From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  They relished it. Some had grown restless with the easy pickings, finding little sport in running down sapling boys and well-fatted merchants. Angeru had taken a wound to the arm, his blood splashing out hot and fast onto the soil, but he would live, and he had well-paid the man who gave it to him. Another warrior had caught a shield under his chin, rattling his brains and breaking several of his teeth, but he had laughed it off and kept on fighting.

  They were men to be proud of, and Ekialde was grateful and humbled to lead them.

  As his men set up camp for the night, Ekialde wandered a little ways away, down the path the merchants had been traversing. Axe holstered at his shoulder, two knives sheathed at his belt, he hoisted himself into a tree, climbing nearer to the stars. He liked to be near them, breathing in sweet air, when it came time to think things over. An erregerra could not only maim and slaughter, after all. He had to have a plan.

  He wanted to move eastward, toward Toletum and Corduba, and had given thought to taking both cities. ‘What a victory that would be.’ But Toletum and Corduba had proper walls, not mere earthworks like the villages Ekialde had overrun, and he had a realistic expectation of his warriors’ inabilities to besiege a defended city. Sooner or later, the Aventans would emerge from Gades in force. He had not yet encountered a legion, but the thought beat eagerly in his blood. ‘My heart yearns to engage with these Aventans,’ he thought, ‘but my mind tells me the time is not yet ripe. So what to do?’

  The hills spread out before him, and Ekialde considered the directions in which the world rolled. His strength was to the east. The Lusetani proclaimed him their leader with one voice, and the mendi were entirely his. ‘If they believe I can really threaten Gades . . . they will come.’ And then Ekialde, erregerra of Lusetania, would prove his worth.

  Mulling it over, Ekialde waited patiently in the tree. Hours he waited, watching the path, watching the ravens, until at long last came the patter of footsteps, slapping against the packed earth.

  A lone figure emerged from the gap in the trees, breathing hard: a figure in an Aventan-style tunic, Tyrian patterns woven into its border. He had run into the woods and hidden at the beginning of the fight, had lain in a ravine for hours, waiting until he felt sure the Lusetanians had made camp and would not notice his flight. He glanced around as he ran, counting the bodies, but he did not look up into the branches waving softly above his head. He did not look to the veiling clouds in the sunset-streaked sky, and so he did not see Ekialde, caressing the smooth wooden handle of his axe, cocking the blade back over his shoulder, muscles tensed and ready to spring.

  Ekialde had fresh blood to mix in his wine that night, a drop from each enemy felled by his own hand, and though he could not taste the iron tang of it, he felt their strength swelling in him, made his own. Each drop brought him closer to conquest.

  * * *

  NEDHENA, PROVINCE OF MARITIMA

  The slog southward had taken weeks, moving through marshy ground and dismal, sleeting rains. Gaius Vitellius was grateful for the vexillation’s small size, for it meant fewer pack animals and carts to get stuck in the mud. Rather than risk crossing the Pyreneian Mountains when the weather might turn even worse, Vitellius had elected for a water crossing—but that provided its own challenges. Lining up enough large boats to transport two cohorts was difficult enough, even without the rumors coming out of Iberia and the autumn winds whipping up off the coast.

  Initially, Vitellius had thought it would be no hardship. A treat, really, to spend time in Nedhena, a town famous for how it welcomed soldiers. A frequent stopping point for the Aventan legions, it was now a sizable village belonging to Vulcan and Venus. On the one hand, it boasted a coterie of Fire-forgers, armorers, and other metalworkers; on the other, it also housed more prostitutes, in Vitellius’s estimation, than any city west of Truscum.

  The girls in Nedhena were prettier and cleaner by far than those on the Vendelician border, and a far sight more willing to entertain soldiers with coinage to spare. But too many of Vitellius’s men were spending too much of their wages on sport, and he intended to have a word with the centurions about holding back some pay and sending it directly back to Aven. At least most of the men seemed to have the sense to douse themselves with vinegar after a visit to the lupanar, or else to procure fish bladders to block against infection, but Vitellius worried that, if their stay in Nedhena was of long duration, he might, nonetheless, be facing decimation by disease.

