by Cass Morris
“Bring my horse, then find Autronius Felix and tell him to mount up as well.” If any man could stand solid against these fiends, he had to believe it would be Felix.
The aide never returned, but Felix did, already astride and leading Sempronius’s horse along with him. Felix’s eyes were as wide as all the soldiers’, but he didn’t look afraid; rather, a bit crazed. ‘If these fiends reach into men’s souls,’ Sempronius thought, ‘they may find more than they counted on in Felix.’
“I sent the lad to your tent,” Felix said. His voice was too bright, too sharp, like wet blood on a whetted blade. “What are we doing?”
“Grab a torch,” Sempronius said, “and ride.” He jerked his head toward the faltering lines. “Behind the men. Stir up their courage. Say and do whatever is necessary. If the Lusetani charge in the midst of this miasma, we cannot break.”
Felix nodded his understanding and, without waiting for any further instructions, charged off toward the eastern side of the camp. Sempronius swiftly mounted and rode toward the west.
The closer Sempronius rode to the boundary, the hotter the focale burned against his skin. Not uncomfortable, not yet, but he could feel its magic working on him, striving to keep his head clear against the onslaught of the akdraugi. But he trotted back and forth behind his men regardless, calling out the names of those he knew. That seemed to jolt them a bit, enough to help them ground themselves. From the other side of the camp, he heard something most unexpected: a song. A bawdy song. He could have laughed. Felix had apparently stirred the men on the eastern side of camp to enough defiance of the fiends to combat darkness with profanity.
“You hear that, lads?” Sempronius bellowed to the men at his own lines. “Not going to let those cohorts show you up, are you?”
A few men on his own side took up the chanting song, and Sempronius rode to the northern end of the western line. It was pointless to peer into the distance; he couldn’t see anything beyond the fog. He could only pray that the other two legions were comporting themselves similarly, that Generals Onidius and Calpurnius had listened to Hanath as carefully as he had.
One quarter of an hour passed, then another. Felix seemed to have no end of vulgar tunes to lead the men in singing. And then, the akdraugi began to fade.
At first, Sempronius didn’t trust it. Surely, something else had to happen. But as the fog cleared and his scouts looked beyond the confines of the camp, it seemed that the threat had passed.
Sempronius met up with Hanath and Felix back in the middle of the camp. He had not yet given the order for the men to pull back from the ramparts, just in case.
“No fighters,” Hanath said.
“They must not have wanted to pull them away from Toletum,” Sempronius said. “So they sent their mages, to try to scare us off.”
“Testing your mettle, General,” Hanath agreed. “These were not even particularly strong akdraugi.” Not, precisely, what Sempronius had hoped to hear. “Not so strong as reached the top of the Toletum walls, anyway. Those had more shape. They never looked quite like men, but close. Like men all blurred together, if you take my meaning.”
“I doubt I could truly know without seeing them,” Sempronius said. “I’m grateful for your assessment, however.”
“Why such a weak showing, though?” Felix wondered. His eyes held traces of manic energy, but he, too, seemed to be calming down, if slowly.
“Testing us, as Hanath said,” Sempronius offered, “or testing themselves. Or perhaps . . . perhaps they are farther away than they are from the walls of Toletum.”
“It may have been a feint, of a sort,” Hanath said. “Hoping you would move in another direction.”
A slight growl escaped Sempronius. “Small chance of that.” He nodded to his camp aide, who had staggered up, still bleary-eyed, but determined to do his duty. “Have the centurions sound the all-clear. Then send someone out to the other two camps. I want Onidius and Calpurnius to meet me here, to discuss what just happened.” As the aide trotted off, Sempronius looked back to Hanath. “We should expect this to get stronger as we get closer to Toletum, then?”
She nodded. “I’m afraid so, General.”
Sempronius’s jaw tightened. “Then we shall have to come up with better ways to steel ourselves against it.”
