by Cass Morris
That done, Vitellius slogged his way back across the city. Nedhena had no walls, but he had still ordered the men encamped further upriver from the established neighborhoods in the hopes that it would mitigate conflict with the locals. On his way back, he encountered Titus Mennenius, herding half a cohort back into the rows of tents. Seeking to keep the men in fighting form and out of trouble, Mennenius had been drilling them relentlessly on the empty fields, even in foul weather. If nothing else, it was an outlet for their energy, though it hardly improved morale. “They’re grumbling,” Titus confided as the tribunes watched the men file back into camp. “Calling this a fool’s errand, wanting to go back to Vendelicia, of all things.”
“They think they’d be less bored there?” Vitellius scowled up at the sky. “Or less wet?”
“Perhaps it’s just the matter of a boredom they know.” Mennenius rubbed at his forehead, leaving a muddy streak on his skin. “You don’t think they’d desert us, do you?”
Vitellius wasn’t sure. Abandoning a tribune would technically be mutiny, but if they could make a case that the tribunes in question were negligent in their own responsibilities, there might not be much of a penalty to pay. Vitellius knew there was nothing else he could have done, but he could not count on everyone else seeing it that way.
With that threat brewing behind the cohorts’ discontent, when the sun finally broke through the clouds two days later, Vitellius wasted no time in driving them onboard. The journey to Tarraco should have taken no more than three days, but as the sun began to set on the second, the wind turned bitter cold. The sun, rather than fading into yellows and oranges, fell into a pewter-colored sky. “Bad sign,” the ship’s captain said. “I’m thinking of turning back to Nedhena.”
“I’m paying you well not to,” Vitellius said, out of patience for delays of any kind. “You said you could get us to Tarraco.”
“If we turned in towards Emporion, even—”
“We go on. We’ll hug the coast as much as necessary, but we must move quickly.” The ship rolled lightly, forcing Vitellius to grab onto the mast to stay upright. The captain shook his head, sucking air in through his teeth. “Look,” Vitellius said. “Aven is generous to its friends. See us safely ashore—in Tarraco—and your bravery will not go unrewarded.” Bravery might not have been the prime motivator, but avarice served its turn. The captain nodded his agreement.
A few hours later, Vitellius was regretting the decision. Clouds had utterly blotted out moon and stars, and the wind had grown so strong that it was fraying the edges of his tunic. His men, thinking, perhaps, that if they rowed hard enough, they would steer themselves out of trouble, did not seem to flag in their efforts. Even those who ought to have been off-shift, sleeping for a few hours, had put themselves back on duty. With the wind growing stronger and the sea pushing harder at the boats, Vitellius gave the order for his men to lash themselves to their seats, lest they be thrown overboard.
By the middle of the night, the three quinqueremes had been spun and tossed about so much that Vitellius no longer knew which direction shore might be. The ships became separated, not that he could see far off his own prow anyway. For his own comfort, he regretted having put Titus on a different boat, though he knew it was the safe and sensible choice. It bettered the odds that, if any of the boats made it ashore, they would still have a commander.
An enormous wave picked Vitellius’s boat up high, then slammed it back down with a gargantuan crashing noise. He had no idea that ships could make such a sound, much less do so and remain intact. The quinquereme rocked terribly, water sloshing over the sides. The Tyrian captain shouted to his gods, but also to the Aventan men, swearing that his boats were sound and would not capsize. Vitellius hoped his assessment was correct but was not encouraged when one of the smaller sails tore loose of its rigging under the force of a howling gale, flying off into the sea, where it quickly became invisible, lost to the torrential downpour and turbulent waves. The quinquereme swirled as though kicked by a great wave, and Vitellius found himself hugging the mast for support.
