by Cass Morris
Though Helva, when dismissed, had taken herself off to speak with Lucia’s nursemaid, both Merula and Mus had hovered near the entrance of the garden. Merula’s eavesdropping was shameless; Mus would not have plucked up the courage to listen had she not been able to huddle in the other woman’s shadow. When the talk turned to the Lusetanian rebellion, however, Merula fixed Mus with a hard stare. “Which were your people?” Merula asked.
“Lacetani,” Mus said, then rushed to add, “North. Much north. Good friends to Aven now.”
“Well,” Merula said, giving Mus a light pinch, which might have been either playful or threatening. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”
* * *
CENTRAL IBERIA
Vitellius and Mennenius had hardly taken the time to wring themselves out from their sea voyage before setting off again. For Mennenius and one cohort, a mad dash down the coast; for Vitellius and the second cohort, a trek into the high plateaus. Between their efforts, they had managed to rally allied tribes from the area around Tarraco, in the foothills of the mountains and on the coast. Vitellius had also sent envoys further south, to try and rouse some support out of the garrison at Gades and to sound out the Tartessi tribesmen in the surrounding hills.
Vitellius expected less success further inland. Aventan authority was mostly concentrated close to Gades, jewel of the peninsula, the oldest and largest city in Iberia. The population further north was smaller and more dispersed, with the result that Aven had little influence beyond the coast. The cohort had already encountered several blockades on the road and fought their way through. No trouble as yet for a trained Aventan legion, but these were scouts and opportunistic bandits, not the true Lusetani-led fighting force.
He worried about the weather as well. So far, the days were much the same as in Truscum, but the nights were growing chill. ‘At least it’s been dry.’ After years in Albina, weeks in Nedhena, and nearly drowning in the Middle Sea, Vitellius had almost forgotten the feeling.
As he rode along the river valley, he eyed the surrounding peaks anxiously. His men were used to the wet chill of the Tennic lands, but they only traveled through the Albine Mountains in spring or summer. Vitellius had no idea how the Iberian chain compared for wind or snowfall, but he was not overeager to find out.
Vitellius had learnt a town some hundred and forty miles north of Toletum, the largest inland city, was the home of the current chieftain of the Arevaci, a man called Bartasco. The people there were long the fastest friends that Aven had in the central part of Iberia.
As he had learned was respectful to the Iberian tribesmen, Vitellius dismounted his horse outside the hewn-timber fence that served for the town’s only approximation of a wall. He gestured to his highest ranking centurion. “You and your two best rankers will come with me; everyone else stays outside the walls for now. Best to make the initial approach with a small group, I think.”
Though larger than the other villages he had passed through, Bartasco’s town appeared in other ways the same. The buildings were mostly circular, brick or thatch built upon low stone foundations, and Vitellius could see signs of wealth similar to those in small Truscan towns or along the roads through Maritima: colorful woven curtains, painted pottery set outside the doors or resting in windows, gold bangles on the arms and ankles of the people he passed by. The citizens eyed him and his companions with interest, but only one made bold enough to speak to them, in halting Truscan: “Aventan, yes? Chief you are wanting, yes?” The bearded fellow gestured down a haphazard path. “Is there.”
“I thank you,” Vitellius said with a nod. He followed the path past several market stalls to an open square, smaller than most Aventan forums, but which seemed to serve a similar purpose.
In the middle of the square, a man and a woman were arguing. The man was typical Iberian stock: short and lean, with ashen brown hair and a close-cropped beard. The woman, however, was clearly not a local. She had the dark skin and slim, straight profile of a Numidian, and she wore her black hair shaved close to her scalp. She dressed in Iberian fashion, though more like a man than a woman. Her forest green tunic pulled up short, exposing slender calves and ankles ringed with gold. One hand gripped a rolled-up scroll, and she looked near to beating the man about the head with it.
They were shouting in Iberian, and none of the words seemed to be the few that Vitellius had so far picked up. The man seemed to be getting the worst of it, and when he noticed them approaching, he broke off the conversation with almost desperate relief. “Hail—” He said in Truscan, then squinted at Vitellius’s uniform for a moment before adding, “Tribune?”
