“What do you think? The players from Tikal have a lot of supporters in the crowd today.”
“I think half the city of Tikal decamped and drove up Imperial Highway one hundred just to see this match.” The woman’s voice sounded grim.
“That’s got to tip the odds a little in their favor.” Forced lightness in the man’s voice.
“I don’t see why. The ball court in Tikal is half the size of this one. It’s not a regulation court at all . . . they play by Quecha rules down there. They won’t be able to chase the ball nearly as well as our men can.” She looked around. “Look at them all, wearing the colors of the Quecha flag.”
Even though the couple was standing right next to him, they apparently felt perfectly free to voice their opinions, under the shelter of their native language. The man shrugged, pulling on the woman’s long, black braid gently. “They’re not all separatists. Just because they speak Quecha, and are Quechan by culture, doesn’t mean they’re rebels.” He picked up the end of her braid and stroked her cheek with it. “Doesn’t mean that they’re the ones who killed your brother.”
“And that doesn’t mean I won’t cheer loudly if one of our men happens to break the nose of one of these Tikali bastards.”
Trennus pulled his mug up to his lips, quickly, as the couple turned to give him an odd look, and then offered them an inane grin, before offering, in Latin, “I hear injuries are very common in this game. Is that true?”
They both gave him a look that fairly shouted, what a tourist, and then the man explained, in decent enough Latin—and Trennus could tell these were the man’s own words, because his lips matched the shape of his words, “Immo. Yes. There is a saying . . . ball players wear armor made of bruises. They suffer concussions. Broken bones, when they are hurled to the ground, or into the stone walls of the court. In the old days, surgeons were kept on hand to cut open bad bruises, to reduce the swelling.”
Blood binds, Trennus thought, reflexively, and wondered if people still understood the old sacrificial roots of their favorite pastime. “Sounds like war,” he offered, pretending to take another sip of his pulque.
The man surprised him by laughing. “It is war! A better type than one fought with spears and swords and guns, yes? I would rather come here, and cheer for my team, and support them with breath and spirit, than see a thousand men die on a battlefield.”
The woman next to him turned, frowning. “Men die on battlefields anyway. The games don’t stop that.” Back into words that didn’t match the shapes her lips made.
“There hasn’t been open warfare in over four hundred years, and I do think that the games help with that.”
“Our version of the Romans’ bread and circuses? Free rations of maize to the poor and blood-sports to keep us occupied. Oh, I cheer as loudly as the rest, but I know that it’s all just shadows—”
Trennus pretended to ignore their conversation, as he studied the crowd and the boxes overhead, instead. Watched for people who happened to be looking up at the boxes, instead of down into the court, where the game was now in play. Watched for people who just sat there, unmoving, rather that leaping up with the rest of the crowd to cheer a heavy hit. He caught a glimpse, out of the corner of an eye, of the black ball slamming directly into one of the player’s faces, and the spray of blood that splattered the glass partition . . . followed by a wave of people rising up from their benches to pound their fists against the glass, cheering gleefully. Trennus looked away, scanning the crowds again. He couldn’t help but think that this was a very damned good substitute for sacrifices. There was a little symbolic blood spilled, and there were at least twenty thousand people in the arena at the moment. Depending on which side someone came down on in the academic dispute he and Kanmi had been having for three months now, this was either something that a spirit could be very pleased at having as a ritual bargain . . . or it could be the collective will of twenty thousand people, amassed and directed at a symbol. Either way, the air was rife with power, potential, and blood-lust . . . tightly channeled and contained. Trennus wondered, fleetingly, if the players were enjoined against having sex the night before the game. It was a common superstition, and if the games were a substitute for battle, the injunctions might be the same. The reasons for ritual celibacy could range from ‘don’t expend your seed and spirit, because then you won’t have enough energy/spirit/fortitude the next day’ to ‘stay chaste as a sacrifice or demonstration of purity to whichever god you’ve entrusted yourself.’
It was an interesting train of thought, but not one he could really pursue at the moment. A voice cut in over the announcement system, booming back from the old stone walls, and spoke in Latin, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a break in play while the Tikal player has his nose set. Please rise and remove your shoes in honor of Achcauhtli, Tlatoani of Tenochtitlan and king of kings, and of Governor Marcus Caelestis Dioscuri! Ave, Emperor Achcauhtli! Ave, Marcus Caelestis Dioscuri!”
