That being said, he was also carrying Caliburn with him wherever he went now, and kept the weapon in easy reach in the house. The whole issue of Germania and Gaul leaving the Empire hinged on the Roman gods’ need to punish someone for Fenris’ crime, and why not a godslayer?
Adam’s paranoia had limits, of course; there had been no signs of retaliation for months. His guard was beginning to ease, and he thought it possible that humanity might be able to win this one, by the application of diplomacy. Rome could not afford to lose Gaul; Germania itself was already mostly lost to the ettin and grendels. Novo Gaul and Nova Germania were stable in Caesaria Aquilonis, and still provided tens of thousands of men and hundreds of thousands of tons of materials to the legions. Still, Caliburn’s weight was oddly comforting against the small of his back. A reminder of when he’d been able to make a difference in the world.
He and Trennus walked out together. Neither of them had ever managed to become truly adept at the Roman custom of eating meals semi-reclined, and therefore retreated to a sideboard area in the villa’s triclinium, where they nursed cups of Ethiopian coffee. Adam preferred Tawantinsuyan beans, but . . . shipping was disrupted.
Trennus cleared his throat. “I’m deeding the house on Shar’abi street over to Solinus and Masako, just so you know.” Most of the family had long since moved to Tarvodubron, and the king’s villa there.
Adam winced. “I thought I’d have you and your family as neighbors for the rest of my life. I can’t really imagine the street without you, anymore.”
“I could have a few spirits move your house,” Trennus offered, quietly. “Zhi moved Erida’s mansion. Your house isn’t anywhere near the size. Just pick it up, move it. Move Sig’s trees, too, since I know she won’t want to leave them behind.”
“She put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“She mentioned it. It’s a good idea. The alternative is just moving you up into my family’s villa, but we all know you don’t want to leave the house.” Nothing but calm good cheer in Tren’s voice, but Adam bristled a little. He wasn’t ready to be nursemaided day and night. Sigrun helping him up and down the stairs was bad enough. Tren’s calm, however, was undiminished as he went on, “It also addresses what happens if Gaul and Germania both leave the Empire.”
Adam shook his head. “I don’t want to do anything preemptively,” he said, glancing around. “We’re being watched, you know. If I make a move like that, it’s like saying I don’t have confidence in the negotiations, and that, in turn, will sabotage them. Besides, if they kick Sigrun out of Judea, they’ll have to kick out in excess of four million other Goths. To include slightly over a million jotun and some . . . what is it, thirty-three thousand fenris? Six thousand lycanthropes, too. They don’t all live in Jerusalem, but . . . if they force everyone out of Little Gothia? We’d lose a fifth of the city’s tax base. Whole sectors of retail and industry would go bankrupt. On the imperial level? Gallic and Gothic levy forces make up around sixty percent of the current legions. Rome can’t let them secede, and they can’t fight to keep them in. They’re going to have to find a diplomatic, face-saving way of backing down without seeming to back down.”
The numbers sprang easily to mind. Kanmi’s extremist groups had always made much of the fact that the Italian peninsula only held some sixty million people. Only about five percent of the Empire was actually Roman. The same irony pertained to the Legion itself. Legionnaires were usually organized in single-nation units, other than special forces, though there were exceptions, such as when a Roman soldier was embedded with a levy force. And as such, Romans comprised only five percent of the vaunted Legion. Nahautl contributed nineteen percent of the levy forces. The various Carthaginian cities and lands contributed about eleven percent. Judea? Technically, just over half a percent, but they also provided weapons and weapons systems. And of course, those numbers had skewed, dramatically, in the past ten years. Hellas no longer had a functioning government, and thus, no longer sent levy forces anywhere . . . though they’d been responsible for a large amount of weapons and weapons systems, previously.
