by Cass Morris
What was left of the town would be returned to the Vettoni, though what use they would find in a smoking wreck, Neitin could scarcely imagine. Ekialde had told his men to strip the fields and larders of everything they could carry with them, then set fire to the rest. Hours later, the flames were dying down, their thick black smoke fading to a wispy haze.
Neitin stood and put her back to the charcoal tendrils still curling their way above the tree line. Her younger sisters played and splashed nearby, laughing and chattering. Nothing seemed to disturb their good cheer. Two talked of nothing but the handsome young warriors they intended to marry, and the third had been practicing with her bow, hoping to convince Ekialde to let her join a raid. To them, the war seemed a great game. They all supported Ekialde without question, and they all thought Neitin the luckiest woman of the Lusetani.
Their chattering and teasing was preferable to the strange reverence some others of the tribe approached her with now, as though she too were god-touched like her husband. The women wanted her to bless their hearts and wombs, to ensure happy marriages and healthy children. The men brought her gifts, hoping she would intercede with her husband on their behalf—not for favors or political gain, but to have Bandue bless and protect them. After months of such behavior, Neitin had still not figured out how to respond to these requests. ‘All because I married him before, when he was just a handsome young hunter.’
At times, she felt horribly disloyal. She was tired of tramping through forests, up and down mountains, across vast expanses of rock and brush. Neitin wanted to go home—to the village left so far behind them, where a tree protected her husband’s life. Or even back to her father’s village where the Tagus broadened and flattened before meeting the Endless Ocean. She thought sometimes of packing a mule and going, to bear her child somewhere safe, far from smoking fields, butchered corpses, and hungry ravens.
But she did not. Ekialde was not only her husband, but erregerra, proclaimed so by the elders and the magic-men. She didn’t like them, particularly not his sly uncle Bailar, but they spoke with the voice of the gods. Neitin could no more fight that than sprout wings and fly back to her village.
And so she knelt in the river, letting it bear away her fears and prayers alike.
“Not too cold yet?”
Neitin recognized her husband’s voice, but did not turn. “Pleasant,” she said. “Invigorating.” Her sisters, snickering, made their way back to shore and started retrieving their tunics from the shrubs where they had draped them. As none of them suffered from an abundance of modesty, Neitin suspected they had more interest in giving her a moment alone with her illustrious husband than with concealing their nudity.
Neitin heard a splash and a plunk as he entered the water behind her. His arms came around her middle, one hand cradling her belly, the other cupping her breast. “It’s safe? For the child?”
“The water?” Neitin said, laughing. “What could be better for our baby, than to be cradled in Nabia’s loving arms?”
“Hmm . . .” Ekialde toyed with her nipple idly, rolling it in his fingers like a bead. “I suppose there is some sense to that. Though if you really think so . . .” Moving swiftly, he lifted her off her feet, hooking one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Grinning impishly, he made as though to fling her into the deeper water.
Neitin squealed and flung her arms around his neck. “No! Husband, don’t you dare!”
“It’s only water, my star!” he argued, swinging her back and forth as though he truly would throw her. “Don’t tell me you fear Nabia, now!”
“No! No!” Neitin kicked her legs, as though that would do any good, but in truth, she was pleased. Mischievous, teasing, as bright and energetic as the sun—this was the young man she loved and had married. She wanted his lips curved in a smile, not coated in blood.
* * *
They both returned to camp thoroughly drenched, for Ekialde had not been able to resist giving Neitin a dunking, and Neitin had clung to him with such strength that he had gone under as well. Arm-in-arm, they walked the short space to the cluster of tents a little ways away from the still-smoldering fields. The usual evening bustle was ongoing: men and women stoking campfires, parceling out nuts and fruit, skinning the rabbits and deer that would be their dinner. If Neitin could forget the glint of bronze blades in the fading sunlight, she could almost pretend it was a simple hunting excursion, an almost festival atmosphere. Though Ekialde took smaller bands of warriors along with him when he scouted, he had allowed Neitin to bring enough women and servants with her to make wherever they camped feel more like a proper home.
Neitin’s sisters scurried forward when they caught sight of her, clucking their tongues. They bundled her off to her tent for a change of clothing in no time, but the youngest paused to pass a message along to Ekialde. “Great erregerra,” she said, bowing her head in the warrior’s fashion. “Your scouts have returned with word of our nefarious enemy. They await your honored presence at the largest campfire.”
Ekialde’s eyes followed his wife towards their tent as he listened. He had, for a little while, cast off the heavy cloak of the erregerra, and it shamed him now to realize he had enjoyed feeling again so buoyant, so carefree, even if just for a few moments. ‘But that is a boy’s lightness,’ he reminded himself. ‘The gods expect better of you.’ And so he nodded. “I cannot greet them thusly, wife-sister,” he said, gesturing at his sodden garments. “Please tell them I will join them as soon as I have changed.”
One of her sisters must have told Neitin about the scouts’ return, for the cheerfulness had faded from her eyes by the time he reached the tent. She said nothing to him as her sisters re-dressed her and rubbed at her long dark hair with towels. Ekialde did not try to bridge the gulf that had opened up between them again, for as much as he loved her, the burden of the erregerra was neither something she could understand, nor that he could explain. And so he donned one of his finer tunics, belted his sword about his waist, and slipped the golden coronet around his brow before stepping out into the night.