Once the horns sounded the all-clear, the legionaries went back to their duties—almost, but not quite, as if nothing had happened. They still moved with well-drilled efficiency, but Sempronius could see hesitation and wariness in their eyes. ‘Good. Let them stay alert, now that we know what beyond mortal means we’re up against.’
Sempronius pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. In the wake of the magical onslaught, he was suffering a headache not unlike a hangover, thick and weighty. He waved Felix back over. “Make sure camp is secure. Choose a few tents to take on an extra watch shift. We’ll rotate so that different men are taking the extra duty each night, but from now on—”
Felix nodded. “More guards. I’ll see it done.”
“I’ll be in my tent. I need to compose a letter to the Senate about this.”
And he fully intended to do so, but Sempronius also wanted some time alone to contemplate what had just occurred. As Corvinus helped him out of his armor, he said, “Stand watch outside, please. I do not wish to be disturbed unless at great need, until Calpurnius and Onidius arrive.”
“Understood, Dominus.”
Once safely within his tent with the flaps closed, well away from the eyes of his troops, Sempronius all but collapsed onto his cot. Falling asleep would have been a simple matter, but he forced his eyes to remain open, staring up at the dark cloth ceiling and replaying the akdraugi attack in his mind.
The magic was foreign, and yet Sempronius could recognize it, like hearing a familiar song played on an unusual instrument. The tone would be different, the rhythm perhaps off, but it would still be recognizable, still have the same rises and falls, the same shape in the listener’s mind. The shades felt thus to Sempronius. ‘Lemures . . .’ he thought, though the Lusetani would hardly call them so. And they were not, quite, the dark spirits that haunted Aventans, shades hauled from the netherworld, but they were as like them as the Iberian deer were to their Truscan cousins. ‘And, like deer, both can be hunted . . .’
The trouble was, Sempronius wasn’t sure how, given their current circumstances. Aventan lemures were not bound to any one element, but certainly a Shadow mage could have some influence over them. Would the Lusetani akdraugi be the same? And even if they were, could Sempronius risk trying to reach out to them?
Here was the downside to having brought useful noncombatant mages like Eustix and the healer-mages mixed in with the medics. However secure he felt in his abilities to hide his talents at home, in his own domain, he had fewer resources out here in the wild. Could he risk working such direct, combative magic underneath the noses of Air and Water mages, who might catch his signature? Worse still, could he dare reaching out to the fiends, not knowing how they might respond? The memory of Pinarius Scaeva’s soul-devouring maw lingered in his memory, a temptation that had come too close to consuming him. Foreign magic, much stronger than that summoned by a single man, could have deleterious effects he would not be able to predict nor prepare for.
Sempronius rubbed his forehead irritably. No; he did not think he could risk so much, which left the problem still dancing before him.
He unknotted the focale from about his neck and threaded it thoughtfully through his fingers. ‘Fire magic, clearly, has some effect.’ But this was the Fire that forged the shield, not the sword. ‘Could it have offensive as well as defensive merit? Could it purge the akdraugi from a place?’
There were no Spirit mages among his company, nor any of Light, the elements which instinct told him might most easily defeat these dark, soul-draining shades. Air might have some degree of success in dispe
lling them, perhaps, if it could redirect their rolling fogs, but Air mages attached to legions were trained as messengers, not as warriors of the psyche. ‘Earth? Could Earth ground them somehow, hold them in place . . . or hedge them in?’ He would have to ask. There were Earth mages in Tarraco—though adequately describing the situation in a letter would be a challenge for his rhetorical skills.
Spirit would be best. At least, that was his guess, if they were at all like the lemures of Aven. Spirit might have the power to control them, or banish them, or break them to pieces. But who brought Spirit mages on campaign? No one in the annals of history going back to the age of kings. Sempronius was odd enough for bringing any mages at all beyond Eustix the bird-messenger. There were Fire-forgers in the major military towns, like Nedhena and Gades, but to drag them into the wild as part of the noncombatant contingent of a legion was unheard of. Sempronius had had to offer quite a bribe to convince a single Fire-forger to attach himself to the Tenth. ‘But where I would even find a Spirit mage in this part of the world . . .’