“You have the right of it.”
The man squinted at him. “Aventan? Not some auxiliary?”
Gaius resisted the urge to rub at his gingery hair. Its paleness, along with his height and musculature, did give him somewhat Tennic coloring, at least to men more used to dealing with the northern tribes than with those born to Truscum. It had been no end of amusement to the Vendelicians. But he nodded, affirming, “Aventan. Gaius Vitellius, of the Eighth Legion.”
“Eighth?” The man’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Not the Fourth out of Gades?”
Vitellius shook his head. “Governor Fimbrianus has not sent men this far north.”
The woman snorted derisively and spat something in Iberian. The man waved his palms at her in a gentle hushing gesture.
Vitellius continued. “Governor Sallust sent our vexillation from Albina. I have a single cohort with me. Another tribune went south with a second cohort.”
“You’ve come all the way from Albina, yet they won’t move the legion out of Gades.” It was not a question, and the man made a sucking noise through his teeth. Then he looked Vitellius in the eye and tapped himself in the center of his chest. “Bartasco. Leader of the Arevaci—”
“For now, anyway,” the woman behind him muttered.
To Vitellius’s surprise, Bartasco showed no ire at her interruption. Instead, he gestured to her. “My wife, Hanath, leader of our women.”
“Which is why I am so concerned,” Hanath said, pushing forward. She shook the fist holding the scroll. Despite the total lack of physical similarities, Gaius was nonetheless put in mind of his eldest sister Aula. “We hear from upriver and down how much trouble these wild Lusetani are causing. They have even set the damn Vettoni on us!” Her Truscan was even finer and less accented than her husband’s, though her Numidian origins danced in the sharpness of her consonants. “The Arevaci are no barbarians, Tribune Vitellius. We farm, we mine, we trade. And we have no desire to lose our livelihood to these marauding thugs.”
“Our concern,” Bartasco broke in, laying a hand lightly on his wife’s arm, “is whether continued alliance to Aven will help or hurt us. If Aven cannot protect us . . .”
“I am here to assure you that we can, and we will,” Vitellius broke in. “That is not only my pledge, but my purpose.”
Bartasco glanced behind Vitellius at his small escort, as though hoping to see more legionaries suddenly manifest. “And how many men in a cohort? A few hundred, I think?”
“More will come,” Vitellius said, with more conviction than he felt. “I’ve sent messages to Aven at every opportunity. I’m sure even now they are readying more legions to ferry across the sea or march across the mountains.” He shifted uneasily, not wishing to raise hope higher than he could deliver on. “But, with the seasons changing, it may be spring before they arrive.”
Bartasco nodded in understanding. “Winter will slow the bastard Lusetani and Vettoni down, too, thanks be for that. But you need to establish quarters, not go running around the peninsula chasing them. The higher mountains become icy very early, and even here, it can grow quite cold. And I must warn you, Tribune, I do not know if this area can support so many extra men in the lean seasons.”
“We hope to make it to Toletum,” Vitellius said. “I understand it has some fortifications.�
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Hanath snorted. “I doubt they will impress an Aventan soldier,” she said. “I saw the fortresses you built in Numidia. Toletum’s are more than our little fence, but nothing to hold out an invading army for very long.”
Vitellius met her gaze evenly. “Then we shall spend the winter improving them.” Hanath arched a thin eyebrow in a gesture that Vitellius could not interpret as either impressed or skeptical. “If we can winter there safely, we should still be able to send out patrols. The more we can study our enemy in the meantime, the better off we shall be when the full legions arrive.” He looked back into Bartasco’s placid hazel eyes. “Of course, the more aid I have from tribes like the noble Arevaci, the easier that will go as well. And so I come to ask: Can you spare men, good fighters and riders, to guide me to Toletum and winter there?”
Bartasco rubbed at his bristly jaw with the back of one hand, cautiously avoiding his wife’s burning gaze. Hanath was staring at him so intensely that she nearly vibrated with the force of it, fists clenched at her side. But whatever certainty she had, she could not pass it through the air to her husband. “Tribune . . .” he began, in a wavering voice that Vitellius usually associated with haggling merchants. “It is much that you ask. To send men with you, I must leave this town, my people, ill-defended. We already have refugees, women and children, the ill and injured, from the villages to the west. I must think of them, Tribune. If you could winter here . . .”
