Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  He glanced back at Tiberius. “Tight quarters past there!”

  “They’ll try to overbear the horses,” Tiberius shouted back. “Don’t get split off!”

  A horse remained one of the most deadly weapons in the whole arsenal of war. With far more weight and strength than a man, they could be used to trample infantry. With their weight and speed behind a well-aimed spear, a man could be thrown back fifteen feet, if not more, with an iron point lodged in his heart. Far more mobile and agile than infantry, cavalry had it all their own way . . . on flat, open ground. The problem was, people kept picking hilly or urban confines in which to fight. Alexander adjusted his helmet and readied his spear. Roman cavalry tended to get in position quickly, and then dismount to fight on foot. And excitement—undeniable excitement welled up in him. Today I get to see if Caesarion brought me back from the dead for any good reason at all.

  They trotted through the breach, Alexander ducking forward to shield his horse’s head from another volley of arrows. Mass confusion beyond; Caesarion had just wheeled left with about two hundred men, trying to scramble up the gravel-lined, extremely steep slope towards where the monstrous riders stood, waiting. And ahead—the scrum of melee. Alexander’s eyes flicked to the south, where the right flank of the Tenth was being pushed, and hard, by the damned trees, as well as hundreds of Vascones. All trying to just push the Romans over the edge of the cliff, into the smoking ruins of the forest below. “Right!” he shouted. “Tenth needs our help. Right!”

  And he and Tiberius set their heels to their horses, and they and the fresh men of the Seventh moved up, letting the weary Tenth fall back. Catching a swipe from a Vascone spear on his shield. Driving his horse into the line of men. The screams and the crunch as the trained war-horse stomped down with its bare hooves. Jabbing his spear down into the faces of those in front of him, while beside him, the fresh infantry got their shields up, planted them against the trunk of one of the moving trees, and heaved. “All together now! Push! Keep those branches off us—push!”

  And the tree toppled over the edge itself now in a smoking mass of tangled branches.

  Feeling his horse stagger under him, then founder completely, as another man drove a blade into its belly. Alexander rode the horse to the ground, not daring to risk being caught by a hoof in its death throes, and staggered upright, trying to keep his shield up—feeling an axe-blow ring off his helm. Dazed recognition of the axe-wielder’s eyes, dark brown under a shaggy cap of ragged brown hair, as the axe came back again—

  And then a sword came in from behind him, taking the axe-wielder’s throat as Tiberius leaped off his own horse beside him. “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your shield up?” Tiberius snapped at him.

  “Thought I was,” Alexander managed, regaining his feet, his knees unsteady under him from the head-blow. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it—steady!” That last, bawled at the men beside them. “We’ve got the trees taken care of! Nothing left but men here!”

  ____________________

  Up on the cliff-face, Matru of the Caledoni stared down at the battle. The Cantabri archers surrounding the druids on their mounts picked off a few of the legionnaires staggering up the slope at them. The two legions from the western approach had almost fully committed, entering the breach to fight the rebel legions and the Vascones. To the east, the other legion’s foot-soldiers had breached the gate and were filtering through, but their cavalry hung back, waiting. “Now?” one of the other druids asked, urgently.

  “Patience,” Matru said quietly. “Every one of them inside the walls is one less that we have to fight later. But we can give them a little encouragement to move it along.” He reached out with his mind, and, lifting his voice in a song that his brothers joined with, he caressed the earth as he might have caressed a woman—a woman who wanted to be filled with love, at any rate, and not with hate. Found the secret power resonating beneath this mountain, and made it rise.

  And watched with satisfaction as spikes of stone rose out of the earth like needles, plunging into the feet and legs of the Roman infantry below. Into their unprotected groins and bellies, too. He was democratic in his attack; both the Roman rebels and the Roman invaders got an equal taste of the earth’s fury. The ones outside, to herd them into the walls. The ones inside? To make room for those crowding in.

