been thrown off his mark, Rabirus glowered across the Forum at his opponent. “And you, Sempronius Tarren? What will you offer them?”
Sempronius smiled. “I am not so foolish as to think I have all the answers right now, Rabirus. As you have so rightly pointed out, I have been kept from the city for some time. So I am asking questions—asking what the people need.” He gestured across to a plebeian who had made himself extraordinarily wealthy off the dye trade. “Papirius Dolus tells me we need improvements to the dockside emporiums, so that goods are protected from both weather and theft.” Then, he moved his hands towards a man in a blue tunic. “This man’s wife is a priestess of Lucina, and she says the temple is in disrepair and understaffed. It needs money from the city’s coffers, or it cannot tend to the women who need its services.” He pointed next to Obir and Nisso, who straightened, grinning broadly at the recognition. “My friends in the crossroads collegia inform me that daytime traffic remains a problem. We have roads that need widening, perhaps, or better system for bringing carts in and out of the city.” Sempronius dropped his hand to his side. “And traders up and down the Forum tell me they hear ill news out of Iberia, and that they fear for the security of their goods if we do not heed the call from the local tribes to intervene. I do not offer empty words, Rabirus. I offer a willing ear, a capable mind, and the desire to make the city truly better, in deed as well as in thought.”
And with that, he turned and moved away, plunging back into a crowd where many men now plucked at his toga to gain his ear. Obir was already at his side, muttering invectives against Rabirus in his native Mauretanian. Then, “I wish I could say otherwise, dominus, but his deceitful message . . . it will play well with many Aventans.”
But Sempronius quirked a smile. “But not with others. Not with such fine men as yourselves, and if you can sway the other collegia—”
“Some, yes,” Obir said. “The Subura, the Esquiline, the Aventine where they love you . . . but the Palatine collegia? The Caelian? The men who live a stone’s throw from the Forum?” He shook his head. “They’re as staunch as Rabirus, in their own ways. Proud to have been plebs for five hundred years, because they’ve been Aventan plebs. They fear we foreign citizen-mongrels as much as any invading barbarian.”
Sempronius shook his head. “Short-sighted.” The narrowness of such men’s views dismayed more than angered him. “They are so desperate to cling to what is and what has been that they have no eyes for what could be.”
Obir raised a hand to clap Sempronius on the shoulder, but thought better of it at the last second. The gesture was too familiar for the Forum, for one thing, and his toga candida would have raised quite a cloud of chalk dust, for another. “They fear, Senator. Perhaps not wrongly.” He grinned. “What chance do fools have when clever men like me move into the city to take all their jobs?”
Sempronius snorted, but he knew there was some truth to what Obir said. An influx of immigrants and slaves alike could affect employment levels in the city. But, foreign expeditions that required the mustering of more legions would also employ many men who might otherwise be in need of work. Signing on with the legions meant sixteen years of financial security and a decent pension—so long as you survived it. Plenty of men had proved themselves willing to take that risk ever since the Senate had opened up military registration to the lowest rank of Aventan citizens, the landless Head Count. There was, too, the chance that veterans of Ocella’s wars would re-enlist. Men who became used to the battlefield often found themselves at loose ends in peacetime, and the citizenry might well prefer that they be off in the Iberian wilderness than causing tavern brawls and engaging in petty thievery in the city.
“I must frame the entire expedition as something that will expand economic opportunity across all classes.” He glanced up at the sky. “I must find the right words . . .”
* * *
Sempronius received several invitations to dinner, but decided to forgo pleasure in favor of politics, accepting Crispinius’s invitation over those from the Autroniae and Rufilius Albinicus. He returned to his domus to divest himself of both his clients and his toga candida. As he scraped away the chalky residue the garment had left on him, he dictated to Corvinus and Djadi a list of promises made during the course of the day. Bribery was a time-honored illegal tradition in Aven, but Sempronius preferred to do favors—expensive favors, often, but the tangibility had considerable benefits. “. . . a brace of trained pigeons for the Temple of Mercury. And finally, Papirius Dolus has a daughter I should send a wedding gift to and a son serving in Numidia who, perhaps, could use some new boots, blessed by an Earth mage.”
“These are in addition to your public plans, Dominus?” Corvinus asked, as Djadi etched the final benefice onto his wax tablet. “The feasts and improvements to public buildings?”
“Yes, Corvinus. These are personal gifts, not public endowments.”
Corvinus nodded, still scribbling. “And how are we paying for all of this, Dominus?”