Vitellius swallowed, trying to ignore the growing pit in his stomach. Without the support of the Arevaci, it would be nigh-impossible to secure the plateaus. “Your devotion to your people is commendable,” he said. “Truly, all I have heard of the honor and strength of the Arevaci has not been overstated. I fear this town could not support our vexillation in addition to your people and the refugees. Toletum can—and Toletum has walls. I ask you to consider that you may best serve your people by assisting us to put down the threat to them.”
“It is not that I do not see the sense of what you say,” Bartasco countered. “But it is such a risk . . . venturing much for hope, rather than fortifying our security—”
“Enough!” Hanath cried, throwing her hands up in the air. As Vitellius gawped, she stalked into a nearby house and returned a moment later with a spear that was as tall as she was. Bartasco did not seem to share the Aventans’ astonishment; he was rubbing his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his left hand, for all the world as though this were an accustomed domestic dispute. Hanath pounded the butt of the spear into the dirt in front of Vitellius. “I will accompany you, Tribune.” Her eyes were on Bartasco as she said it. “I was born Numidian, but I am Arevaci now. And my husband tells me that the Arevaci are friends to your people. At least one of us should be with you in this fight.”
Bartasco muttered something in the Iberian tongue beneath his breath. Vitellius caught only a few words: invocations to their gods, though whether in thanks or as a request for patience, he dared not guess. Bartasco’s hands flopped helplessly to his sides, and he began a tentative sentence directed at his wife in Iberian. Almost before he gave the words breath, she fired back at him with another vehement stream. Through his tightly pinned hope that this woman would be able to influence her husband to their cause, Vitellius still felt wry amusement. This was no mere henpecking; more like a lioness cuffing courage into her mate.
“Bene!” Bartasco hollered at last. He turned back to Vitellius, straightening his shoulders and jutting out his chin. “I, Bartasco, decide this thing.” The knot in Vitellius’s stomach tightened in anticipation, then melted into relief when Bartasco said, with a decisive nod, “We will take you to Toletum.”
XXI
As October waned, Latona considered her circumstances. True to her word, Aemilia had ensured that Latona could not acquire the texts she needed to study: the priests at the Temple of Saturn and the Basilica Tullia alike refused her entry. The evening after the last rejection, she had been so furious that she had accidentally caused an oil lamp to overheat and explode before she got her temper under control.
It had, however, redirected her focus. Clearly, rediscovering the strength of her emotions and allowing them space to breathe was detrimentally affecting the discipline she had held close for so many years. ‘Escalation in one requires escalation in the other.’ Fortunately, Latona knew who could help her with that, and so the day before the Kalends of November found Latona sitting by a small fire in the garden of the Temple of Venus with the goddess’s High Priestess, Ama Rubellia, sharing fruit and gossip over a bowl of mulled wine.
Latona was about to turn the conversation to her request for aid when a group of young acolytes came into the garden, all in matching wheat-colored tunics and red belts. They were shepherded by a priestess, who glanced over at Rubellia as they came in; Rubellia waved her permission for them to be about their business. One of the girls looked familiar, it took Latona a frowning moment to figure out why. There, arms linked with one of her companions, was the first girl that Latona had rescued on the night of the Esquiline riot.
Rubellia followed her gaze. “Pontia said she had been sent here by a golden-haired paragon,” she said. “I had wondered . . .”
“How is she?”
“Healing. Slowly, but healing.” Rubellia reached over and gave Latona’s hand a comforting squeeze. “You did the right thing, sending her here.”
“I only thought it might bring comfort,” Latona said. “I didn’t think she would decide to stay.”
Rubellia nodded. “She and her mother talked it over. Her mother was concerned . . . Well. There might have been rumors, and a nasty stigma attached to her name. But there’s no virtue lost if she’s dedicated to Lady Venus. If she wants to marry someday, well, her people are of the Fourth Class, and she should have no trouble finding a good man to match her. And if she never wants to, there will never be a need. She will always be cared for here.”