  Then there was the brawling. Not amongst themselves, for the most part—except for one quarrel over a particularly pretty girl, which left two men with broken noses. But these men were fighters who had already gone too long without an outlet for aggression, and in Nedhena, the opportunities for trouble abounded. Adding drink and gambling into the equation, Vitellius’s centurions experienced difficulties maintaining order. Vitellius, to his dismay, had been forced to dole out punishments. So far, he had been making do with garnishing wages and assigning extra shifts of unpleasant duties, but he was worried that if matters got much worse, he would have to have some offender or other physically castigated. Instilling discipline was of utmost importance in the Aventan legions, and Vitellius loathed the thought of being known as a commander who had lost control.

  Even the weather wouldn’t cooperate. Vitellius had always heard that Nedhena enjoyed a fair climate year-round, but every night had been surprisingly cold, and every day miserably damp. One early October night found Vitellius and Titus Mennenius taking refuge in a local tavern, sitting close to a fire and sharing a jug of hot spiced wine. They were discussing whether triremes or quinqueremes would be better for their eventual trip to Tarraco when the door to the tavern swung open to admit a half-soaked band of men. As they stripped off sodden cloaks, Vitellius could see that half of them were in Tyrian-style wrapped robes and fully bearded, while the others boasted tunics, trousers, and shorter-clipped beards of Iberian style. It was enough to pique Vitellius’s interest, and he held up a hand to pause Mennenius mid-sentence. “We’ll continue east in the morning, if the rain lets up.” Vitellius overheard. They were speaking Athaecan, still a dominant language on the western shores of the Middle Sea. “Damned weather, feels like we can’t get more than a few miles in a day. I think we’ve hit every town with so much as a pier to dock for three hundred leagues.”

  Vitellius raised a hand to hail the group. “There’s room by the fire,” he called in Athaecan. “Come, gentlemen, warm yourselves.”

  The newcomers looked at each other questioningly, then their leader nodded, striding over to them. One of the centurions gave up his bench to squeeze in beside the other; the Tyrians took it over, and the Iberians sat on the floor. “I thank you, soldier,” the leader said, nodding at Vitellius’s identifying cloak. “I am called Marthanes. This is Soterich and Gregoras.” He introduced his fellow Tyrians, but not the Iberians. “And you?”

  “I am Tribune Vitellius, and this is Tribune Mennenius. Do you speak Truscan, friends?” Vitellius asked.

  “We do,” Marthanes said, switching to that language. “At least, we do and that one.” He nodded at the youngest of the Iberians. “What is your business in these parts? I had not thought there were any legions stationed in Nedhena at present.”

  “No legion,” Titus said, “only a few cohorts, headed south soon.”

  Marthanes exchanged significant looks with his comrades. The young Iberian was talking quietly, apparently translating for his friends. “I can’t blame you for waiting for clear weather,” he said, “not with how long it’s taken us to come this far. All the same . . . the sooner you do get there, the better.”

  “Marthanes,” Vitellius said, “we’ve been stationed far away, in Albina, and we’ve heard only rumors about what’s happening in Iberia.”

  “All of that third-hand,” Mennenius added, “and much the worse for wear for traveling those miles.”

  “Would you be willing to tell us the
truth of the situation there?” Vitellius asked.

  “Nothing good,” Marthanes said. “We trade with the tribesmen in the central plains and plateaus, that whole region. We trade on the coast, but many of our goods come from further inland. Oil and marble. Lately, though . . .” He flicked a wrist, his nostrils flaring. “Shipments are unreliable. Many have been stolen.”

  “The rebels have spread so far east?” Titus asked, alarmed.

  Marthanes flapped a hand. “No, no, not in the least. But they’ve disrupted all the routes through the mountains. No goods are making their way out. So, I’m returning to my father in Massilia, to tell him what’s going on. Better we refocus our efforts elsewhere, until things quiet down.”