Of course, holding the focale in his hand, one candidate did come to mind: the finest Spirit mage he knew, a woman of incredible power and such a strong soul. He had no doubt that Vitellia Latona would be able to sort out these akdraugi, given time to examine them. To Aventans, bringing a woman on campaign would be even more unthinkable than dragging mages along, yet Sempronius knew that not all peoples believed as the Aventans did, particularly on the lands bordering the western half of the Middle Sea. ‘Consider Hanath.’
A smile pulled at his lips, picturing Latona positioned among the legion, perhaps riding alongside Hanath. Could she even ride? He had seen her ahorse once, clinging to Terentilla’s back, though he could only vaguely remember it—that was the day he had been poisoned by an errant arrow, and delirium had already been setting in by the time that she and Terentilla had met up with the group of hunters in the woods. And it did not mean that she would be able to ride on her own. ‘She could learn, though.’ That, he was sure of. Anything she put her mind to, she would excel at.
Well. He might not be able to summon her to the Iberian wilds, but he might be able to benefit from her knowledge nonetheless. “Corvinus, I need paper.” He needed to send word back to the Senate as well, of course, now that he had firsthand experience with the Iberian magical attack—but with the letters he gave to the Air mage Eustix, he would include one for Vitellia Latona, and one for his sister. To their eyes alone would he entrust a more personal account of the terror, and in return, perhaps, he would receive some wisdom.
* * *
Camp of Legio II, Baetis River, Southern Iberia
Lucretius Rabirus had left Gades. No one could say he had emulated his predecessor and holed up inside the city, ignoring his duties to the rest of his province.
If he had not gone very far outside of Gades—well, why should he? Baelonia’s population was concentrated on the coast. His duty was to reassure the province of Aven’s attention toward it, and he could reassure more citizens close to the capital than he could wandering in the wilderness. And it did make for an impressive show, three legions marching along the Baetis River. What Aventan citizen could fail to feel safe after witnessing such a display?
Rabirus had determined to take his legions up to Hispalis, the next major town on the Baetis River. A mongrel town, founded by one of the Iberian tribes, taken over by the Tyrians, and settled with Aventan veterans a hundred years earlier, at the end of the Tyrian wars—but it was better than nothing, Rabirus supposed, if only marginally. Governor Fimbrianus had assured him there were sensible men there, the agents of Aventan landowners who would be happy to discuss arrangements for feeding the legions defending their property against barbarian incursions. Better to supply from Hispalis than Gades, at least as long as they were in the field.
The first day’s marching had Rabirus feeling better about this venture than he had since leaving Aven. The legions were orderly, the centurions swift with their discipline, and even the weather decided to cooperate, with the blazing Iberian sun settling itself behind clouds at midday. Only one annoyance marred his satisfaction: the chief of the Fourth Legion’s engineers, pestering him as they made camp. “Sir, I must protest—” the weedy little man said, following behind in short but persistent strides as Rabirus went to the command tent for his own legion, the Second. “I really don’t believe that to be a wise choice.”
“What troubles you?” Rabirus asked. “The fresh water? The open field? The ease with which we’ve been able to sink the palisades and build the walls?” The trenches had been a bit watery in places, but that was to be expected on a riverbank, after all.
“The soil, sir, it suggests—”
“Make camp for the Fourth farther inland, then, if you will,” Rabirus said, with a brisk wave of his hand. “The Second stays here. But tell the legate he’d better not dally in the morning! I’ll expect his troops back in formation, here, at the river!” He went into his tent and did not invite the engineer to follow.
The shouts woke him in the middle of the night.
“Praetor! Praetor Rabirus, sir!”