If Gaul as a whole rebels . . . Trennus said suddenly, his expression distant, and his lips not moving. Adam stiffened. Trennus had never mind-spoken before. It was as shocking as if Tren had just lifted his kilt at a banquet. A faintly apologetic glance. Sorry, old friend. But as you say, we’re being watched. And recorded. I don’t blame Caesarion. I’m a head of state, and potentially an enemy head of state now. Spying is just a matter of course, and we all know that. And right now, you’re his advisor, so I know you’ll be honor-bound to pass along anything I say.
Adam grimaced. He didn’t like it, but it was true. Trennus nodded, and went on. I’ll probably be apt to agree with the other Gallic kings, old friend. Rome will call us traitors. If Judea permits our people to continue to live among you, you will all be accused of harboring traitors. This could become a civil war that cannot be contained neatly, because of the mass dispersion of the Goths over the past twenty-three years. If necessary, I’ll open Caledonia’s borders to allow all of Judea’s Goths in—
“Tren,” Adam muttered. He couldn’t be sure that Trennus could hear his thoughts. Tren wasn’t a spirit. All right, he might be . . . something of an entity these days, but he hadn’t started off as one. “A lot of those Goths were born here. They have Judean citizenship.” Adam grappled with it in his head for a moment. “Some of them have married into Judean families—”
“And how many of them have adopted your religion?”
“. . . almost none,” Adam admitted. “They seem to be allowing their children to be brought up in the Judean faith, in the main, but . . .” he shrugged. He didn’t know what young people thought about religion these days. As far as he could tell, a few younger Goths had embraced the god of Abraham simply because he didn’t seem to be . . . killable, and Judea itself, untouched by the mad godlings, seemed proof of his power. So a handful of young Goths had become apostates to their own people, and converted. But the bulk of their population seemed to be embracing their own gods all the more fervently, because they could see them out and fighting for their people. Far-viewer coverage from the southern reaches of Germania, battles against the giants there was scanty, and the gods were chary of being caught on camera, but Adam had seen one clip of Tyr and Thor, back-to-back, fending off the grendels, while some goddess in black armor had swooped in above them, raining down lighting. Behind them, a convoy of refugees made its way past a chokepoint, where Gothic soldiers had been lined up behind walls, all firing at the attacking grendels.
The giants had been throwing boulders at soldiers and refugees alike. Thor had shattered one with his hammer, and caught another fifty-pound rock with his left hand, and tossed it back like a toy, braining the grendel that had first hurled it . . . and then had brought his hammer down on the ground, starting an earthquake that had buried the giants further north in the pass under tons of ice and snow. Tyr had scooped up the body of a refugee woman and tossed her over one shoulder, while continuing to fight.
Their people were still expected to help themselves. The Goth convoy guards had been firing non-stop at the attacking grendel with their guns. They’d been pushing the trucks through axel-deep snow. But their gods were there, manifest, and doing their best to save their people. It was hard not to believe in gods who . . . intervened.
Adam exhaled. Either Judea will have to participate in any rebellion . . . or we’ll have to deport the ‘rebels’ . . . which might include every Goth and Gaul here. Or they’ll have to request Judean citizenship and swear fresh oaths of allegiance to the Empire.
Trennus heard him. Exactly the problem, Adam. Ninety-five percent of them won’t do that.
“Let’s not borrow trouble, Tren. It may not come to pass.” Adam took another sip of his tepid coffee, and grimaced.
“We can hope,” Trennus replied. But his expression belied his words.
Maius 16, 1993 AC
The Nahautl religion dealt
with many of the same problems as the faiths of other nations that had spread by conquest: they had been forced to assimilate the cultures and religions of their new subjects in a way in which made some kind of sense within the framework of the conqueror’s existing mythology and explained historical events, such as genuine battles between gods.