‘Neptune,’ Vitellius thought, ‘great and blessed Neptune, forgive my arrogance, to trespass on your roads when I should have turned back. If you let me and my men see the dawn, I will make a great sacrifice in your name. The finest white bull in Cantabria, or as many rams as I can find.’ Another roll of the waves nearly up-ended the boat, sending the men tumbling, oars ripped from their hands. Vitellius could no longer tell if the water on his face was ocean spray, rain, or tears. ‘Please. Just let me see the sun.’
* * *
TAGUS RIVER, IBERIA
Blood drained into bowls from the bodies hanging suspended from a rail. Then, the magic-men mixed that blood with soot from the campfire. The smell of it had infected the whole camp, and while the warriors breathed it in and bellowed about inhaling the work of the gods, Neitin burned sage in her tent and tried to forget what she had seen.
It was Bailar’s fault, Bailar leading him down this path. “He hears no other opinions,” she muttered to herself, pacing around the tent with one hand cradling her swollen belly. “He listens to the magic-men, and they tell him nothing but certainty of his glory. His war-band is no different. And Bailar guides them all.”
So when Ekialde had announced that they were setting up a new camp, farther up the Tagus River, Neitin had taken drastic action. She had sent her sister Ditalce home on a mission, to retrieve someone that Neitin hoped would be an ally to her.
When he arrived that afternoon, striding through the smoke of the pyre, Ditalce was scowling and sullen, annoyed at having been away from the excitement of the camp for days. But Otiger smiled when he saw his favorite niece standing in the doorway of her tent. “Neitin,” he said, a broad smile breaking out in the middle of his braided red beard, “how good it is to see you.” His embrace was as rib-squeezing as she remembered. “Your mother sends her love, and I’ve a few treats here in the pack for you and your sisters.”
“That’s very kind,” Neitin said. “Please, come in.”
Once Otiger was settled in a comfortable chair, Neitin offered him a cup of Ekialde’s best wine—without the blood additives he had taken to drinking. “You look unsettled, dear one,” Otiger said, for Neitin continued to pace about. “Sit down, child. Ditalce did not have much to say about why you wanted me to join you on this campaign.”
Neitin smiled self-consciously, easing onto the edge of her bed. “No. I did not give her much information.”
“What is it, then, that troubles you?”
She jerked her head towards the opening of the tent. “What is going on out there. Ekialde has brought us so very far from home. What have we to do with the upper plateaus? What is Gades or Toletum to us? We drove the encroachers back from our borders. We should go home and tend our lands.” Neitin missed the olive groves of Ekialde’s village, and lately, she found herself missing even more the blue river waters of her childhood home, down the mountain from her husband’s territory. The rivers here were thin, the rocks harsh and grainy. Good enough for Arevaci and Vettoni, but it was not the proper place for the Lusetani.
Sighing, Otiger sat back, cradling the cup of wine in his lap. “Dear one,” he said, “you must know what a hero your husband is to our people. It is for you to be proud—”
“I am,” Neitin interjected. “Or, I was. But it goes too far.”
“Conquest is the right of the strong,” Otiger said, “and Ekialde is helping we Lusetani to prove ourselves strong.”
“We are not only a people of blood! Are we not also of the river waters and the olive trees?” Neitin got to her feet, gesturing sharply out towards the still-smoking fire. “And it is not even the blood of foreigners he is taking! Those are Vettoni, cousins to our people!”
Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Otiger gave a little grunt. “They are our old enemies.”
“And our old allies,” Neitin poin
ted out. “This is not only about taking their strength for himself. It is meant to show the penalty for not falling in line against the foreigners.”
“I expect it’s quite effective.”
“With some. The rest of the Vettoni have pledged themselves to spilling my husband’s blood in turn! He welcomes new men to his cause with open arms, and too rarely does he question what hand might hold a knife to his own throat. His war-band cares for nothing but the exhilaration of the fight, and Bailar makes sure that none of the magic-men let him hear anything that might make him question his course.”
“Your husband is not a stupid man,” Otiger said, cutting into her fury with his calm reason. “He must have a reason for pursuing this course so vehemently.”