“You took her on charity?” Most families sent “donations” to pay their children’s way into the temples, but a family of the Fourth Class was unlikely to have so much to spare without advance planning.
“We did.”
“I’d like to make a donation,” Latona said, her eyes still lingering on the girl, “towards her boarding.”
Rubellia was quiet a moment, then: “You don’t feel you’ve done enough.” As was her way, it was not quite a question; she spoke through intuition.
Working in pairs, the acolytes were cleaning out the dovecotes at the far end of the garden. One of the other girls flung a fistful of feathers at Pontia’s head, and she laughed, shaking them from her hair.
Latona felt a tug in her chest. “What could possibly be enough?”
They sat quietly, watching the girls at work. ‘They look happy.’ Latona was glad for Pontia—glad for all of them, to have a place where they were useful, productive, but could still feel relaxed and at home, surrounded by friends. Rubellia’s steady presence was a blessing. She had spent most of Ocella’s reign protecting her acolytes and priestesses from the dictator and his court, and now the Temple of Venus had a warmth that few others in the cities could claim.
Latona’s skin prickled: Spirit magic, aware that someone else was using magic on her. With a rueful smile, she turned back to face Rubellia. “You’re reading me.”
“Guilty,” Rubellia said. “You Spirit mages hardly ever let me get away with it.” Like Spirit, Fire could give mages an enhanced sense of empathy. As a result, Latona had manifested a double-dose of the gift.
Latona’s lips quirked. “Rubellia, you’re Venus’s High Priestess. If you didn’t want me to know you were reading me, I wouldn’t. Probably not even if I were expecting it.”
“I think you underestimate yourself,” Rubellia said, lifting her wine. “But you do have a point.” A grin. “I am very good.” Despite herself, Latona laughed. “It doesn’t take the High Priestess to see that there’s something
troubling you, dear. What happened at the Cantrinalia—that wasn’t the first time, was it?” Latona’s eyes fell to the wine, swirling slowly in the cup between her hands. She shook her head. “Nor the last?” Another shake. For a moment, only a breeze stirred the silence. Then Rubellia sighed. “Damn your Vitellian pride, Latona.” Latona looked up, expecting the pity she had feared, but instead, Rubellia wore only a gentle smile, with infinite kindness in her warm brown eyes. “You should have come to me sooner.”
“I did!” Latona protested. “Eventually. I have, now.” She took a deep drag of her wine. “I was going to say something this afternoon.”
“Yes,” Rubellia said slowly. “I think you would have.” Rubellia moved over to share Latona’s couch, gathering the younger woman in her arms and stroking her hair. “Oh, my dove. Latona, I’m so sorry you’ve endured this.” If empathy fell more strictly under the governance of Spirit, Fire still laid claim to affairs of the heart—and both elements owned their share of pride. “So—If you’re willing to talk now?”
With a sigh, Latona set her cup down, and for the second time that month, told the story of what had happened to her—and to her magical talents—since Ocella’s death. “I can’t quite seem to govern my tongue or my magic these days,” she finished. “But I have to, because . . . I want to do more. Learn more.” She snatched up a slice of pear. “Not to mention it’s getting a little inconvenient to keep plunging my hands into cold water every time my blood gets up.”
“Well,” Rubellia said, “I certainly think I can help with that aspect, at least. You even could join me here full-time, if you wanted. The Temple would delight to have you.”
Latona’s breath caught in her throat; there was temptation in that, to be sure, but . . . “No, Rubellia,” she said. “No, I think the gods have something else in mind.”
After a long, searching gaze, Rubellia gave a little sigh. “Well. I could offer you some choice words regarding my opinion of Aemilia, but I suspect they would not be helpful. And much though I might like to claim you, I think you’ve more of Juno’s work to do than Venus’s. But—” She took a sip of wine. “I do still think there’s more to this matter than you’re letting on. If you tell me, I may have better counsel.” Latona tried to give a dismissive shrug, but suspected her blushing cheeks were giving her away when Rubellia added, “I promise, I am well-versed in keeping secrets.”