The gods of Valhalla were not in the business of demythologizing themselves to their worshippers, but many philosophers were of the opinion that Thor and Loki were not Odin’s sons at all. Gothic religious tradition showed fairly clear evidence of several different groups with disparate religions coming together in pre-history; one group had worshipped the warlike Aesir, and the other, the more fertility-oriented Vanir. Within the Aesir-worshippers, one group had venerated Thor as the god of the heavens, the overlord. One group had almost certainly venerated Loki the trickster as the lord of all horses, and father of Sleipnir—and horses had been vital to the early Goths, prestige animals reserved for warriors. Another tribe had venerated Tyr. And one had worshipped Odin, and that group had won out. The Aesir worshippers came into dominance over the Vanir-worshippers, and whichever groups had worshipped the original frost-giants, or hrímþursar, no longer existed. The hrímþursar had not entered the mortal realm in millennia, perhaps due to some treaty with the Aesir. Certainly, even god-born of Valhalla doubted their existence. Linguistic shifts had altered the way in which some tribes had named the gods. Tiwaz, Tyr. Othin and Woden? Odin. Frigga was, of course, Freya. One dental consonant or glide vowel mispronounced either way, depending on which valley a given tribe had dwelled.
Hellene philosophers believed that the mythological battles between the titans and their current gods mirrored battles between warring tribes in the Bronze Age . . . and as a result, they had overlapping sun-gods—Helios and Apollo. The Romans had absorbed Etruscan and Sabine deities . . . and had absorbed Hellene ones, as well. Thus, they had both Apollo and Sol.
Nahautl mythology took this all a few steps further. Thus, they had five or six sun-gods. As Ehecatl had explained it, long ago, to the other lictors, the state mythology of Nahautl stated that the world had been created and destroyed four times, with different gods serving as the sun-god each time, and that the current age was the time of the fifth sun, Tonatiuh—or now-deceased Huitzilopochtli. Huitzilopochtli had replaced Tonatiuh for some, because he was the chief god of Tenochtitlan. Tezcatlipoca, Quetzalcoatl, Tlaloc, and Chalchiuhtlicue had each been a sun-god in previous versions of the world . . . or had been sun-gods of different tribes. It was all a matter of perspective.
The importance of each god varied from region to region, depending on which god’s worship had been predominant in an area before the Nahautl had conquered them. And events since the conquests had also shaped belief. Tlaloc’s worship, for example, had faltered in the past two hundred years, but the revelation of his death—the death of a former sun-god, He Who Makes Things Sprout!—had sent shockwaves through Nahautl, as evinced by the riots and the spread of anti-Roman sentiments. Rome, the nation and people responsible for Tlaloc’s death.
Huitzilopochtli had been the patron of Tenochtitlan, and had been the personally-favored god of the late Emperor, Achcauhtli. His son, Quauhtli, had also venerated this god personally, and had dedicated the entire 260-day calendar year to mourning for Huitzilopochtli and Metzli, the moon god also slain by Fenris. The importance of Huitzilopochtli couldn’t be underestimated; he’d been one of the four gods venerated as Tezcatlipocas. He had been the Blue Tezcatlipoca.
Tezcatlipoca himself was the Black Tezcatlipoca. He was the lord of magic, night, judgments, jaguars, and deceit. Quetzalcoatl was the White Tezcatlipoca, and in this guise, he was the lord of light and mercy—in direct opposition to his role as the malevolent and dangerous Morning Star, Tlahuizcalpantecuhtli. Three names. Two roles. One god. And the Red Tezcatlipoca was Xipe Totec, the Flayed One, who had been honored, in ancient times, by the flaying of sacrifices, and whose priests had worn the skins to ensure the fertility of the land.
The gods of Nahautl assembled in one of their realms for a meeting with the Roman messengers, choosing Tlalocan, which had been the particular abode of Tlaloc before his untimely demise, and not Mictlan, where the death-gods reigned supreme. Tlalocan was a vast underground garden, with a ceiling overhead that was bedecked with glittering stalactites that continuously dripped water onto the blooming earth below. Diffuse light, from no apparent source, encouraged the growth of the jade-green plants in this underground garden.
