by Cass Morris
From Ekialde’s shield arm, he drew a thin red line. Bailar caught the blood in the bronze bowl, then handed it over to another of the magic-men. The gray-bearded fellow had a lump of clay in his hand, which he rolled in the blood slowly, letting the earth soak up Ekialde’s life. As he massaged the clod, he muttered, words that Ekialde could not hear and knew were beyond his understanding. He did not question these mysteries, but trusted in his uncle and his gods.
Once the blood had been absorbed, staining the russet clay a darker shade, the magic-man held the bowl up to Ekialde. “Place your hand upon it.”
Ekialde extended his left hand, ignoring the fresh sting from the moss-staunched wound as he stretched out his arm. The clay was warmer against his palm than he had expected.
Bailar stood at Ekialde’s elbow and whispered the correct words to him. Ekialde repeated them aloud, focusing the blood’s power. “I, Ekialde, erregerra of the Lusetani, I call down the strength of Bandue, the love of Nabia. I have spilled my blood, willingly, for another. Her name is Neitin, and she is known to you. Let my strength be her guard, let my care be her comfort. Protect her as she is your daughter; protect her as she is an erregerra’s wife; protect her as she bears my blood, within and without.”
The magic-man bearing the bowl nodded approvingly, and Bailar patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Well done, sister-son. It is a noble venture.”
“I will etch it with protective symbols and fire it into a tablet,” the gray-bearded magic-man said, “and so long as your wife wears it, Bandue and Nabia will draw her under their cloaks.”
Ekialde wondered whether he should tell Neitin, considering her distaste for the practice, that it was no mere charm but linked to his life’s blood. If he did, she might not wear it, and keeping her and the babe safe was as important to Ekialde as his conquest over the Aventans. ‘And what better to protect her than my own blood? As it lives within her, it will hang about her neck and shield her.’
Neitin, he suspected, would not see it that way. Perhaps it would be best that she not know what ritual had gone into the charm’s making.
The gray-bearded fellow shuffled away, towards another campfire, but Bailar remained, still gripping the knife, already gleaming with Ekialde’s blood. “There is the other,” he said, “if you still wish to try.”
It was stranger magic, and harder. Bailar had confessed that he had never heard of a man in living memory performing it. But then, when had there been such need? When had there been an erregerra with the strength and will enough to try it?
Ekialde held out his sword-arm.
This time, Bailar cut deeper and longer, for this magic required far more blood. Ekialde’s breath caught in his throat, but he was careful not to cry out or wince in pain. The gods would not tolerate such weakness in their erregerra.
Bailar caught this blood not in a bowl, but in a drinking vessel of fired-clay. Its long neck opened into a broad belly, and Ekialde could hear the splash of his blood against the rounded interior. When the belly was full, Bailar stoppered the vessel with bit of wax, then walked over to the fire. Ekialde watched as Bailar, too, muttered words over the blood, rolling the vessel back and forth between his hands over the flickering warmth.
As Bailar worked, Ekialde thought of the Vettoni who had been unable to stop the Aventans from reaching Toletum. They had a stronghold now, the shelter of walls to skulk behind, roofs under which to avoid the snow. If the Aventan commander was wise—and Ekialde had to assume he had some brains, if he had made his way to Toletum with as few men as reported—then he would have brought in stores from the surrounding community as a guard against straining the city’s resources. They would be fed and warm through the mendi’s harshest months.
Ekialde’s question, then, was whether to try and lure them out or to trap them within the city walls. He knew little of siege-craft; a society with few walled cities had little need for it. But to capture Toletum would be a grand success, proof to the gods that their faith in him was justified. To try to capture it and fail, however . . .
Staring into the flames, Ekialde tried to open his mind to the voice of his god. Bandue, he was sure, would help him choose rightly. Ekialde could take advice from his own war-band and from the leaders of the other tribes, but an erregerra was expected to know.
