by Vox Day
To Romilia at Amorr
Best of women, best of wives, to you I write news that I hope will salve and gladden your heart. First, be informed that our son, the tribune, has distinguished himself in his first battle with both his courage and his good sense. Never have I been more proud, or more terrified, than when I watched him lead half our cavalry in a headlong charge against the foe. It was all I could do to resist the paternal desire to send our reserves after him and ride to his side myself. But his judgment was sound, the enemy fled before his knights, and our victory was complete.
I will now confess you were correct, and my fears that his ecclesiastical training had rendered him too soft or effete were misplaced. He will never be the soldier’s soldier that Servius is, but he may well make a superlative general one day. That being said, the name that I mentioned in one of my previous letters, Clericus, appears to have stuck with him. But he wears it well, as the men say it with affection and not mockery.
Well, my other happy news is that I am coming to you, and indeed, I expect to be with you within one week of your receiving this. I am sure you already know the Senate has done me the profound honor of naming me Consul in consequence of Caudinus’s fall. I am ordered to come and receive my commission from that august body at once. Marcus will not ride with me, but he too should be able to visit you over the course of the winter. I am told you have a certain influence with his commanding officer. Perhaps, if you are sufficiently persuasive, you will be able to convince that mighty eminence to grant your son leave. In the meantime, as you await me, I should like you to look for a larger domus that we can purchase upon my return.
I must also tell you some less happy news. Our nephew, Gaius Valerius Fortex, did not survive the day of battle, and I fear my brother will be most displeased when he sees me next. I have already written to Magnus, so you need not serve as the messenger of evil tidings. Only pray for my nephew’s soul and offer all due condolence to Magnus and Julia. I shall tell you more upon my arrival.
Be well, my heart, for I am coming to you with all the speed an earthbound crow can muster.
S. Valerius Corvus, Consul Suffectus Aequilae at Gorignia
He quickly scribbled a fourth note to Didius Scato, informing the legate of his immediate promotion to stragister militum and ordering him to see to the withdrawal to Vallyrium of both his legion and Legio XV. The other three letters had dried sufficiently by the time he completed the last one, so one by one he rolled them up, carefully dripped a measure of red wax upon each one, and pressed his seal down upon the wax before it hardened.
“Guard!” he called. One quickly entered, shorter and darker-skinned than the last. “Go find the rider who left with Sebelon a little while ago. He’s probably in the Forum eating. If he’s not there, try the stables. Bring these three letters to him, and tell the stablemaster to give him his choice of horse from the cursors. He can finish his meal, but he should leave as soon as he’s done. See him off, don’t let him speak with anyone, and don’t answer any of his questions. Then find Saturnius and tell him to get his hairy arse over here at once.”
The guard took the letters but stopped before saluting. “Does the rider have a name, General?”
“Ah, yes, of course. He’s called Clodipor, one of my brother’s slaves. He’ll be with Sebelon. Find one, and you’ll find the other.”
“Yes, General. And that fourth letter?”
“Is still drying. I will send it by another messenger.”
The guard saluted and departed.
Corvus sighed and slumped back in his high-backed chair. By the time the guard came back with Marcus Saturnius, the letter to Titus Didius would be dry, and he’d have one of the legion’s cursors bring it to his camp. But there was so much to do, so many decisions to make if he was to depart with the sun’s rising.
He pressed his hand to his eyes and rubbed at them. He was exhausted, not in his body, but in his spirit. The burden of command, some called it, and he could feel it pressing on him as if it was an actual weight. And the worst of it was that there was no one with whom he could share it.
He picked up Magnus’s letter again. “The new consul suffectus aquilae is one S. Corvus, of House Valerius,” he read aloud. He laughed in disbelief. Corvus, Consul? Who would have thought it? Were men mad, that they sought these public honors and offices even as the ones they already held weighed them down? Was it pride or vanity that drove them? He did not exclude himself: If he had never thought to put his own name forward, it was only because he knew he had few clients and no following of any substance.
That no longer mattered. The Senate had spoken its will, for good or ill. He slipped his wife’s medal back into his coin purse and rose to his feet. He was the Consul of the Legions, and all the armed might of Amorr had been entrusted to his mortal hands. There was ever so much to do, and yet there was only one proper way to begin.
He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and held up his open palms toward the heavens. “Almighty Father, I beg You to forgive me for what I have done in the name of justice and honor. Lord, grant my nephew eternal solace in Your arms. Protect my son in my absence, my Lord. Be there to guard him and guide him when I am not. And, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, I beg You to grant me courage and grant me strength, but most of all, God, grant me wisdom! You have broken the gates of Hell and shattered the chains of Death, so in the name of Your Immaculate Son I ask You, do not let me fail Your people!”
