The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  “How’d you escape?” Adam asked. His voice was respectful of the pain and the sacrifice, but calm, too. Sigrun glanced up, assessing him. Her new partner had clearly seen his fair share of battles; she’d read his dossier thoroughly, but she was just getting to know him, really. Just starting to understand what he was made of.

  Ehecatl shook his head. “Turned invisible. Got to Livorus, and got him out, and then went back for the diplomat and his wife . . . .” He stared down at the table. “I got the wife out. Her husband . . . no. Then I went back in for Villu. There . . . wasn’t a lot left of either him or the diplomat. And that’s when Sigrun and Ptah-ases got back. Carrying the remains of the fetch . . . not that there’s usually much left of a mostly incorporeal being, but . . . .” Ehecatl spread his hands and grimaced.

  “. . . this one manifested itself. Enough that it could violate the girl, and kill her. Blood binds.” Sigrun grimaced. They all knew that much. “It must have been doing this sort of thing for a very long time, to have been so powerful.” She pushed her plate away, aching inside, and put on the mask she’d long ago learned to wear.

  “And what did you do with the mob of people?” Adam asked, leaning forward now, steepling his fingers in front of him, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. This, she could see, interested him.

  Sigrun sighed. She’d wanted to kill every last one of the mother-loving bastards. She was capable of having waded knee-deep in their blood. “We arrested them,” she muttered, and threw the crust of her toast at her plate. “With extreme prejudice in some cases.”

  “I seem to remember you begging them to resist.” Ehecatl looked at her.

  Sigrun closed her eyes. The mob had cut the copper wires that conducted ley-line power into the dwelling. Nothing but blackness, the clatter of broken tiles underfoot, the screams and shouts of enraged people. The only light coming from flashes of storm-born lightning outside, illuminating the narrow rooms and turning people into alabaster statues, caught, as if in stop-motion photography, turning to see what approached them. Eyes, shadowed in their sockets, glimmering as the irises caught pellucid light. Look of open-mouthed horror. Ptah-ases swearing viciously and probably blasphemously in his native tongue, and hurling people up against the walls, where metal sconces, usually used to hold lights, twisted themselves into manacles, wrapping around arms and legs like vines. Smell of blood, ozone in the air as another, even closer thunderbolt slammed down scant feet from the villa. Finding Villu’s limp body, the eyes torn out, stabbed multiple times, throat slashed, ears torn from the skull, hanging by sinews, his groin a mass of red. The mob had taken their anger at the diplomat . . . the fetch . . . out on him. And for no other reason than that he had been there, and had barred their path.

  In the here and now, thunder rumbled in the distance, in spite of the clear sky. Sigrun shook herself and looked up. “It was a very bad day,” she said, clinically, and put it all to the back of her head. Everything except twin whispers: If I had been faster, he would not have died . . . . and . . . never going to let it happen again. Never.

  Adam nodded slowly. “It sounds it.” He paused. “How were they punished?”

  “Oh, it was very Roman. There were trials. I went back to testify,” Ehecatl said. He stared into his coffee cup.

  “So did I,” Sigrun added.

  “And the punishments?” Adam persisted, almost gently.

  “Crucifixion for the ring-leaders.” Sigrun’s words were stark. “I thought about taking pictures for Villu’s wife and children, but decided they’d had enough.”

  “Odd,” Ehecatl said. “I did. His wife thanked me for sending them.”

  Sigrun looked up, and met the man’s eyes. And nodded, in respect. “She’s a strong woman.”

  Adam, for his part, nodded rather matter-of-factly. “And the others?”

  “Hard labor. Twenty years each. I was surprised that the jury was as lenient with them as they were, but the judge stated that they could consider the convincing nature of the fetch to be a mitigating circumstance, creating a kind of communal madness. I think they called it the Bacchae defense.” Sigrun grimaced. She personally thought that every last one of them should have been executed, but the jury had spoken, and the law was the law.