Perhaps the god was looking elsewhere that night, however, for Ekialde heard nothing but the crackling of the fire and felt nothing but the prickling cold of the winter wind.
At long last, Bailar came back to him. Despite the chill, his brow shone with sweat, and his pale brown eyes had a strange luminescence to them. Bailar had not experienced difficulty communing with the gods. “It will take three days to prepare,” Bailar said. “I have the necessary items, but I will need to be in seclusion for the next two nights. See to it that no one disturbs me.”
Ekialde nodded. “And when it is done? What am I to do with it?” Bailar had told him this magic would help him to bind his enemies to his will, but he had offered only scant details on how it would work. Ekialde had no need to know the higher mysteries, but the action of casting the spell—that, he suspected, was an important detail.
Bailar held the stoppered vessel aloft. “It will require both dedication and cunning, for you will have to be within proximity of your foe. Cast this on a man, once I have transformed your blood to the potion, and he will be yours to command. The magic compels the mind.”
Ekialde scratched at his beard, gazing at the moon’s light bouncing off of the curve of the clay. “And how will that serve me in battle? To compel a single man?”
Bailar arched a dark eyebrow. “Choose the man carefully.”
* * *
TOLETUM, CENTRAL IBERIA
Vitellius and Mennenius’s cohorts made it to Toletum shortly after the Kalends of December. The city’s walls were, as Hanath had promised, unimpressive by Aventan standards, hardly more than a pasture fence in some places, but that mattered little. Toletum had natural defenses that did far more than its mud-bricked barricade ever would.
At the south of a U-shaped riverbend, the town lay cradled in the water’s arms. Because the Tagus cut deep into the terrain, Toletum sat atop a magnificent hill, visible for miles in the distance, tantalizing and teasing. Its houses and temples shone like gold above the sharply inclined riverbanks, where leafless trees and ocher stones tumbled down to the winding river. Any attacking army would have only one side from which to approach, as any attempt to dare the riverbanks would result in a steep climb, harried by falling rocks at best, by arrows and oil if the city were defended.
A siege was of more concern. The same topography that protected Toletum from assault also made it easy to cut off. From what Vitellius had learned from the Arevaci and Edetani, the Iberians knew little of siege-craft, but he did not want to take chances. Already he had his men building wooden screens to protect the switchbacking pathways from the town to the river. On the one flat side of the city, they were digging trenches, immediately under the walls and at staggered intervals from there to the forest. If the Lusetani proved cleverer than reported, Vitellius had plans.
In further preparation, he had urged the people of Toletum to welcome what refugees the city could hold but also to bring in all the stores they could, that the extra mouths not prove burdensome. He had sent out the Arevaci and Edetani with specific instructions to salvage anything they could from abandoned or sacked towns. Thanks to these efforts, the granaries of Toletum were overflowing, the pens and pastures teeming with goats and cattle. He hoped it would not come to rationing, that the Lusetani would not be able to hem them in before spring, but he had a math-minded centurion drawing up distribution charts anyway.
The cohorts had not been in Toletum long when a packet of letters found them, shuffled up from the coast by the network of riders Vitellius had dispatched between the allied tribes. He sent more missives out than he ever received back, as it was f
ar easier these days for his couriers to find merchants leaving Iberia than those willing to risk themselves inland.
One letter was from Governor Sallust, back in Albina, formally authorizing Vitellius to extend his command of the excursion into the new year. ‘An honor,’ Vitellius thought, ‘and a curse.’ The Senate could send no reinforcements until after the elections. ‘And I may not know their outcome until spring . . . Nor my own fate, to stay here, be recalled to Albina, or finally go home.’ He would be loath to leave the allies he had gathered up, the men and women who had placed their trust in him. ‘But I would, I confess, not mind being able to shift some of this burden from my shoulders . . . see my father and sisters . . . meet my niece . . .’
There were also two more letters from Fimbrianus, again insisting that he disengage and go back to Nedhena. These, Vitellius hardly glanced at before consigning them to the brazier.