Sempronius shot his servant a significant look. “Ocella didn’t manage to seize all of my assets, you know. I do still have resources. And my sister and her husband have pledged their support as well, since Taius Mella’s political career is never likely to cost them much.”
“Even so, Dominus . . .” Corvinus regarded
his tablet, adding up figures in his head. “I think these initiatives will well exceed those funds.”
“Then I will borrow,” Sempronius said. “The Athaecan oligarchs are always happy to have an Aventan senator indebted to them. And I have friends abroad I can sound out for the rest.”
“Ah.” Corvinus’s eyes remained carefully on the tablet, though his eyebrows had drifted towards his hairline.
“You disapprove?”
“It’s not my place to approve or—”
“Corvinus,” Sempronius said. “When I ask you a question—”
“Yes, Dominus. It seems an . . . unsustainable plan.”
“I wager against my future, it’s true,” Sempronius said, setting his strigil down onto a towel. “The men I’ll borrow from won’t just be making a loan, they’ll be investing in my career. I have every confidence of repaying them within five years.”
Another eloquent twitch of Corvinus’s brow. “You will need to return from Iberia a very rich man.”
“I have to get there first.” He tapped the edge of Corvinus’s tablet. “This will ensure that.”
♦ OCTOBER ♦
XII
CENTRAL IBERIA
“I wish you wouldn’t drink that.”
Ekialde stopped with the cup halfway to his lips, looking over its brim at his wife. She had followed him on campaign, as was right and proper for the wife of an erregerra. Even better, she had become pregnant over the summer, and now her rounding belly was testament both to his manhood and to the favor of the gods. It compensated for the anger burning in her eyes as she glared at the clay cup in his hand. The magic-men had been giving him tinctures sauced with the blood of fallen enemies. They said it would give him strength to continue his conquest, and thus far, Ekialde had experienced nothing to cause skepticism. “It is our way, wife,” Ekialde said.
Neitin sniffed. “The war-god’s way, maybe.”
At that, Ekialde had to grin. “I am erregerra, my sweet rabbit,” he said. “Whose way should I better follow?”
Neitin grabbed his hand and held it to her swollen stomach. “It is not only Bandue who makes a man,” she said, fierce determination burning behind her eyes, the same warm brown as the stones of the mountain he so loved. She had courage, to be sure, courage befitting the wife of an erregerra, and Ekialde was proud of her even when she spoke thusly. “You owe much to blessed Nabia and Trebarunu as well. Will you risk cursing your son with your uncle’s magic?”
Ekialde sighed. “It is no curse, wife. It is what the gods intend for me.” His gaze turned faraway, and Neitin could see the shadow of Bandue clouding his eyes. “They have given me a grand purpose—a sublime one. A new Lusetania—a free Lusetania!”
Neitin was unimpressed by his rhetoric. “Lusetania is free,” she said with a snort. “It has been for centuries.”
“The Tyrians—”
“The Tyrians in Olissippo give us no trouble! They sail their ships and they buy our cloth and our olives, and we buy their tin and their fish. What is so wrong with that?”
“It encourages others to think they can likewise encroach,” Ekialde said. “And the others are less benign. The coastal peoples are already nearly lost to the proper Iberian ways.”
“Because they trim their beards and some of them speak a little Athaecan?”
“Because they turn away from their gods and the ways of their ancestors,” Ekialde said. “You remember that messenger that came from the Edetani in the spring, who wanted our tribes to establish trade with Gades? Did you see the son he brought with him? He wore one of those charms the Aventans put on their whelps for protection, because the Aventan gods are so cruel, they will not look after the innocent without some bribe.”
Neitin’s hand rubbed her stomach. “Nabia will know her own, no matter what they wear.”
“But is he her own? If he worships her in a clay-brick temple, shut away from her world? If he calls her by the name of Juno?” Ekialde fairly spat the unfamiliar name, its low, mournful vowels so foreign to his tongue.
Neitin stared a long moment, then nodded. “Yes. I think she will. The gods are less petty than we.”
“And you, wife, may be too trusting. If we abandon our culture in favor of these eastern peoples’—if we sell our traditions to have access to their trinkets—then how will our gods even know to find us?”
“Even if you are right, you think baiting the Aventans will keep them away?” Neitin shook her head. “You think it won’t just bring their iron-armored legions down on our heads?”
“We must fight them to show we can defeat them. Then we will have not just a free Lusetania, but a free Iberia.”
Scowling, Neitin folded her arms beneath her breasts. “And how free do the Bastetani feel right now, with your swords at their throats? The Arevaci?”