  “The Bacchae defense?” Adam blinked at her. “Like Euripedes?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged. “The play shows how King Pentheus was torn apart by Bacchae, wild men and women inspired by the spirit of Dionysus. And while the king’s own mother tore her son asunder, and while she felt grief and despair for the act, it was the god’s doing, not theirs. They were merely the hands of his justice.” She grimaced, her lips taut. “The prosecutor argued that there is a difference between divine retribution and the work of a malefic spirit, and that there was no evidence that the fetch had influenced any of them, other than by making itself appear to be someone that they knew.” She caught Adam’s look. “It seemed an unusually irrational decision by the Hellenes. But all of the attackers were locals.” Her lips twisted slightly.

  Adam nodded again, and said, quietly, “It’s good that you remember him with honor. And with humor.” He glanced at Sigrun. “Chicken-suit, eh?” He smiled slightly, and shifted the subject, slightly. “Me? I wouldn’t say that about the cloak. It looks soft. But the armor? Impractical! A bullet won’t just go right through that . . . it’ll tear the rings apart and send them as shrapnel through your body.” He lifted his eyebrows. “We have something in Judea now. We call them flak jackets. You should consider them. Unless the armor is just for show?”

  Sigrun snorted, appreciating the change of subject, and realizing, suddenly, that Adam was saying more than what the words outwardly meant. He wants to remind us that he’s not Villu? She thought about it, and corrected herself. No . . . more that he’s not trying to replace him. Asking us to differentiate between them, and not to . . . punish him? Or overprotect him, perhaps? Internally, she shrugged; he’d been her partner less than three months, and she hadn’t gotten a good feel for him yet. She’d watch his back in the field, same as she would any other new, young Guard, until she knew what he was made of.

  In response to his actual, spoken words, she raised her eyebrows slightly, and replies, “No. Not just for show. Your flak jackets may take a bullet, but they won’t turn a stab or a cut, now will they?”

  “The philosophers are working on that, I’m sure,” he told her, and nodded to the door. “We should get going, yes?”

  Chapter II: Rituals

  It is well-known to all that live today, how Gaius Julius Caesar became not just tyrant of Rome, like Sulla before him, but was crowned as the first king since ancient times; he was styled imperator, and accorded most of the power usually reserved for a tribune of the plebeians, for the plebeians did love him. He was, however, in his fifty-fifth year when he was granted this privilege by the Senate. He had spent many of the previous years lobbying for the right to call as his heir any son of his born to any of his many amours, or even to call as many or all of his amours wives as he wished, like a potentate of some distant and barbaric kingdom. This, the Senate would not allow, but when Caesar took power, he chose to disinherit the young relative he had previously favored, Octavianus, and instead formally adopted his natural son by Cleopatra VII Philopator: Ptolemy Caesarion Julius Philopator Philometor, styled by some Caesarion the God-Born.Cleopatra his mother had long called herself the embodiment of Isis, and there is no doubt in any mind that the woman was indeed god-born, divinely touched by the mother-goddess of the Nile; she had a fascination about her that drove men mad, including Caesar. She had already elevated her young son to be her co-ruler, and had begun training the boy to rule before his father came to Egypt to claim him as the rightful heir to the throne of not one, but two powers.

  This boy-child was a stripling of only three when Caesar became imperator. Had Caesar died in that year, there is no doubt that young Caesarion would have been killed in the ensuing power struggle. Instead, Gaius Julius Caesar ruled
as tyrant and imperator for fifteen years, and lived to see his son win his first victory in Gaul, and parade in triumph through Rome.

  Caesar died when Caesarion was only eighteen, and the Senate took immediate steps to prevent the tyranny of Julius Caesar from becoming a monarchy; they met to try to enact laws that would strip Caesarion of any claims to his father’s fortune and to re-assert his bastardy. Caesarion had learned politics at Cleopatra’s knee, however, and had already bought as many votes in the Senate as money could ensure.

  Whereupon, certain members of the Senate, taking a cue from the late conspirators who had attacked Caesar in the Forum, made attempts on the life of Caesarion. He was, however, seemingly proof against poison. Whether it was the measure of the divine blood of Isis and Osiris on his mother’s side, or whether he, like Mithridates, dosed himself daily with every known poison in order to build a resistance against them, remains unknown to this day, but it is said that Caesarion drank cheerfully and freely from every cup, and was never the worse for it.