His father’s letters—three of them, all from early November—decried the inaction of the Senate, the constant delays and roadblocks thrown up by the Optimates. ‘Keep writing, as often as you can spare the time and the riders,’ Aulus instructed. There were two letters from Aula, stuffed full of Forum intrigues and Palatine gossip. Lucia had added her name and a small picture of what Vitellius presumed to be a lion. Aula further said that their youngest sibling had been socially withdrawn, taking little pleasure in the usual amusements of patrician life. Vitellius wondered if he should be worried—but Alhena, a girl of nine when he left Aven, was nearly a stranger to him. He did not know what advice or comfort he could offer her, and he was sure whatever the trouble was, Aula and Latona could, between them, handle it.
One letter came from an unexpected source: Sempronius Tarren, someone Vitellius knew more by reputation than by conversation. Sempronius had already been campaigning when Vitellius was a stripling, and Vitellius himself had been abroad too long to have met him often in Aven. From his father, Vitellius knew that Sempronius was a fierce Popularist, one “determined to put the cat among the pigeons,” in Aulus’s words, and that his campaign for the praetorship stood in large part upon his intent to go to war in Iberia. His name had featured in a few of Aula’s and Latona’s letters as well, always in high regard. ‘So what does he want with me?’
The letter opened with formalities and pleasantries enough, and a note that Latona had been kind enough to add this message to the packet, but Sempronius wasted little ink getting to the heart of the matter. ‘From your admirable father, I have heard of the challenges your vexillation has faced. A thousand men certainly seems inadequate for the scope of the difficulty there, though I have heard only praise for how you have managed it. I hope you will not find the following idea presumptuous of me: If you think it would help win you support, you might suggest that Aven would offer the full citizenship to auxiliaries who serve us well and complete full terms of enlistment. No promises, of course—but I shall do everything in my power to see that we repay those allies who keep faith well and truly. Write me back, if you can, and let me know if you think such action would be a boon to us in the region.’
Vitellius nearly dropped the letter when he read that. What Sempronius suggested was extraordinary. Citizenship had been awarded to Aventan auxiliaries in the past, certainly—but rarely with full rights in the first generation, and never to all members of an assisting tribe. Their leaders, a noble few who proved themselves in battle, these were the men Aven honored with citizenship.
Perhaps Sempronius only meant it as bait for the allied tribes, a promise he never intended to pay, but from what Vitellius knew of the man, he didn’t think so. The idea did have merit. Giving more Iberians a firm stake in Aven’s interests would benefit the war effort—though Vitellius worried over the rippling implications it might have for the city after this conflict was settled. Still, he would certainly chew the suggestion over. As yet, the allied tribes seemed willing to help and grateful just for the vexillation’s presence, although harder times could provoke the need for grander payoff.
That letter he also committed to the brazier, suspecting Sempronius would little thank him if it fell into the wrong hands.
Last, a small wooden box, with a note from Latona. A broad smile broke over Vitellius’s face. A pair of thick woolen tunics, socks, and a focale, the neck scarf which military men wore to keep their armor and baldrics from chafing—all hand-woven by his sister, and as such, bearing her magical gifts. ‘Dear brother,’ her note read, ‘may these keep you warm and safe, and see you through whatever may come. I know it is the fashion for men in your situation to think of no god but Mars, but I have asked my ladies to look after you as well. Wear these, thank them, and think of your family.’
Vitellius lifted one of the tunics to his face, breathing in the scent. After so many days on the road, it in truth smelled like little but wool and dust, but nonetheless, Vitellius fancied he could catch the aromas of home: the earthy aromas of pine resin and terracotta tiles, the luxurious scent of lavender perfume, incense from the altars, and the fragrant flowers of his sisters’ gardens.