Mercury leaned back in his stone chair, nodding along, looking sympathetic as the various Nahautl gods explained matters to him. They had been affronted, not once, but three times, by assassins sent by other gods. We would give much to confirm the identity of Tlaloc’s killer. We have long suspected one of the Praetorian attendants of a Roman propraetor, but we could not see into their hearts and minds. We do not accuse Rome, of course. They would naturally have been sent by their own gods, and our own poor servant, Ehecatl, was little more than a pawn in their schemes. But these assassins included a Goth and a Gaul, and who do we see in near-open rebellion against Rome, but . . . Germania and Gaul.
The current speaker was actually the Black Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the North, lord of sorcery and night, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The most damnable thing about this pantheon, in Mercury’s opinion, was that in dealing with them, he was never one hundred percent certain who the leader actually was. Nine times out of ten, one could say Quetzalcoatl with some degree of confidence, but at the end of any given day, he wasn’t even sure that they knew who was in charge.
And of course he was supposed to ignore the fact that at least two out of the four Tezcatlipocas had been accepting human sacrifices. He was supposed to accept that Germania and Gaul’s disobedience had come first, and that the gods of Nahautl had had no choice but to empower themselves once more. Both against their northern neighbors, and the mad godlings.
Finally, Mercury said, mildly, I am glad that you do not accuse Rome of having sanctioned Tlaloc’s demise, or having had a hand in it. I am glad that no such thoughts have ever crossed your minds. He smiled, and watched them all shift, uncomfortably, in their seats, as their attendants—lesser spirits, all—fanned them gently with fern fronds. I find it fascinating that you admit that you cannot see into the mind of one of your own people. This Ehecatl must be bound to someone powerful, indeed, for his mind to be closed to you, Lord of the North.
Anger, red and spiky jags of it, in the air around him, swiftly sublimated, as Tezcatlipoca glared at Quetzalcoatl, a fast, sidelong glance that held death in it. The Feathered Serpent didn’t deign to respond, and Mercury suppressed the desire to smirk. Ah. Their mortal agent is being protected from the rest of them, by Quetzalcoatl. He has read the mortal’s thoughts, and doesn’t wish to see the human torn apart by his fellows. Thus, a sheltering hand of protection over him.
Our servant is none of your concern.
Ah, but if he were truly your servant, you would already know the identity of Tlaloc’s killer. Perhaps he killed Tlaloc, with his own hands, and your concern now is a pretense, a pretext for outrage.
Xipe Totec bared his teeth as Tezcatlipoca spluttered in outrage at Mercury’s silkily-toned words. Ehecatl Itztli had not the power to accomplish this feat. We remain unsure how the assassination was actually carried out. But what we need to know today, is this: does Rome intend to do something about this?
Tezcatlipoca nodded. The murder of Tlaloc has gone decades unavenged. The deaths of Metzli and Huitzilopochtli are fresh. How many decades must they wait for the justice of Rome?
Mercury tipped his head to the side. Tezcatlipoca represented change through conflict, among other things. How odd. I was about to ask you how long you thought that you could avoid Rome’s justice on the subject of human sacrifice.
We need to be stronger than we are. We are alone. Xipe Totec gestured sharply.
You are not alone. You have the protection of Rome. Mercury waved a hand.
> Your protection keeps our people warm at night, Tezcatlipoca said, with irony heavy in his voice. Beside him, Quetzalcoatl turned his head to regard his brother, his eyes remote behind his golden mask, and the jaguar god bared his teeth, and shifted, so that his amputated leg was more apparent as he sat on his stone throne. We have mad godlings testing the edge of our lands on the Caribbean. The same godlings that slew Taino gods and all their people. The Quecha make war on us, and steal our children for their altars.
We must be stronger than we are, and you of Rome have offered no help at all! That, from Mictecacihuatl, the goddess of death and the underworld.
And why should we offer aid to those who flout our laws? Mercury asked, his tone almost polite. Certainly distant. He was considering each face in the garden now, watching as the droplets of water rained down from the stone teeth above, each one catching the light of the torches below like a prism in the sun. You defy us, still. You know that you are in the wrong, and we cannot cow you by showing you our obedient wolves and bears on their leashes. Therefore, I will have to give you Rome’s message more directly. And the question becomes, which of you will become that message?
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 52