LETTER
To Lady Caitlys Shadowsong (at Elebrion)
From Marcus Valerius at Berdicum (Aprilis)
Greetings to my Lady Shadowsong. I have received two of your letters from the hand of Philotimus, which filled me with delight. As to your anxiety for my personal safety, I am grateful for the concern you have expressed, and I must hasten to assure you that you need have no fears for me. We have recently engaged in battle an enemy that consisted of three, or possibly four, goblin tribes, and our single legion put them to flight with little difficulty. I imagine it will amuse you, who have surely seen many battles over the years, but I am pleased to have survived my first without disgracing myself. I must not mislead you, we of the cavalry merely stood and watched the enemy for most of the day while they occupied themselves with our infantry. When finally we rode at them, they fled before us with the greatest alacrity.
You ask me what I have done about the books I had begun to write prior to the present campaign. Even here in the wilds, I have not been idle and am not being idle now, but I have frequently changed the whole plan and arrangement of the work. I fear it is rather like a mirage in the desert, which I am told recedes in the distance even as one rides toward it. The more I learn of the long history of your ancient race, the more I find myself cognizant of the errors and misapprehensions I have already committed to parchment. Perhaps I should acquire a palimpsest, upon which I may write and rewrite a single page, over and over again, like Sisyphos laboriously rolling his rock up that accursed hill!
But no, I jest. I will send you the first book as it presently stands, for I fancy it will convince you that I have not abandoned my task. How I shed tears upon reading of the fall of Lannonia! I trust I do not misconceive your intention in sending that account to me; I take your warning, and I shall not overstep the proper limits by which our relations must naturally be bound, according to the wisdom of the Immaculate.
I am extremely gratified by the affection of that great soul who still insists upon remaining nameless and am much indebted to you for my knowledge of it. The wisdom which he holds out to me though your letters is something I treasure more than any honours or glory, and I look forward to the continuation of his guidance. Indeed, I am much in need of it. I ask that you would consult with him, for I find myself troubled by my present duties as a soldier in the service of the Senate and People of Amorr.
You will recall that, when I rode to Elebrion the first time we met, there was still some question with regards to the controversial notion that your people possessed souls th
at were naturally united to them. Thankfully, His Sanctified Holiness was moved to decide that the immortal nature of the Aelvi was, in fact, an aspect of the Creator’s original design—don’t laugh, my dear pagan, for I can hear your amusement even as I write these letters—and now there is nary a man in the legion who would admit to ever having believed otherwise.
And yet, could a similar argument not be put forth on behalf of those we fought so recently? True, there is a vast gulf between the crude barbarism of the Goblin tribes and the noble civilization of your ancient race. But now that I have seen with my own eyes that a Goblin may exhibit courage or cowardice in much the same manner as a Man or Elf, I find myself wondering if there is not the possibility that Goblins too possess their share, however small, of the Immortal Fire. Then again, when I consider some of their more abhorrent culinary customs (I suspect you know whereof I write), to say nothing of their filthy marital practices, I am tempted to conclude that it would be much better if this were not the case, for if so, it would appear they have all damned and twice-damned themselves.
As to your coming to me, as you say you will if I wish it, I should ask you to remain where you are. While we have at present returned to Berdicum, I do not yet know if we shall again be ordered to march into Solum Goblinensis, in which case the camp followers will not be permitted to accompany us, if we shall establish new permanent camps, in which case they will, or if we shall return to Amorr. I shouldn’t think there is much likelihood of the latter, but I have heard rumours that prevent me from dismissing the possibility entirely. Stay, I beg you, at least until I can tell you where I am likely to be. I know you can travel much faster on the mighty wings of Vengirasse than the legion can march, but I am uneasy about exposing you to the eyes of our sentries without warning.
And, as I have previously written, you must promise not to make any use, any use at all, of your sorcery before I can permit you to visit me. Until I have your most solemn and binding word on the matter, I shall have to go to you when my duties allow, if we are to see each other once more.
Take care of your health, and assure yourself that nothing is or has ever been dearer to me than you are. Good-bye, my dear Lady Shadowsong, whom I seem to see before my eyes, and so find myself ensorcelled once more.
Good-bye!
Marcus Valerius
MARCUS
The march from goblin territory, which had taken Legio XIV weeks and across three provinces, had been cold and tedious. Nevertheless, the campaign against the rebel Cynothii was already considerably more enjoyable than the one now concluded, Marcus decided as he sat at Saturnius’s desk in the legate’s office and reviewed the duty assignments for the third cohort.
For one thing, now that they were lodged in a proper castra, the legion didn’t need to dig the trenches, cut down the trees, and build the legionary fort every single evening. Although after spending more than a month in the goblin lands, Legio XVII could practically do the routine in their sleep, with each legionary having become expert at the specific task to which he was assigned, it was still an arduous process. Marcus was far from the only man relieved they would not need to do it again for the duration of the winter.
The return to the more or less civilized lands of the provinces meant they had been able to simply march from one legionary fort to the next. Sometimes there were even baths, and the severe discipline that claimed his cousin’s had been relaxed.