“Sir.” The interruption came from Dorsus, who was swift proving one of Vitellius’s finest scouts. Where he had learned to ride as well as the Edetani, Vitellius had no idea, but he was grateful for the man’s skill. Vitellius gestured for Dorsus to spill his news. “We found some villagers wandering along the riverbank. Said their villages have been destroyed by a marauding band.”
Vitellius set the letters on his desk, weighing the stack down with a rock. “Arevaci villagers?”
“Bartasco says no. Their dialect’s a little different.”
Vitellius frowned. “Are the marauders still in the area?”
“By the villagers’ reports, yes. They were weary with running from them.”
“How far?”
“They’d been fleeing for three days, they said. But they’re certainly not moving at legion speed.”
Vitellius nodded, considering what to do. Part of him was loath to leave the security it had taken them so long to reach, and he did have to contemplate the possibility of a trap. Even if the villagers weren’t in on the subterfuge, the Lusetani could well be taking advantage of the situation. But the Aventans had committed themselves to protecting their allies—and a show of force against the marauders might convince more Iberians to join with the Aventans. “Find Centurion Calix. We’ll take one cohort out tomorrow morning and leave the other here to continue improving the city’s fortifications.”
XXXVIII
CITY OF AVEN
Sempronius Tarren rose at dawn on the Ides of December. Corvinus dressed him carefully in a freshly-chalked toga candida. His only jewelry was the signet ring on his middle finger: a falcon in flight, cut into carnelian. He went first to the top of the Capitoline Hill, offering his respect and a white ram to Jupiter, then proceeded north, out the Servian Gate, to the Field of Mars.
The morning would be spent in last-minute campaigning. After months of bribery, direct and tangential, and weeks of regulated speech-making at the Rostra, the final morning served as the last chance to impress someone enough to affect their vote.
No sheep pasture, Sempronius was sure, had ever had so much wool in it as the Field of Mars on this December morning. Thousands of men crowded the low-lying plain crooked in the bend of the Tiber, mingling, jostling—and many were armed. Outside the walls of the city, soldiers could bear their short swords along with the rest of their regalia, and many did. Red cloaks were prominent throughout the crowd, throwing the white-togaed candidates into starker relief, and many of the men, whether legionaries proud of their service or officers looking to impress, had belted on their blades.
It had never made Sempronius nervous before. But then, before, no one had killed his friend while attempting to assassinate him.
Sempronius sighed, worked a crack out of his right shoulder, and assessed the scene, sorting out which men he needed to track down and speak with. The
Fifth Class, consisting of property-less men, always voted last—if they got to vote at all, since the Officers’ Class and the first three classes of general citizens nearly always reached majority. It galled Sempronius to know he could little afford to spend his morning with anyone but the equestrians and the First Class. The senators would have made up their minds about him already, and the lower classes did not hold enough influence—however crucial they were to filling out the ranks of the legions or keeping the city fed. He had pitched his programs to the lower orders of the populace, had feted and feasted them on the Aventine and the Esquiline, but today, he had to aim higher. Lifting his chin in resigned dedication, Sempronius sighted wealthy Papirius Dolus across the field and began negotiating his way through the crowd towards him.
* * *
Aulus Vitellius had, like Sempronius Tarren, bestirred himself early to go make his final campaign speeches. The women of his household waited until later in the day to venture forth. They would not be allowed on the Field, but by afternoon, when the campaigning ended and the voting began, the surrounding streets would throng with women and non-citizens, eagerly awaiting word of who would be the first men in years to rule Aven with electoral authority. With Herennius already at the Field—as a member of the First Class, not an officer, since he had never served in the legions—Latona came to have lunch with her sisters before they would join the spectating masses.
She arrived on the Palatine, however, to find the house in an uproar. Lucia was in the atrium in her nurse’s arms, staring wide-eyed at the door to Alhena’s sleeping chamber, where Aula stood, pinching the bridge of her nose. Aula was only half-dressed, her copper hair still loose about her ears. As Latona drew closer, she could hear muffled sobs coming from inside Alhena’s room. “What’s going on?” she asked.