  In despair, the conspirators gathered weapons, and moved to attack the young man personally, as he walked to the Senate to be invested with his father’s title. And when the assassins gathered around him, Caesarion, a young man in the prime and vigor of his youth, well-trained in military matters by his illustrious father, seized a knife from the hand of one of the conspirators, and struck down his attackers.

  This show of prowess reminded the public that Caesarion was actually god-born on both sides of his parentage. Caesar had issued coinage with portraits of his divine ancestors, Venus and Aeneas, and had often sacrificed to Mars. The god of battle had always favored Caesar in his campaigns, and now, the charisma of Venus and the favor of Mars seemed to be passed on to his son. And the plebeians loved him all the more for it.

  Ptolemy Julius Caesarion Philopator Philomator was thus invested with the title of Imperator in the year 15 AC, and ruled from that moment until his death in 55 AC. He is chiefly noted for the period of peace and expansion that he brought to the Empire, a period of stability unlike the previous periods of periodic civil strife that had marked the Italian peninsula. He made peace with the Gauls and the Germanic tribes. And in 26 AC, Caesarion, that son of Egypt, traveled personally to Judea, where he met with the leaders of the followers of the god of Abraham.

  The legions were in position at the gates of Jerusalem, but the Imperator entered the city not as a conqueror or a king, but in the garb of a Roman legate. He carried with him the fasces, and spoke liberally and generously with the elders of the city. He listened to their grievances with regards to taxes and the presence of the foreign king Herod, and agreed to allow them a greater degree of autonomy and religious freedom . . . so long as they agreed to enforce Roman law in all other ways within their borders. He ejected Herod from the province, and permitted the priests to return to the region to a theocracy . . . again, with the provision that they would honor Roman laws and taxes.

  With the legions present, it was clear that the young and charismatic leader could have burned their city and their temple to the ground. That he did not do so was considered a sign of weakness by the fractious Senate, and Caesarion was impelled to show some severity upon his return to Rome . . . .

  —Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus , De vita Caesarum, ca. 103 AC.

  ______________________

  Adam drove their car, an Arma XII, a Hellene import that ran on ley-energy, through the streets of downtown Ponca. It was an old-fashioned model, with huge fenders and an overall bulbous look, which, coupled with its upright front window, made him feel somewhat as if he were driving inside of a shoe. Sigrun sat in the front seat with him, watching out the window, while Ehecatl and Ptah-ases flanked the propraetor in the backseat. The Egyptian was dozing, lightly, trying to cram a night’s worth of sleep into a catnap.

  Downtown Ponca didn’t have the traffic problems of Rome, Novo Trier, Jerusalem, or Edo; it really was a backwater of Novo Gaul. Adam even spotted a few horse-drawn farm wagons . . . . but there were more motorcars on the road than he’d really expected. A couple of Judean imports. Tsunams. Mehymans. They were known as dependable, reliable models, but they couldn’t run on ley-energy without an engine replacement, so he didn’t see many of those here. Kusabanas, Takas, Aloga, and Epibintores, however . . . all budget models from Nippon and luxury cars from Hellas? Those he saw in plenty.

  He took them through Ponca, and out into the open, flat prairie land of the region. Flat as a table, and covered with farms and bison ranges as far as the eye could see. The Gauls had taken the name of their city from the tribe who’d lived here when they’d moved through the area originally, back around 550 AC. Of course, the Gauls had been, at the time, largely tribal, themselves. Sent here at the direction of Rome. We want your lands north of the Alps and Apennines to be peaceful. Send your excess population across the sea, settle this new land, and don’t make trouble for us anymore, had been Rome’s dictate, and the Gauls and Goths had taken this as a kind of blessing. It had allowed them to send their young, restless young warriors, the so-called ‘wolf-packs’ to where the landless men couldn’t actually start wars with the neighbors. Everyone had profited. Other than the natives of Caesaria Aquilonis, arguably. But while the Goths and Gauls had been significantly more technologically advanced than their neighbors, in possession of iron and steel weapons and armor, it had still taken them centuries to shape the provinces as they were known today. To make peace with local spirits, and to find an equilibrium point with the tribes with whom they allied themselves. Adam didn’t doubt that the history of the continent was written in blood . . .but that was probably the truth of history everywhere.