Instead of riding ahead of the column scouting and seeking out ambushes, Marcus found that his primary responsibility involved dragging his riders out of an outlandish collection of whorehouses, pubs, and drinking establishments before they managed to kill anyone or get killed themselves. One knight from the sixth cohort had been stabbed to death in a fight over a pockmarked woman whom Marcus privately thought looked less appealing than the average goblin. And three legionaries from the eighth cohort had been arrested after beating two villagers to death in a drunken brawl.
They would have been hanged before nightfall had he and Julianus not rounded up twenty knights and descended upon the local magistrate to lay claim to them this morning. The thought of having freed three obviously guilty men from justice bothered him, even after the decurion and a centurion from the eighth had beaten all three to within an inch of their lives. But the rescue had been popular with the infantry, and even the more hard-bitten centurions were inclined to show Marcus a modicum of respect now.
It was strange, because while they clearly approved his laxness, they also seemed to consider his father’s decision to execute his cousin to be the epitome of admirable leadership. Before, they had spoken of the General in terms of affection, but now it was with a sense of awe. They were also fiercely proud of Corvus’s appointment as consul. They saw his elevation to the consulship as reflecting on them well as a legion.
And, he supposed, it rather did. What only that spring had been an unruly collection of six thousand raw recruits wearing bright red wool and black iron had been gradually transformed into something that grumbled, creaked, swore, drank, and in all other ways much more closely approximated the disciplined killing machine that was known as an Amorran legion.
The legion had transformed him as well, Marcus imagined. Whereas it had once been almost impossible to imagine driving his sword into the flesh of another living being, by the time of the battle with the goblin tribes, his training had made the action automatic. And whereas he had initially been reluctant to kill anything, it has been easy to overcome that reluctance once it became clear that the enemy was trying very hard to kill him.
Indeed, the incident with the magistrate had made him realize that he had been only one sudden hand movement away from ordering his men to slaughter five men whose only crime had been to arrest two murderers and attempt to bring them to justice.
Though the men and the other tribunes still called him Clericus, he now found it hard to believe that he had ever thought he might be fit for the Church. He was no longer a scholar, and still less was he a man of God. He had become a man of blood like his father and his father’s father. He tried to keep up with his writing in the evenings, but often it was easier to join Lucius Volusenus, Gaius Trebonius and the other tribunes not on duty, to share the day’s wine ration with them and spend the evening telling stories, jokes, and lies.
One night, too well fortified with wine, he’d even accompanied Aemelius Petrus to a whorehouse in Caprotae. But thoughts of what Caitlys might think of that had ultimately deterred him in a way that thoughts of soiling his body and soul did not. He spent an indecisive, tortured hour drinking with the madame and two of her least attractive girls, then had had to listen to Aemelius for most of the ride back to the legionary fort rhapsodizing about size of his whore’s large white breasts and how they’d spilled over his hands.
How big were Caitlys’s breasts? He couldn’t recall. He suddenly wasn’t sure that he had ever even noticed if she had them or not. Of course she did—she must! Elfesses did have breasts, didn’t they? But when he thought of her, all he saw was her perfectly sculpted face, her inhumanly high cheekbones, and the bright intensity of her emerald eyes.
It was madness, he knew, to be so utterly obsessed with the thought of an elf maiden. And not merely a maiden but an outright sorceress, one whom the Michaelines would kill and the Church would burn on sight. And yet, there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.
There was no shortage of women in the sizeable army of camp followers that straggled along behind the legion as it marched, and there were girls pretty enough to draw appreciative remarks from the legionaries in almost every village, town, or city they rode through on their way toward Cynothicus. But none of them, no matter how attractive, could possibly compete with Caitlys Shadowsong. In comparison to the elven princess, they were a herd of indistinguishable, thick-waisted, stump-legged cows.
He heard a noise outside the door, and a moment later, Gaius Trebonius entered.
“The legate has finally deigned to rejoin us,” he announc
ed a little breathlessly. “And with him arrived some news that I expect will be of no little interest to you, Clericus.”
“Out with it, if you already know it.”
“Your father didn’t arrive with the legate because he isn’t coming this fall. He’s going to stay in Amorr to contest the election.”
“He’s declared for consul, then?” Marcus wasn’t entirely surprised. He was also a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to face his father anytime soon, since he still wasn’t sure how he felt about Fortex’s execution. What had seemed so horrific and excessive at the time seemed a little more reasonable now that he had a better understanding of how difficult it was to keep the men in any reasonable semblance of order even when they were only marching from one point to another. He was beginning to understand the importance of discipline to the legion, but the execution still struck him as an unnecessary evil. “Who opposes him?”
“They say one of the Falconians was already running, but I don’t remember which one. And one of the more vocal auctares has declared as well. He wouldn’t matter, except that it’s said Severus Patronus is backing him.”
“He would.”
“Well, you can’t expect him to take the thought of another Valerian ex-consul lightly.
Marcus shrugged. “The Senate wouldn’t have appointed Corvus as Consul Suffectus if they didn’t intend for him to lead the fight against the Cynothii. That doesn’t mean the People will follow their lead when it’s time for the vote, but I can’t imagine they’ll turn down a Valerian with a province on the boil.”