  There was a minor commotion from the Iberians sitting on the floor, all three of them talking at once in their native tongue, then one stood up swiftly and spoke in Athaecan. “Meaning no offense to the honored Marthanes—” and he nodded, with no trace of irony in his voice, “—but we can speak more directly to what is happening inland.”

  “It’s true,” Marthanes said with a shrug. “We only know how it has affected our end of matters.”

  “We have traded with the Tyrians for very long. We are a good people,” he said, “a noble people, old in our territory. We have held it for many centuries. We do not fight the Tyrians when they come, and we do not wish to fight the Aventans. But this Ekialde, this so-called war-king, he stirs up trouble. He says, fight with him or die in front of him.” Behind him, one of the other Iberians spat, and the speaker’s expression indicated his agreement with that sentiment. “Some of our people can run and hide, but we? We are too tied to our land. We cannot pick up our olive trees and move them from one village to another. My honesty, sir? We are frightened. A year or two of bad trade, we could endure. But we hear that this Ekialde is setting fire to fields and orchards further west. If he should do so to us . . . we would be ruined. Forever.”

  Vitellius could see the passion for his land in the young man’s eyes, and he felt his chest tighten, feeling, for the first time, the vital importance of Aven’s keeping faith with its allied tribes. He was about to ask for more information, specifics on where his people lived and where they thought this Ekialde was moving, but one of his junior centurions came rushing into the tavern then, breathless and red-cheeked. He saluted Vitellius, then stammered, “A-Another fight, sir. With respect, sir, I think you’re needed.”

  Vitellius stood and extended a hand to Marthanes. “I thank you for your wisdom, trader.” Then he bent to shake hands with the Iberians. “And yours, friends. Would you be willing to tell more of your stories to Tribune Mennenius?” They nodded their assent, allowing Vitellius to dash out and deal with his newest headache.

  XIII

  The morning of the Cantrinalia, held on the day before the Nones of October, dawned fair, bright, and cool. All freeborn citizens divinely gifted with the talents of magic were required to show their duties at this time, or risk losing the gods’ favor; and so Merula woke Latona at dawn to prepare her. There was a ritual to dressing on the morning of a religious ceremony. Latona had to bathe in a specific way, with water drawn from a fresh spring, not piped in through an aqueduct.

  Merula dressed Latona in the colors attributed to her primary Element. For Latona, in whom Spirit reigned stronger than Fire, this meant Juno’s pink. Latona rather wished she had another option. Soft pinks flattered her sisters, who were rosier-hued than she. Latona’s skin was a touch darker, with golden undertones, and they failed to make her look as fresh and blooming as Aula and Alhena. ‘Someday,’ she vowed, while Merula fussed over the folds of her dusky rose palla, ‘I’m going to wear Jupiter’s purple to this thing, custom be damned.’ She wished she could wear the shocking fuschia she and Aula had bought in Sextilis, but it was ornamented with golden beads and, for the ritual, she could have no metal at all about her. Her pins, brooches, and hair ornaments had to be bone or wood. Fortunately for Latona’s vanity, nothing prevented the wearing of pearls, and so she had several strands draped about her neck and another wound through her curls. Her hairpins and the brooches at her shoulders were finest ivory from Numidia, and she was to forego the cosmetics she usually applied to her lips and eyes. The voluminous robes were belted with a special cord, knotted nine times around her waist, an unmistakable mark of religious purpose to any who saw her, to go along with the mage’s stripes on her tunic.

  Herennius did not trouble to see her off. While Latona was at the ceremony, Herennius would receive his clients; by the time she returned, he would likely be down in the Forum, conducting business. So much the better. She had quite enough on her mind this morning without adding her husband to the equation.

  On her way to the ritual, Latona stopped by her father’s household to retrieve Alhena. A yawning Aula greeted her in the atrium, bundled up in a cozy crimson robe, her hair loose about her shoulders. “She’ll be out in a minute. I gather,” Aula said, a mirthless smile on her lips, “it took Mus rather a while to get her going this morning.”

  “At least she’s coming out,” Latona said, folding her arms beneath the wrapping warmth of her palla. “I was worried—”

  “As was I. But it seems her piety won out over her gloom.”