Neitin rubbed at her forehead. “He thinks . . . he thinks he is doing right. That our people are in danger of abandoning our ways, losing sight of our gods . . . And Bailar’s stargazers have told him there is a great force coming. Ekialde thinks he must be ready for it.” Neitin’s hands were balling into fists, and she felt the frustration of knowing how impotent was her rage. “But what if they are coming because of his actions! We might live in peace, if he were content to have it so. He thinks so much of glory and conquest that he has forgotten to think of good sense. And now, do you know what he is doing? Bailar has convinced him to tattoo himself with blood.”
“This is not an unknown—”
“Human blood, uncle! The blood of fallen enemies, to take their strength into him. As though drinking it wasn’t enough!”
“These are deep magics, indeed,” Otiger said, “but not necessarily a concern. He is listening to the advice of magic-men, like me.”
“Not like you,” Neitin said. “This Bailar, he is trouble. He’s whipped all of this up, I don’t know to what purpose, but—”
Otiger’s lower lip folded over the upper: a pensive look, one he shared with Neitin’s mother. She held her tongue, giving his thought time to process. “You may,” he said, “have a point. Even an erregerra must make informed opinions. How else can he know that he chooses the path of the gods?”
Neitin released a long breath. “Just go listen to him. Join the war council. He’ll have to let you, since you are kin to me. Listen.” There was fire in her dark eyes as she added, “And be brave enough to speak if you feel my concerns have validity.”
Otiger’s hands fell onto her shoulders and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Erregerra or not, little one, Ekialde chose well in making you his wife. You have a fine and noble spirit.”
Despite the praise, Neitin pursed her lips. Again, the cold burn of futility. “And I am a woman grown, uncle,” she said. “I do not need patronizing. I need your support to stop this madness.”
“And if madness it is,” Otiger said, “then you shall have it.”
XVII
CITY OF AVEN
‘Vitellia Latona,’ Sempronius Tarren had said, ‘who is, I think, destined for more.’
The words had haunted Latona for days, as had Sempronius’s expression. His eyes, half-admiring, half-pitying, with the blended eagerness and frustration of a hunting dog being held in check when it had spotted a quarry. With that curious insight of his, he had hit upon the very point that had been working its way into her like a burr.
‘But what next?’
She could go to Ama Rubellia at the Temple of Venus and receive both comfort and guidance. She could, and she would, she vowed, in order to make sure her incendiary tendencies stayed under control. ‘But that will not be enough.’ She had to be better than that, braver than that. Juno had given her blessings, too, blessings that she had ignored for too long.
And, at the Temple of Juno, she had something to prove.
So, wrapped in a currant-colored mantle with prominent black borders, Latona made the long hike up the Capitoline Hill’s steep slope, Merula at her elbow, seeking a meeting with High Priestess Aemilia Fullia.
The massive triadic temple complex atop the Capitoline was the seat of the gods on earth, filled with their divine spirits. Jupiter Maximus’s temple was centermost, sitting with his wife Juno on one hand and his daughter Minerva on the other. Legend said that in Aven’s earliest days, the enormous terracotta statues within the temples would come to life from time to time, inhabited by the spirits of the gods, who wished to better observe the growing city as it spread over the seven hills and overtook the neighboring towns. As she ascended towards them, Latona remembered, when she was about seven or eight years old, asking Claudia why the gods had stopped visiting in such a fashion. Were they simply contented with the city’s progress, or had they lost interest? Claudia had only grinned, asking Latona what she thought, encouraging her to speculate.
The memory brought a small smile to Latona’s face. Claudia had been more than a mentor. While Latona’s own mother had been wary of the power brimming in her child, Claudia had loved Latona like a daughter, encouraging every question, indulging every curiosity, shaping Latona’s interests with a careful bent, so that she would keep her duty to her family, her gods, and Aven always in mind. However badly Latona’s time at the temple had ended, she had been cherished there for many years. She let those recollections, not the sadder ones, carry her up the dusty path, emboldening her for what she would have to face at the top.