  ____________________

  Eurydice heard singing, and then heard a man scream—a year ago, she’d never thought that men could, and it somehow was more terrible than hearing a woman do so—and she tore her awareness away from the hawk overhead, twisting in time to see one of the men of the Seventh lifted up into the air by a needle of stone. Her mouth dropped open in horror as he hung there, impaled and writhing, from his fundament to where the stone burst through his chest. Mercifully, he died quickly, and Eurydice covered her eyes, sobbing.

  Malleolus, shaken, grabbed her shoulder. “What in the name of Proserpina is that? What’s doing that?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled through her hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I can’t feel anything! If that’s magic, that’s not a kind I know!”

  He shook her then, as the men around them started to panic, trying to split their attention between the enemy and the ground underfoot—just as other needles of stone erupted from the ground. “Can you do anything about it? Can you stop it?”

  “I don’t know! I can’t do anything with stone!”

  “Then what good is your magic, then?” A cold, harsh demand, but the Praetorian was watching his sworn brothers die all around them. “Come on. We’d better stick closer to the others. We’re ripe for those archers up there to pick us off.” Malleolus and the other men hustled her closer to the wall with its breached gate, while the medici did what they could, picking stunned men off the ground and assisting them, too, to the shelter of the wall.

  ____________________

  High above, Matru nodded in satisfaction. Aucissa was well out of the way, slaughtering Roman archers who’d been left without the cover of their fellows’ shields. Almost all of the Romans were packed inside the walls now. The only fly in the ointment was the big Roman and the detachment scrabbling up the mountainside towards them. “It’s time,” Matru called to his fellows. “The survivors, we can pick off at our discretion.”

  “Pity about the Vascones,” one of his fellows commented.

  “They allied with Rome,” another responded expressionlessly. “Call the mountain’s heart.”

  Six of the druids were summoners, able to command the respect of spirits great and small; he could do so himself, as well. The other six, like Matru, had been trained to evoke the magic inherent to the earth itself. The magic that let them make stones walk of their own accord to their places in the great circles and dances. The power that they now all drew on, in unison, their eyes focused on the mountain’s peak.

  Trusting in the power of the spirits that their brethren had called to protect them—spirits that overlapped their flesh like armor—the six men raised their voices in song once more. Reached deep into the earth. And made the mountain dance.

  ____________________

  Caesarion felt the ground shake under his feet, and wondered, Siege engine? No. Not possible. His men were doing their best, but the steep slope and rolling gravel were enormous deterrents. He swept his gaze around, even as he toiled towards his objective, shield up to catch any stray arrows that might strike his vulnerable eyes. And felt the ground shiver again. Dis. What is that?

  He looked up, and saw a crack forming in the face of the huge sheet of ice and snow above the village. As far to the west as he and his small detachment had come, they were out of its shadow. But—he swung back—the entire village, with the exception of the western wall, was. Oh, gods. This is the trap. We thought the trap was the men, and the magic. The land is the trap. I have to stop them. I can’t even order a withdrawal. No one would hear me.

  But for all his strength and power, he couldn’t ge
t traction. He slipped and scrambled as much as any of his men, and pure determination wasn’t enough. With a shout, Caesarion hurled his pilum from far range—and had the satisfaction of hitting the man on the serpent, catching him through the shoulder. The man spun with a shout of surprise and pain, the blue glow around him dissipating. “Pila!” Caesarion panted, struggling towards their foes. “Loose when you can. Even if you can’t hit them, distract them. If ever you loved Rome, or your brothers in arms, loose!”

  ____________________

  Down in the shelter of the western wall, Eurydice felt the ground shake, and danced out of the way, expecting a deadly spike to surge out of the dirt at her feet. No such thing appeared, and with Malleolus distracted by the need to keep his shield between her and the archers on the cliff, she inched towards the breach in the wall to peer around it.