His heart lightened again when he saw which scouts had returned: his good friend Angeru and the band he had dispatched to seek news from farther away from the Tagus. “We have word,” Angeru said, “of Aventan soldiers, proper ones, with the red crests.”
This was what he had been waiting for. “Where?”
“They seem to be in two groups,” Angeru replied. “One is too far south for us to reach—yet.”
Bailar sent his nephew a significant glance. “It seems we should redouble our efforts to win over the southern tribes,” he said. “With their assistance, the south would not be beyond our power to take—and to hold.” Ekialde gave him a curt nod that both acknowledged and hushed him, then gestured for Angeru to continue.
He did so with a grin. “The other group could be well within our ability to strike. Word comes from the Vettoni that some five hundred or so Aventan soldiers traveled into their lands. They have allied with the craven Arevaci and appear to be heading towards Toletum.”
“Toletum?” The question came from one of Neitin’s relatives, a gray-bearded old warrior from her father’s village. “So far inland, so swiftly?”
“They would have faced little opposition along the way,” said another elder. “Too many of the central and eastern tribes remain unpersuaded.”
Before his counselors could enter a discussion regarding the reticence of the coastal peoples, Ekialde held up a hand for silence. “What else do we know?” Ekialde asked. “How many in total? Have they bought any other tribes over to their side?”
“The Vettoni were unsure, erregerra.” Angeru glanced at one of his comrades as though to affirm what he would say next. “But they suggested—they would not go so far as to swear, mind you, but it was heavily implied—that the Aventans picked up many of the coastal peoples along the way. Horse-riders, for the main part, but they may have
some archers with them as well.”
Ekialde paced around the fire, rubbing at his beard. “We need to know more,” he said. “Angeru, I will send you out again, and others, to learn their numbers. And I will send messengers to our allies, telling them to press towards Toletum.”
“Do you think we can take the town?” another warrior asked.
Ekialde could feel the pressing heat of so many eyes on him. It was for an erregerra to be bold, yes, but not foolish. Bandue had his own wisdom. “Not yet,” he admitted, though he kept any defeatist tone out of his voice. “But we may be able to stop them getting in. They must mean to winter there.” It was a matter Ekialde had given some thought to himself. He could not keep his own people on the move as he had through the summer—particularly not his wife, who would be growing heavy as the snows set in. The Lusetani would need shelter, too. “If we can prevent them from entering the city, they will not find Iberia comfortable in another month or so.” The counselors nodded and murmured their approval. “Then,” Ekialde proclaimed, “that will be our aim.”
XXV
CITY OF AVEN
“But why did Felix do it?” Galerius asked over the breakfast table on the morning following the brawl. “I know the boy’s reputation, but I would have thought even he would know better than to spill blood in the Forum.”
“Word amongst the mages,” said Marcia, “ is that he was magically provoked.”
Galerius nearly dropped the pear he had been about to bite into.
Marcia confirmed her words with a nod. “He was found to have been tainted—cursed, in fact.”
Galerius did not trouble to ask how Marcia had come by this news. Missives and information were ever her province. “Then the question becomes, who would do such a thing? Felix is a bit of a rascal, but no more than any other young buck in the city. Who could hate him so much?”
“That’s the wrong question,” Marcia said, with quiet certainty. “Better to ask: Who would benefit most from causing chaos in the Forum? And then, who would see Autronius Felix as the ideal vessel for causing it?” Marcia let Galerius chew on that thought for a moment, then rose from her seat, gesturing toward the atrium. “Your clients are waiting, though I think this morning you would be wise to postpone their matters in favor of arriving early at the Curia.”
“Too right, wife,” Galerius said, sighing.
* * *
Even before the session formally convened, trouble was brewing. Galerius entered the Curia to find Buteo in full stride, declaiming Felix to anyone who would listen. Considering the way his voice reverberated off the walls, that included everyone who had arrived thus far, whether they willed it or no. Buteo had his knot of supporters nearest him, including Gratianus, his pick for the consulship. “How can we countenance it?” Buteo asked, sweeping an arm wide. “How can we enjoy learned debate, the rhetorical gifts of our forefathers, when opinions are enforced with fists? When words are drowned out by bloodshed?”
Galerius scanned the crowd for Marcus Autronius and found the stocky Earth mage as far away as he could be and yet remain in the building. His arms were folded as tightly across his chest as his toga would allow, but he gave no other sign that he was listening. ‘Thank the gods for Marcus’s even temper,’ Galerius thought.
“Yet here is the true author of the debacle!” Buteo had grown, if possible, even louder, pointing now at Sempronius, who had just entered. “He, who has been courting the lowborn mob for weeks, of course his followers would incite chaos in our streets! And all this in the name of the elections—of his desire to gain high office! Will we allow it? To reward a man with high office when his supporters disturb the civil peace? To place the trust of the nation in a man whose bosom friends brawl in the very Forum?”
