From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  “I don’t,” Buteo interjected.

  Cornicen sighed. “Then it is fortunate that you seem to have no end of energy to fight the tide. I think it would quite exhaust me.”

  “Then you show yourself weak,” Rabirus said, waving a hand dismissively. “I have little use for weak men.”

  As Rabirus gritted his teeth at Buteo’s lack of perspicacity, Cornicen rose from his couch. “Have it your own way,” he said, “but consider this: a little leniency, a little bending, might do more good than harm. Otherwise, you risk losing the city entirely to men like Sempronius Tarren.”

  As Cornicen took his leave, Rabirus noted the reactions of the others: Buteo’s protuberant nose was held high, but Gratianus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘And then there is my son . . .’ Young Lucretius’s eyes had followed Cornicen out, and Rabirus misliked what he saw in them: not quite approving, but too keen, too curious. ‘That,’ Rabirus thought, as Buteo launched into a rant about the declining standards of popular poetry, ‘will bear watching.’

  As soon as their guests departed, Rabirus took to his study and wrote a letter to Pinarius Scaeva, the Fracture mage Cornicen had pointed out to him weeks earlier. ‘Better to remove the instigation,’ Rabirus thought. ‘If we strike off the head of the snake quickly, perhaps that will stifle the venom.’ Without a charismatic and ambitious leader, the movement would have less forward momentum.

  Rabirus knew he had to be the one to make these decisions. Buteo was obnoxious and disliked; however noble his goals, men would be reluctant to follow him. And Gratianus had to keep his nose clean. He could best serve the Optimate cause by appearing above the fray and appealing to moderates. ‘And so it is I who must take the difficult actions . . . I who must stain my soul, for the good of the city.’

  Using Felix as a diversion had not worked so well as he had hoped, thanks to Aulus brandishing inflammatory letters. ‘But perhaps that was a weak tactic to begin with. Time to attack our problem more directly.’

  * * *

  “You’ll need a better answer, about the expense,” Galerius said as he and Sempronius left the Crispiniae’s dinner together, their torch-bearing attendants lighting their way through the dim streets. “I don’t just mean for the Senate or for the electorate. I mean for me.”

  “Yes, I know. I’ve had some thoughts.” Sempronius had spent many afternoons sequestered in his study with Corvinus and Djadi, calculating and recalculating figures, trying to account for every potential variable. “Fortunately, Ocella didn’t leave the treasury in a dismal state.”

  Galerius chuckled. “Quite the opposite, actually. For all the man’s faults . . . We have had worse custodians of the public funds.”

  “It still won’t be enough, though.”

  “The Tyrians?” Galerius suggested. “They’re the ones begging for aid, insisting Aven defend their trading interests. Surely we borrow money from them.”

  “No,” Sempronius said. “Not borrow. We will request that they shoulder some of the burden, and if they do not accede quickly enough, we will demand.” Not the gentlest of diplomatic measures, but the protection of Aven could not be taken for granted. Sempronius meant to follow through on Aven’s promise—but Tyre would have to contribute to the cause. “But we’ll still have to raise funds, and we can only borrow so much from abroad. Bithynia and Abydosia will be more than happy to loan, but—”

  “—but they won’t be shy about calling in the debt, either.” Galerius sighed. “And so much of the funding will have to come from the equestrian class.”

  Those men, wealthy but not ennobled, nestled below the uppermost echelons of society, could be forward-thinking and eager to seize opportunity, or they could be even more hidebound and intractable than men like Buteo and Rabirus. “If we balance out a property tax—or perhaps an import tax—with loans from some of the most prominent, men like Papirius Dolus, we might meet with more success. Then we—”

  Something pricked at Semponius’s attention, and he found his gaze wandering. He could see nothing out of the ordinary: the slaves before and behind them, with mostly quiet houses beyond their orb of illumination. Carts and donkeys would be crowding the streets below, but here on the wealthy, mostly residential Palatine, few other people were about. Yet Sempronius sensed someone . . .

  “Sempronius?”

  He shook his head, turning his attention back to Galerius. “Yes. Then we pay the people back out of the proceeds.”