  The Chahiksichahiks held a region well outside of the city proper, at least forty miles. Adam had taken them west, following the green signs that read Romana Via LXXX. Roman highway eighty. If the Romans did nothing else well, it was build roads; the poured-stone pavement was perfectly smooth, neither narrowing nor widening appreciably, and the road arrowed undeviatingly west in a perfectly straight light.

  “We’ve got a turnoff in about a mile,” Sigrun warned. He could see how tightly she was gripping the inner handle of the door, in spite of the fact that the car was barely going forty-five miles an hour. She was not an easy passenger. Another facet of her personality that amused him.

  “I know,” Adam replied mildly, and touched the brakes as they came up on the exit, which was clearly marked with the flags of the petty kingdom of the Chahiksichahiks, and signs that read, in Latin, Now leaving the province of Novo Gaul. Obey local laws and ordinances. Adam’s lips curled down at that message. How about Roman laws? Are we obeying those today?

  He didn’t entirely trust the technomancy of the vehicle, but he did appreciate the fluidity with which the motorcar cornered. Even the uneven transition from concrete to dirt road was smooth, with only a little drift of the rear tires on the unstable dirt surface, in spite of the fact that the vehicle was rear-wheel drive. “Wake up,” Ehecatl told Ptah-ases, shifting around in his seat to loosen the obsidian knife he carried in its sheath. The volcanic glass should have been fragile and prone to shatter, but it was, apparently, heavily enchanted. Ptah-ases had tried to explain it to Adam once. Apparently, since glass was largely silica, it could be used to store spells quite effectively. Adam hadn’t pretended to understand that.

  “I’m awake,” Ptah said now, not opening his eyes. “The road is warded. Trigger stone embedded under the surface of the road. They’ll know we’re coming, no matter how quiet the engine of this vehicle is.”

  “Our intention is not to sneak into their lands,” Livorus said, mildly. “I have no objection to them knowing that they have guests. Let them know that Rome is here. It will make some of the elders begin to think more carefully about recent decisions they may have made.”

  Wonderful. Adam was alert now, watching the scant trees planted on either side of the dirt road, either as a wind-break or for cover, and he kept both hands on the wheel, ready to spi
n them out of the way of any incoming fire. “Ptah?” Sigrun said, sharply, her head swiveling to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam caught movement behind the line of scrubby, wind-bowed trees, and swore mentally.

  The Egyptian sat up, his dark eyes suddenly intent. “Border guards?”

  “A few too many for a regular customs check,” Ehecatl noted, shifting in his seat. “I’ve counted at least six so far.”

  “Same,” Adam replied, succinctly. “I’m only catching sight of a few here and there, mostly back in the long grass, beyond the trees.”

  Ptah’s eyes went vacant for a moment. “Three more,” he said. “I think. They’re using spirits to mask themselves, and that’s really hard for me to detect.”

  “How many are carrying guns?” Sigrun asked, rolling her shoulders. “I only see two with muskets.”

  “Agreed,” Ehecatl returned, tersely. “Four with bows, that I’ve seen. Those will be the ones with enchanted arrows, and the like. Possibly poisoned heads.

  “Steady,” Livorus told them all, and Adam could see in the rearview mirror that the propraetor’s expression had yet to change. “The Chahiksichahiks correctly regard this land as their sovereign territory. They feel they have a right to defend it.” His tone was placid.

  By treaty, the region was treated as a subject kingdom within the borders of the province of Novo Gaul. That the Chahiksichahiks didn’t really have kings, so much as elders, didn’t much matter; the Gothic and Gallic tribes had had dozens of petty ‘kings’ who’d been little more than tribal elders, themselves, centuries ago, when they and Rome had first met and clashed. The Chahiksichahiks didn’t see themselves as a kingdom, as best Adam understood it from the dossiers and other materials he’d read on the region in the last few days; they regarded themselves as a people, and nothing more. They’d been primarily agricultural, once, centuries ago, before they’d moved to this land from Nahautl, but had moved to hunting the buffalo herds that crossed their lands. Hunting was a prestige activity; only men could participate, and meat was a privileged food.