  Somehow, it was far worse to see the battle first-hand. Not through the eyes of a hawk, but with her own. Men didn’t die quickly or easily. They hitched themselves away from the thick of battle, bleeding from many wounds. The lightly-armored Vascones and Ilergetae had the worst of it—she could see a few of them sitting almost peacefully, their backs braced against the mud-daubed walls of their village. Holding their guts in. Through a window opening, she spotted the terrified face of a woman, peering out. No eye contact; the village woman never even saw that Eurydice was there. But she, too, watched the battle, as men surged back and forth in front of her little house.

  Another tremor. Eurydice looked down, and then, as usual, looked up, searching for a hawk’s eyes to replace her own. But for once, she didn’t need them. She could see the white cap of snow and ice high overhead cracking. Could see the first chunks of it sliding down the mountainside . . . and then the whole thing began to move. Slowly at first, as if she were caught in a dream. It looks like waves, she thought distantly. It looks exactly like the waves that came crashing against the ship during the storm. It’s water still, but . . . solid. But it still acts like a wave. And Caesarion and Alexander are right in its path.

  She could see the path of it, the east side collapsing more slowly than the west. How it would tear through the Tenth and the Seventh, throwing at least half the men of each over the edge of the cliff, if it didn’t just entomb them in ice. The ground shook harder now, and a tearing, booming sound reached everyone on the field of combat. The men didn’t react at first, too busy trying to kill or avoid being killed. But one by one, their heads turned to see white death approaching.

  ____________________

  Caesarion’s strides lengthened as he hit relatively level ground, and he rapidly outpaced the rest of his men. The thin air burning in his lungs, he reached the druids, but it was too damned late. A glance behind told him that the avalanche had begun. That twelve thousand lives, entrusted to his keeping, were forfeit to his failure. That two lives that he valued more than his own had just been snuffed out.

  In despair and grief, he leaped into the middle of the men and their beasts. A black bear mount caught his sword arm in its massive mouth, biting down, and Caesarion actually felt it—it’s a spirit, not a real bear—and he spun, not caring if his skin tore. Slammed his shield into the bear’s face with all his god-born strength. And watched it flicker out of existence like smoke, dropping its rider to the ground with an ignominious thud. Then two more of the druids were on him. Lifting spikes of stone out of the ground, but they couldn’t do more than scuff his sandals—and he cut the men down without breaking stride.

  He wasn’t aware of the tears streaking down his face as he fought. Was barely aware as his men joined him. The last three men were good fighters, though they used nothing besides short spears and knives, and he’d just disarmed the one who’d been riding the bear when one of his own men caught his arm. “Dominus!”

  Caesarion didn’t answer. Just kept moving forwards.

  “Dominus! Prisoners might be helpful! For questioning!”

  Caesarion turned his head incrementally to stare at the man holding onto his arm. And then, his gaze caught, stared back down at what remained of the village below.

  ____________________

  Men who’d never retreated in their lives tried to run. Eurydice slipped around the corner of the wall and darted forward, hardly able to believe what she was doing. I have to try. I have to try. What good is my magic if it doesn’t save lives? Malleolus’ harsh words rang again in her ears, and she strained to see if any of the men rushing towards her were her brothers—but they weren’t.

  Dim awareness of someone shouting at her. A rough hand catching her shoulder and trying to haul her back. “Domina, no, you’ll get yourself killed!”

  It didn’t matter. She was close enough, facing the surging whiteness of the waves crashing down towards her. Eurydice closed her eyes. Reached down into the core of her being. And pulled on all the fire at her heart, assembling it into the same spell she’d used to protect their ship from the storms of the Mediterranean. The ship was just about twenty pesi wide, and over forty in length. I need to make this at least forty in width. The length behind doesn’t matter as much—the wave should run past the barrier. And of course, the barrier needs a wedge at the point. Like the ship. It needs to cut through this wave. Oh gods. At least . . . at least if I die . . . I’ll die with them. I’ll die with him.