  Galerius glanced sideways at him. “Tax them up front and then issue a remittance after the war?” Sempronius nodded. “Hard to think there’ll be enough left for the people after you’ve paid out the legions.”

  “I don’t just mean the spoils of war,” Sempronius said. “I mean . . . I mean any of a hundred things. Conquest is not my goal; coalition is. For the rebel tribes as well as our allies. Far more profitable, if we think about it properly. If we tread them into the dirt, they only pay out once. If they remain our valued allies, then their bounty is renewable. Tariffs on goods they want to trade into Aven, an additional property tax to settle inside our cities, port fees and security fees, a levy on anyone granted Aventan citizenship—”

  “Careful there,” Galerius said. “There’s many men won’t like the idea of selling the citizenship—and I’d be among them.”

  “Not selling, friend,” Sempronius said swiftly. “Just . . . asking for a contribution from those good men whom we’ve already determined are worthy of the honor.”

  Galerius mulled that over. “A fee which, you could argue, speaks to the investment that men like Rabirus fear immigrants can never make to the state.”

  Galerius was still talking, but Sempronius’s attention felt fish-hooked away from him again. His thread of Water magic, he realized, picking up on magic in use somewhere. Not a signature he recognized, nor a pattern he could easily catch. His eyes strayed to the shadows beyond their circle of light. ‘Someone is watching . . . someone is following . . .’

  “—it’s an unusual proposal,” Galerius was saying. “I think you may have a hard time selling it to the Senate.”

  Sempronius chose not to mention that, when it came to enfranchising Iberia, his preference would be to act first and sell the idea afterwards.

  “But if you convince enough equestrians,” Galerius went on, “then they may convince their patrons . . .”

  “Let me send you some of the notes I’ve made, based on reports from merchants in Gades and Tarraco,” Sempronius said, dragging his attention back again. “If they don’t convince you, well, say as much, and I’ll try to figure something else out.”

  “To convince me or to adjust the plan?”

  “Whichever seems more sensible.”

  Galerius laughed. “That’s what I like about you, you know. It’s how I know you’re not the demagogue they fear. Well, I’m this way.” They had reached the split in the road, and Galerius nodded northward.

  “Safe journey,” Sempronius said. “I’ll send Corvinus over with the reports in the morning.”

  As soon as they had rounded the corner, Sempronius gestured for Corvinus to fall into step with him. Their circle of light was smaller and dimmer now, without the Galerian attendants in addition to Sempronius’s own. “Tell me what you sense.” Corvinus was a weak mage, more sensitive to his element of Water than truly able to manipulate it, but Sempronius knew that if he could pick up on the threads without trying, so could Corvinus.

  “I’m not sure, Dominus,” Corvinus replied. “I’ve been getting . . . flickers. Like someone’s just checking in.”

  “I don’t like that.”

  “Nor I, Dominus.”

  XXVII

  HENARUS RIVER, IBERIA

  Following the river towards Toletum did not prove as simple as Tribune Vitellius had hoped. They had volleyed back and forth across the Arevaci territory for the first several days, so that Bartasco could
gather warriors to come with them and consolidate his civilians under the protection of those left behind.

  Vitellius had been surprised, too, that Bartasco had collected a few magic-men to join their company. The Iberians had star-readers, though their methods bore little similarity to Aventan astrologers, as well as men who blessed the water that the troops drank. ‘What Governor Sallust will make of this . . .’ Vitellius had thought as he made brief mention of it in a report that he sent north. Thanks to the prohibition of Mars against magic on the battlefield, Aventan legions hardly ever traveled with mages, except perhaps an Air-dedicated avian specialist here and there, to send reports with enchanted birds. ‘Hopefully Mars won’t take offense at the actions of our allies.’

  Once they began to march in earnest, it proved even more difficult than the charge up from the coast. In that direction, at least, there had been proper roads part of the way. Here, the terrain was natural, rocky, and uneven. The river basin sluiced through hard rock, leaving little room to march along the banks, and it careened drunkenly around the pointed peaks. Sometimes the hills crashed so suddenly into the river that the army had to abandon the banks entirely, ascending to narrow paths through the forest.