  “I suppose that’s something.” Latona hoped that this ceremony would prove a comfort to her—all women, all mages, all joining together in a display of devotion.

  When Mus finally managed to produce her reluctant mistress, whispering encouragement in Alhena’s ear, it did little to alleviate Latona’s concerns. For Alhena, the day’s color was a silvery gray. No actual cloth-of-silver or silver thread could be used, of course, but the fabric itself was a wool so soft and finely woven that it seemed to shine. Her bright hair was covered by a thin, moon-gray palla. Her eyes, though, were red-rimmed, and her skin was pasty. Nonetheless, Latona embraced her, adjusted one of her curls, and told her she looked beautiful. Alhena mustered the ghost of a smile before trundling herself into the litter. In deference both to Alhena’s sensibilities and to the chill in the air, Latona kept the curtains drawn, protecting them from gawking eyes and crisp winds alike. She did not venture much conversation on the journey, beyond idle comments on the weather and the length of the ride. It was too early to be witty, in any case.

  The rites were always held at the home of a prominent mage of the city. The pontifical association determined who would have the honor, and this year, the women’s lot had fallen to Marcia Tullia. Despite their ancient blood and wealth, the Galeriae lived modestly on the eastern slope of the Palatine, an eminently respectable address, though not so fashionable as the Vitellian neighborhood, higher up on the south-western side. They had been known as staunch moderates for generations, voices of reason since the time of the kings, never a family given to producing wastrels or spendthrifts. If they did not seem to own the inimitable talent for attracting wealth that some families did, nor did they have the propensity for losing it.

  For all its modesty, however, the house was large and quite well-kept. The outer walls were freshly painted with a broad red stripe to disguise the mud from the street, and a coterie of neatly-dressed slaves waited to assist the arriving guests. Latona and Alhena had to wait a few moments before their own attendants could settle the litter and help them out, as several well-to-do ladies had arrived ahead of them. Merula and Mus were dismissed at the door. Religious rites of this kind were one of the few instances in their lives when patrician women went unattended. It was a shame, Latona thought, that someone as talented as Helva was barred from the ceremonies. Freedwomen could not attend, though their free-born children could—just one way the conservatives had found to mediate the threat they perceived in talented newcomers to the city.

  ‘Stifle, not mediate,’ Latona thought, swallowing annoyance. Still, it was useful too, offering the same kind of protective obscurity that Helva had in working for the Vitelliae. ‘But if she were respected as she should
be, she would not need to hide her talent.’ How many others were there like her, Latona wondered, freedwomen and immigrants whose brilliance went unobserved, unappreciated?

  The Cantrinalia was, however, a religious rite that welcomed free-born plebeians alongside patricians. Mixing with the Vitelliae daughters, Marcia, Vibia Sempronia, the Terentiae sisters, and all the rest of the noble ladies were a host of plebs from the Subura, the less prestigious hills, and the dockside districts; some of them priestesses, like Ama Rubellia, others working women like Davina of the bath-houses.

  Marcia looked perfectly correct, adhering to the letter of every prohibition. Her slaves milled about, offering all the women sips of water out of wooden bowls—no metal, and no drink but pure spring water. Her peristyle garden had been cleared of furniture for the occasion, to make room for the scores of women who would crowd in this morning. The altar stood beneath the portico at the far end, empty but for a plain white runner cloth.

  The autumn air was thickened by the ambrosial incense smoking in a half dozen alcoves. “You’ll be all right?” Latona asked, pressing Alhena’s hand. Alhena’s answering nod was tight, but Latona had to leave her sister’s side and join the eight other officiants, each with a subservient acolyte, at the right side of the altar. They were women that Marcia had deemed best to represent their elements—usually those with the most raw power, though sometimes those with a unique talent or who had demonstrated notable piety might serve. Latona had been relieved when Marcia chose her. By affirming Latona as worthy to represent Juno, Marcia made a public statement—and a political one—of her faith that Latona had not been tainted by Ocella’s touch.