  She raised her hands as the wave came over the edge of the cliff-face. Heard the shouts of terror behind her. And bands of force sprang into being. Woven tightly this time, like a basket and not like a sail. They pulsed in the air, visible to the naked eye, and she stole energy from the oncoming wave to feed her bands. Hold, she begged silently. Just hold.

  She hadn’t expected the force of the impact. This wasn’t like the waves of the sea; it was heavier by far. Tons and tons of ice and frozen mud hit her shield, and Eurydice felt herself skid backwards, managing to get her sandals braced on the blood-slick ground. A wall of pure white sliding by, just twenty feet to either side of her, the earth shaking and rumbling from its passage as it scoured the land clean of all trace of humanity. She could feel every impact against her shields, the boulders and chunks of ice slamming into the spell like punches to her own body. She poured more of herself into the spell. It’s holding, it’s holding—

  A wave of ice crystals poured over the topmost edge of her barricade, frosting her face and hair, but still she stood, arms upraised. Holding back the tide with pure will. Trickles of something hot down her face—stupid time to cry. Stupid. Though it feels so sticky . . . .

  ____________________

  Less than a quarter of a mile to the south, Alexander had felt the ground shake with all the rest. Had turned his head to see what new treachery the Tillii’s barbarian allies had in mind. And his mind had gone blank, seeing the wall of white approaching. He and Tiberius were too damned deep into the town to escape, hemmed in on all sides by their own men, and the Romans and Vascones they’d been fighting. He saw the Tillii soldiers break, trying to run—but the Tenth was still in their way.

  He and Tiberius exchanged a look. “You want to tell me what death’s like?” Tiberius shouted over the roar of the avalanche. Strangely, his voice seemed at peace.

  “I don’t remember. Ask me again when we’re on the other side of the Styx.”

  “Couldn’t ask to make the voyage in better company. You’ll be making jokes to Charon.”

  “Think he remembers that I failed to pay his toll last time?”

  And for a moment, they’d leaned into each other’s shoulders, weapons still raised. Nothing more. Knowing that this was the end, and there was nothing they could do to fight it.

  And then bands of white light had appeared in the air, forming a kind of tent, and Alexander had dared to hope. “The gods,” Tiberius shouted. “The gods aid us!”

  Alexander saw the standard-bearer of the Seventh struggling to reach safety, and the man actually threw the Eagle ahead of him—and then whiteness tore him away, like a doll. Men being swept into oblivion not ten feet away, scre
aming briefly, and then simply gone. Alexander scrambled and picked up the standard, and then sat down on the ground for fear he’d just fall on the shuddering earth. Tiberius moved beside him, and as the avalanche slowed, and the earth stopped trembling, called into the tremulous silence in its wake, “Seventh! Seventh, form on us! There’s still enemies in front of us!”

  It was true. Whatever sheltering hand had protected them, had protected some of their enemies as well. Tillii legionnaires stood blinking in the sudden hush.

  And then they all, to a man, looked to the east. Where a swathe had been carved out of the mountainside, leaving nothing but bare rock all the way to the eastern gate—where half the Fourth had been wiped out, and an entire Tillii legion, and half the one in front of them, was no more. All the houses, half the cliff-face, and all the burning trees below, had been replaced with white snow and brown mud.

  Tiberius stepped in front of Alexander, his shield up and his sword ready to defend the standard, though the point of his gladius wavered drunkenly in the air as his hands shook. Alexander managed to regain his feet, his knees still feeling shaky under him. “I said form up, you bastards,” Tiberius snarled at their men, his eyes locked on the enemy. “You think they were desperate to get through us before?”

  “Ti,” Alexander managed, through lips that felt numb. “How about if we offer them terms of surrender, before the next avalanche comes?” He thought about that for a moment. “Quietly.”

  Tiberius raised his head a little over his shield, staring at the rebel legionnaires.

  And to a man, the Tillii soldiers began dropping swords and pila from hands that shook too much to hold them.

  ____________________