  It was not the way an Aventan legion liked to march, stretched out in a thin line, and the vulnerability of it was making Vitellius irritable.

  He was, however, learning quite a bit about the Iberian tribesmen who accompanied him. Most Edetani rode horses, but the same was not true of the Arevaci, many of whom had fallen amiably in line with the legionaries, marching along with packs and shields. For all that he was their chief, Bartasco was, more often than not, among the pedestrians.

  “He has never trusted horses,” Hanath said, laughing. “They sense it and do not like him much, either. But,” her shoulders moved in a shrug beneath her patterned cloak, “I think it just as well, in some ways. The lads like it, that he will walk with them. And if trouble should come,” she added with a grin, “I can always ride to his rescue and sling him across the back of my saddle.”

  Hanath, Vitellius found, was an education unto herself. He had encountered female warriors before. The northern Albine tribes had some, though to Vitellius’s dismay, the rumors about them riding bare-breasted into battle had proved unfounded. They were rarer among the Iberians, but Hanath had a few Arevaci girls riding attendance on her, all at least passingly familiar with a bow and arrow. Hanath’s favored weapon was the spear, which Vitellius recognized as a Numidian design, not Iberian. Vitellius had considered warning his men not to meddle with the Arevaci maids, but it proved unnecessary. Hanath had more than taken care of that on the day they watched her bring down an ibex with such force that the spear-tip came out the unfortunate creature’s other side.

  From Hanath, Vitellius was making an effort to learn more of the Iberian language—though she warned him that many of the tribes had their own dialects, and that the Lusetani might remain incomprehensible, for all her tutelage. “It was quite a trouble for me, when I arrived!” she said, as she and Vitellius rode at the head of the winding column. They had come out of a rocky pass that morning, where the Henarus opened up into a broad lake. The water was nearly teal and too murky to reflect the surrounding peaks. Hanath had assured him it was a good sign, for the tributary river turned westward from here, cutting further inland towards Toletum and the Tagus River. “You see, I was born in Numidia, but hardly grew up there. I spent more time on boats than I did on dry land, with my father and brothers. And we came to Iberia often. More, after you Aventans decided to make war in our land,” she said, a faintly chiding note in her voice.

  “After we were invited to settle a territorial dispute between members of your own ruling family,” Vitellius corrected.

  “Yes, well,” Hanath snorted, “you settle things with considerable force.” She waved a hand. “But, had you not, I might never have met Bartasco. His people trade in Tarraco, you know, and I spent so much time there as a girl, I could speak the coastal dialect quite well. But then he wanted to bring me inland, and suddenly I had to learn the Edetani and Arevaci tongues as well.” She rolled her eyes. “It is fortunate I was young and eager. I think now I would be too stubborn to learn.”

  “I feel much the same about Athaecan,” Vitellius confessed. “I don’t think any Aventan would bother to learn it if it wasn’t forced on him in his youth. But you speak Tyrian as well, don’t you?”

  Hanath nodded. “Numidian is my mother-tongue, Tyrian my milk. Most traders of my father’s sort speak both, and Athaecan as well.”

  Vitellius realized, with a bit of shame, that Hanath utterly trumped him when it came to languages. He had only Truscan, Athaecan, and a smattering of the Tennic argot that the soldiers stationed on the border tended to pick up. Yet here was a woman who seemed to have learned twice as many languages by the time she had married. ‘Perhaps we Aventans could learn something from that.’ To cover his blush, he coughed. “So, since your husband does not ride, who was it that taught you?”

  “My eldest brother,” Hanath replied. “Though I confess, I did not give him much of a choice. I decided I was going to learn to ride, and he decided it was better to teach me right than watch me crack my head open.” She gave him a sidelong glance, her dark eyes merry. “You are thinking I am an abnormal woman, yes, Tribune?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I was actually thinking you remind me a bit of my eldest sister.”

  Hanath slapped her thigh. “You are a man with sisters!” she crowed. “I had wondered where you came by your good sense. So, does this sister of yours ride astride? I did not think you Aventans let your women into battle.”