Latona asked Merula to wait outside; Merula nodded, going to sit with a few other attendants on a bench near a small fountain. Within the temple, the first attendant Latona encountered was one who recognized her. Enough older than Latona that they had known each other but not well, the woman’s face gave away her shock. “Vitellia!”
“Good afternoon. I hope you’re well. I was hoping to see the High Priestess, if it is convenient.”
“It . . . it may be. Do take a seat. I’ll . . . see if she’s available.”
As Latona expected, she had quite some time to sit alone and let long-cold memories creep in around her before the High Priestess finally appeared. Some memories were warming—running barefoot across the mosaic floors, delighting in the temple’s library, sharing a happy glow as Claudia taught her how to cast benevolent emotions outwards. For seven years, the temple had been far more a home to her than her father’s domus on the Palatine. But the remembrance of her departure cast a pallor over that time; even the joy, she could not now remember without pain. Claudia’s death had changed everything. Now, Latona had the opportunity to learn if Aemilia Fullia was really the figure of intimidation that lived in her memory.
Aemilia was small-boned, her eyes and hair both near-black. She wore a plain tunic with a robe of pale dyed wool, and her hair was plaited up in a conical fashion and bound with a purple band that covered most of the crown of her head. She moved with practiced grace, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
Latona could have managed quite well never seeing the woman again in her life.
“Vitellia Herenniae,” Aemilia said. Latona did not miss the pointed use of the marital form of her name. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed, honored lady,” Latona said, inclining her head as she rose in greeting. As bitter as the words tasted, she was determined to show respect. ‘For the goddess you serve, if not you, Aemilia.’ Thanks to Aemilia, she had learned the graces of a socialite rather than a priestess, and she had Aula’s example for how to wield them.
Aemilia’s smile did not meet her eyes. “It must be quite some matter to send you, of all people, seeking my aide.”
Latona took a steadying breath. “It is Juno’s business I’m about,” she said. “Or, more accurately, Juno’s business that I wish to be about.”
Aemilia’s fixed smile did not waver, but her voice was sharper when she said, “When you left the temple, we all understood it was permanent, and for your own good. What could you possibly be seeking here?”
Latona lifted her chin, endeavoring to remember that she was no longer a scared and vulnerable ten-year-o
ld, staring up into cold dark eyes as she was told that no one had time for her anymore, here in the only home she had ever known. ‘I will not cower,’ she thought. ‘I let her scare me away as a child. Let her look me in the eye now that I’m grown.’ Seeing Aemilia in the regalia of her office, it rankled even more to think that she had been coward enough to send a child away for fear the child would outshine her. It bolstered Latona’s determination to assert herself.
“I’ve come seeking Juno’s knowledge. As you are aware, my magical education was . . . foreshortened.” A tightening around her eyes was all the recognition that Aemilia offered, so Latona went on. “Juno still has plans for me, however, and those plans cannot be fulfilled without further guidance—magical, ethical, and practical.” Feigning a casual tone, she made a small dismissive gesture with her hand. “You need not concern yourself with it, nor with me, at all. I ask only access to the library.”
One of Aemelia’s hands lifted in a halting gesture. “Before I could make such an allowance, Vitellia Herenniae, I would need to know more about your intentions. What, precisely, do you believe Juno is calling on you to do?”
“Help the women of this city.” Latona’s eyes flicked towards the front of the temple and the sprawling streets beyond it. “As my father and other men have discovered upon returning to Aven, there is much to be done in Ocella’s wake.”
Aemilia tilted her head to one side. Latona remembered Aemilia affected that gesture when she was searching for something to object to, whether an offense existed or not. “Do you think the Senators cannot handle matters themselves?”
Rather than give her honest assessment of the Senate’s efficacy, Latona answered, “I believe it is the duty of Aventan women to do what they can to support the city’s health and growth, as our mothers have done since the days of the kings.”