“The Bastetani and the Arevaci are traitors to our people,” Ekialde said, struggling to stay patient. It did not help Ekialde’s temper to know that his wife was not alone in her thoughts. Some of his own people had questioned the decision to make war on other Iberian tribes, not only on the Tyrians and Aventans. “They were given a choice—”
“Your blade or the Aventans’?” Neitin snorted. “Some freedom you’ve offered them. Or does Bandue feel that the dead are freest of all souls? If so, then to be sure, you’ve done a great many men a good service.” Her swift tongue usually impressed Ekialde, and allowances did have to be made for her condition. Perhaps it was that, the tug of the child inside her, which brought her anger shifting without warning to tears. “This will only come to sorrow, Ekialde,” she said. “I feel it in the depths of my heart. You have turned away from your family and the way of . . . of rightness and health. And for what? To drink the blood of men you need never have killed?”
He took her face between his hands and kissed her brow. “There is nothing in this world dearer to me than you. What sorrow do you find in being the wife of an erregerra?”
“I am the daughter of a chieftain,” she countered, “and so I know full well there are other ways to rule than by the sword.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the east. “Take your people home! We have enough spoil to satisfy your son’s son yet unborn. If you must heed this blood magic, return to the tree that drank of your life and nurture it, so that it cannot betray you. Live there in prosperity, guard your people, tend the pastures.” She nodded emphatically. “That is the action of a true man, a good leader.”
“And what happens when the Aventans come there, hm?” Ekialde said, his cheeks growing hot, though it was not in anger towards his wife, but rather the heat that he knew was the righteous furor of Bandue filling him. “What will our son’s son do then? Do not think that because the Tyrians have let us live as we please that the Aventans will do the same. They are not merely traders, as the Tyrians are. They seek to control, to dominate. And if you do not believe me, you can ask the Edetani about that.”
“I could ask the Bastetani,” Neitin retorted, “if I could find any left.”
Whatever answer Ekialde might have made to that was forestalled. The flap of their tent swung open, and in came Bailar, Ekialde’s magically inclined uncle. Bailar and Neitin stared at each other for a moment, mutual disdain barely concealed, until, with a derisive sniff, Neitin turned and stalked to the other end of the tent. She lay down on her cot and pointedly snuffed the nearest lamp. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke outside, uncle,” Ekialde said, in deference to her. Erregerra though he was, he was yet young enough to feel awkward when it came to family quarrels.
“No matter,” Bailar said. “I was going to bring you out anyway.” There was a cold gleam in his eyes. “Your scouts have returned. There’s a party of merchants picking their way through the forest to the south.”
Ekialde wasted no time reaching for his greaves and sword belt. “Let us welcome them, then.”
* * *
> It never took long for the ravens to find them.
After each skirmish or raid, they descended, a black flock tracking their movements along the Tagus River and throughout the high plateaus. They were clever birds, and they had learned how to assure themselves of good meals on a regular basis.
Soon, they would feast on Tyrian traders and the Iberian mercenaries hired to guide and protect them. Ekialde’s men had made swift work of the little band, and the birds descended while the Lusetani were still looting the bodies. One of the mercenaries was burbling feebly through the blood half-choking him; Ekialde put a swift end to his suffering.
However, the people of the mountain towns were becoming cleverer. For weeks now, Ekialde and his men had reached villages only to find them already deserted, their people and goods packed up and fled. Where to, he was not certain. Perhaps they were simply gathering for numbers, but it was possible they had raced south and west, pleading to the walled towns of the Tyrians and Aventans for shelter. Ekialde did not know his foes well enough yet to guess whether they would receive refugees or turn them away at the gates, but either way, he did not like it. It meant that his net was not tight enough, that his disparate forces were not strongly enough yoked together to pin their opponents down.
It prickled at the same issue his wife had raised. ‘If I am to make the stand the gods intend for me,’ he thought, ‘I must have all the peoples of Iberia with me. And if they are not with me . . .’ He had been pressing hard at the Oretani, offering them freedom and riches if they joined him, but dealing swift vengeance upon those who would not. They had not yet broken faith with Aven, but Ekialde heard that their chieftains were coming together for meetings. In that, he saw the start of their capitulation.
The skirmishes with traders were growing harder; anyone who wandered in the Iberian forests these days was careful to go armed. Merchants had begun hiring mercenaries for protection; this train had only brought a quartet of swordsmen along with them, but it had been enough to give Ekialde’s band a solid fight.