  “No, no,” Vitellius said, chuckling at the mental image of Aula in a cuirass and scarlet cloak. “I don’t mean in that way. But I see her in your determination.”

  His mouth twisted up at one corner, and Hanath watched him in silence for a moment before asking, “You miss them, don’t you?” Vitellius nodded. “How long has it been?”

  “Five years,” Vitellius said. “I got letters from them regularly in Albina, but . . .”

  “Not the same.”

  “Not quite.” Something in Hanath’s careful silence prompted him to add, “Not at all. It’s strange, the way life seems to freeze and go on at the same time. Father dispenses advice, and my sisters pass along gossip, and I can hear their voices in their words . . . and yet I have a niece I’ve never met.”

  Hanath shifted in her saddle. “It has been long since I have seen my family, too. It’s different. I chose to stay with Bartasco, and he is my heart now. But still, I will offer a prayer that you may return to them, Tribune.” And then the somberness passed as swiftly as it had fallen upon her. “But not before you teach these bastard Lusetani a lesson, eh? You’ve made us a promise, and I intend to make you stick to it!”

  * * *

  As the afternoon wore on, the legion wound its way to the southern side of the lake. The river took a sharp turn to the west around a ragged cliff of ocher stone. ‘Even the rocks here look odd,’ Vitellius thought. The orange hues were unlike the mossy tones of Albina or the grayer rocks of the Apennine Mountains. The trees were different, too, more colorful than those in Truscum, where the forests were mostly pine. The Iberian hills were striped amber and vermilion and crimson at this time of year, in distinct strata up the mountainside. It was beautiful—but strange.

  ‘Perk up, Tribune,’ he told himself. ‘You’re slinking into enemy territory with five hundred men and the winds of winter nipping at your heels. This is no time to get homesick.’

  No sooner had they cleared the rocky spur than Vitellius found himself nearly face-to-face with a bearded man on a horse. Vitellius had just enough time to think that he had surprised as much as he had been surprised before noticing that the fellow was not alone—and that one of the men behind him was reaching for a sword.

  “Shields!” Vitellius bellowed, drawing h
is own blade. “Formation! Hold lines!” A horn answered him, carrying the message to the rest of the cohort. The group ahead of him was small—only a dozen, if there weren’t more of them lurking nearby. Small, but armed, and angry.

  For as much time as he had spent drilling the infantry, Vitellius remained a nimble cavalryman. As his opponent swung at him, Vitellius danced his horse out of the way. He had no intention of fighting like that, though, not with only himself and a few other mounted men at the head of the column. Instead, he wheeled about, splashing his horse into the water alongside the cohort, which had arranged itself into tight lines, five across, with remarkable speed. The path was too narrow to allow for more, but it would be enough. Vitellius raised his sword. “Repel cavalry!”

  The first rank of shields snapped together into a firm wall, while the two lines behind them brought up their pila, the javelins particular to the Aventan legion. Their iron shanks gleamed briefly in the sunlight before, at a whistle from a centurion, the legionaries loosed them into the air.

  Horses screamed, but men mostly just made sickening burbles when they caught a spearhead straight in the chest. Four of the enemy warriors went down in the first volley. A few others had brought their shields up in time, but were then forced to abandon them. The genius of the Aventan pilum was that it broke beneath the head upon impact, so it could not be thrown back, but stuck in the shield, weighing it down and rendering it useless.

  A second whistle brought another rain of javelins. The remaining horses were in a panic, and their riders were unable to control them. Vitellius turned in his saddle, looking for the Edetani and Arevaci cavalry—and there they were, eyes fixed on him, awaiting their order. “Cavalry forward!”

  He saw the mad grin spreading across Hanath’s features as she galloped ahead of the Edetani riders, spear in one hand, shield on her left arm, reins tied about her waist. They came down the left side of the tightly packed cohort, some of them rushing through the water. Vitellius felt an urge to push forward with them, but that was not a commander’s role. Instead he watched as his allies made short work of their remaining foes.