For a moment, Galerius thought Sempronius would pass on to his seat without comment, but he paused near Buteo and cast over his shoulder, so low Galerius almost did not hear it, “You might remember, Buteo, that it does take two sides to make a fight—but generally only one to end it.”
“Insolence!” Buteo barked, and launched into a fresh stream of invectives. Sempronius strolled along to his seat, giving the bombast no further notice.
Rabirus eventually took Buteo in hand so that session could open. In some ways, holding session at all was farcical, since no legislation could be formally implemented until after the elections and since there were no magistrates to make recommendations to. Instead, the Senators had to take direct votes on matters deemed to be of immediate importance—which this morning, to Galerius’s dismay, seemed to involve complaints about the quality of sesame imports.
As such, when Galerius noticed Aulus Vitellius bustling in late, he was exceedingly grateful for the interruption.
“Aulus Vitellius,” the interim censor croaked in chastisement. “Session has already begun.”
Aulus nodded in recognition, though he did not move to his seat, but rather stood in the center of the Curia. “Reverend fathers,” he began, “I apologize for my tardiness, but when you hear the news I bring, I suspect you will understand my reason. I beg leave to place a matter before you which needs our swift attention, though we had previously determined to hold off discussing it till the end of the year. As I was preparing to leave my house, I received a letter—” This he produced from within the folds of his toga. “It is from my son, Gaius Vitellius, who is currently leading a vexillation of the Eighth Legion in Iberia.” Aulus was uncharacteristically tense, his knuckles white around the scroll. His lips were pale and all the muscles of his face tight, clamping hard around each word he spoke. “He was sent to scout the region and see what truth there was to the rumors of discontent among the local tribes. Instead, he seems to be fighting a full-scale war with a mere two cohorts!”
“Now, really—” began Rabirus.
“He writes—” Aulus said, rolling over the objection, “from the Iberian interior, thusly: ‘The situation is worse than we feared. While our coastal cities remain, nominally, at peace, the citizens there are terrified. Those dependent on trade from the mountains for their welfare are facing sharp, sudden poverty, and the rest still live in terror of the Lusetani and their allies coming down out of the heights. Many feared, until Tribune Mennenius or I came to rally auxiliaries from them, that Aven had abandoned them to be ravaged. This fear is prevalent, I must stress, regardless of who the citizens are—Iberian, Tyrian, or Aventan themselves.
“‘Further inland, our allies are nothing less than under siege. Their fields are set afire. Their orchards are hewn down. No merchant caravan can travel safely. The rebels have set up blockades and ambushes, several of which we have ourselves encountered and fought our way through. Tribune Mennenius sent word from farther south—I intend to meet him in Toletum—of a sizable settlement entirely destroyed. Its men were killed, its women raped, its children hauled into slavery or sacrificed in bloodthirsty rites.
“‘We have succeeded in rallying several of the allied tribes, scattered though they are. I am more grateful than I can say to the brave warriors who have chosen to ride with us, without whom we would be an easy target for annihilation.’” There was murmuring at this, the senators stunned that a tribune of Aven would admit such vulnerability. Aulus Vitellius held up a hand and continued. “‘I speak not in disdain of my men, who have suffered since leaving Albina, yet who charge on with admirable determination. But there are fewer than a thousand fighting men between the cohorts, and the enemy seems to multiply daily. The Tartessi, who have holdings within a day’s ride of Gades, have failed to respond to any of our messages. The Bastetani declare themselves with us in spirit, but are already so devastated by the Lusetani as to be of no practical use. All the tribes farther west have fallen in with the Lusetani.
“‘Worst of all is their war-king, the leader who has set all the others in an uproar. He is called Ekialde in his own tongue. They seem to revere him as half a god. He is said to drink the blood of thos
e he slays and to make enchanted armor out of their bones. Others say he cavorts with dark spirits, fiends and wraiths—lemures, as we would understand them. There are even reports that he can use his nefarious powers to call them on the battlefield.’” Aulus paused a moment as a ripple of whispers rolled through the Curia. “‘I have not witnessed it myself, as we have not yet engaged with his main force.’”
More whispers, but Aulus still held the scroll up high, with a fierceness in his bright green eyes that made it plain he was not yet finished.
“‘I have written the same to Governor Sallust, who dispatched this vexillation in the first place, but Father, I implore you to take this matter to the Senate. Two cohorts are not enough to hold this peninsula together. I doubt it will even be enough to move the Fourth out of Gades, but that would be a start and might buy our survival until spring. I was sent to determine the truth of the rumors, and that report I make: They are true. Iberia is seized by terror. Our allies plea for the protection we have promised them. Send help. By all the gods, send it quickly.’”
Aulus let the scroll snap closed. “Venerable fathers,” he said, “there can no longer be any doubt of the seriousness of the situation. Iberia is in an uproar. It is time to prepare our legions in aid of our allies and our own men. We must organize now so that they may march as soon as the spring thaw comes.”
As Aulus finished, a flurry of hushed whispers rose from the third row of the Curia. Rabirus made a small hand signal towards his fellows, apparently prompting Buteo, who shoved a hand between a young conservative tribune’s shoulder blades. The man stumbled forward, bleating, “I interpose my veto!”