Rabirus’s slaves reacted first, one of them rushing to Rabirus’s side with sandals, the other moving to open the tent flaps, admitting a pair of panicked-looking tribunes. For an instant, icy terror coursed through Rabirus’s veins. Were they under attack? But from whom? None of the reports suggested any barbarians were raiding this far south. “What is it?” he said, swinging himself off his cot and scrubbing his light brown hair back from his face.
“Water, sir!” one of the tribunes barked. “That is—the camp is flooding, sir!”
“What?” Rabirus paused only long enough to sweep his crimson commander’s cloak over his sleeping tunic before charging out to see what in Jupiter’s name they were talking about.
Water was gushing into the camp, seeping in from beneath the southern and western gates. Some legionaries and their support servants were scrambling to pick up equipment and move tents, while others were attempting to dam the flood with sacks of sand or dirt. Some of the water had reached the stables, and the horses were shrieking their indignation, adding to the general din of men shouting orders and profanities.
The chief engineer attached to the Second Legion was older than the Fourth’s, and apparently slower-witted as well. He stood, dumbfounded, in the midst of the chaos, startling visibly when Rabirus stalked up to him. “Explain yourself!”
“It’s, uhm . . .” The engineer scrubbed at his head. “It’s the tide, sir. It must’ve been low when we camped. I thought we were far enough upriver that it wouldn’t matter, sir, or else I’d have—”
This was what the engineer from the Fourth had been trying to warn him about, Rabirus realized. And he hadn’t listened. ‘Well, if the man had made himself clear, rather than stammering and stuttering about it!’ Rabirus wouldn’t have made camp on a damned tidal floodplain if he’d known about it.
“How much more should we expect it to rise?” Rabirus demanded. “How far back do we need to move?”
The engineer’s shoulders moved helplessly. “I’m not sure . . . If we had local auxiliaries to ask . . .”
But Rabirus had contracted none yet. He had wanted this to be a thoroughly Aventan endeavor, relying as little upon the locals as possible. Even if they could be trusted not to betray the legions over to the rebel tribes, it looked ill, to request aid and support from those who had begged your protection in the first place, as though Aven could not provide for itself.
Rabirus resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Send a rider to the Fourth, wherever they’ve camped,” he said to his tribunes. Little though he liked this tacit admission that the Fourth’s engineer had had the right instinct, even if he’d done a poor job expressing his concerns, Rabirus couldn’t let his camp be swamped. “Find out how far inland they saw fit to camp. We’ll move a similar distance. Quickly!”
As the tribunes scrambled, Rabirus stalked back to his tent, deciding how to make the best of this disaster. The Second would be in no state to march by morning. Moving camp would take until dawn. Tomorrow would have to be a rest day. A scouting day, perhaps. Yes, that would suffice. Let the Fourth venture out and get a better lay of the land, so that the Second would have a day to recover themselves.
An inauspicious beginning. Rabirus would show no sign of consternation or fear, though. ‘No weakness.’
XV
Camp of the Lusetani, Central Iberia
Neitin watched, arms folded over her chest, as Bailar tapped ink into her husband’s skin with a porcupine quill. Ink, he called it, but Neitin knew the truth of it. How proud Bailar was, to have blended the blood of fallen foes into the mixture. How he had prayed over it, how he had chanted, and what praises he had heaped upon Ekialde, for his willingness to submit himself not only to the pain of the markings, but the side effects of taking such powerful magic into his own body. There would be illness, Bailar warned. Fever, perhaps, and nightmares.
Had the Aventans not been so thoroughly penned up inside Toletum, Ekialde might not have risked it. As matters stood, he felt comfortable leaving Angeru in charge of the siege for a few days, while he came to the western camp for the ritual and recovery.
The whole affair made Neitin miserably unhappy. She hated that Ekialde was taking on this new commitment to Bailar’s magic, but she could not wish for him to stay on the front lines of the siege. Ekialde bore the agony of the process with a face carved of stone, but Neitin was weeping freely. ‘This cannot be undone. Every other step along the way, he might have backed off from. But this makes Bailar’s foul magic a part of him, forever and ever.’