In Nahautl culture, everyone was supposed to go barefoot before their emperor. Trennus sighed, hooked off his boots, tied them together by the laces, and hung them from his neck. He’d be damned if he lost them for someone else’s customs. And then he went back to sweeping the crowd with his eyes and his other senses, looking for any tell-tale signs of mood or magic. He flicked quick glances up to the royal box, where Propraetor Livorus had already been seated, and saw him rise, along with Sigrun and Ehecatl Itztli and caught a glimpse of the Nahautl emperor—a man dressed in turquoise and violet pinstripe slacks, a solid shirt in the same turquoise, and a rich, shimmering, pinstriped cloak . . . . Gods, I hope the pinstripe fad dies soon. People are starting to look like zebras in their business suits, these days . . . or, in this case, zebras that mated with parrots. A crown shaped like an eagle’s head shadowed the tlatoani’s face, blue-green quetzal feathers sweeping back from it. The emperor also wore large golden earplugs and a number of other golden ornaments. He now raised his hand, acknowledging the crowd, who cheered and stomped for him. In the box above, Ehecatl knelt, in spite of his status as a lictor to Livorus, until his sovereign acknowledged him, permitting the man to rise.
The various Nahautl in the crowd wore a mix of modern and traditional clothing; some poorer men still wore loincloths and cloaks, and little more . . . though given the climate here, Trennus could understand why. Others wore slacks, with matching, colorful cloaks. The women’s skirts tended to be colorful and short, and their blouses were white and distractingly thin.
Tren made his way back through the crowd, stopping to listen every time he thought he saw an argument, or someone who was looking up, at the boxes, instead of at the ball court. And every time, the words fizzled for a moment, and then the two people arguing began to speak in Pictish. How are you doing this? he finally asked Lassair.
They understand their own words. I touch their minds very lightly. And I relay what they mean to you, as you best understand words. It is a little taxing. I cannot assist you with every conversation around you. Just the ones you wish to listen to, intently. Her voice was gentle.
Trennus swore mentally. That’s a substantial investment of energy, Lassair. And I didn’t ask you to do this. Or bargain for it.
No. You didn’t. I see this as a fulfillment of our general contract.
Still, it’s not fair, and I would prefer to do something of equal value for you in return, rather than be in any way your debtor.
Trennus, when will you understand? You saved my life, my existence. Everything I do for you, is repayment of that debt.
Locked in mental debate with the gently-spoken spirit, looking around for any threats, magical or mundane to the propraetor, barefoot, and carrying a cup of untasted pulque, Trennus didn’t see the small Nahautl woman before he almost ran her down. “Excuse me,” he told the dark-haired woman, immediately, and with some embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?” He steadied her on her feet with a light hand on her shoulder.
Dark eyes stared up at him, and Trennus loo
ked down, saw how thin her blouse was, and how short the skirt, flushed, and dragged his eyes back upwards, even as she said, in Nahautl, which translated into Pictish in his mind, “Clumsy oaf! Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
“I said, I’m sorry. Are you all right? I didn’t break any bones in your foot, did I?” Trennus looked up and around, scanning the crowd again.
She switched languages to Latin, “I’m fine, no thanks to you.” Back in Nahautl, she added, as if to herself, “I try to avoid being trampled more than once or twice a day.” Her grumbles faded, however, and she added, suddenly, “Why, you’re from Europa, aren’t you? You don’t look like you’re from Novo Gaul. Are you with the governor’s staff?” Suddenly, she had a hand on his forearm, and Trennus looked down and blinked.
Oh, you think she’s pretty? I can leave you alone.
Oh no you don’t, Lassair. Not when you’re translating for me. Besides, I don’t think this is a distraction I can afford right now. Morrigan’s mercy, it could even be a deliberate distraction. She keyed in on ‘governor’s staff.’
He did his best to extricate himself politely, and found another conversation to listen in on, watching the box seats carefully. And did his best to put out of his mind how pretty the young woman he’d almost trampled had been. Just concentrate on the work. Nothing but the work.
____________________
The palace of Emperor Achcauhtli was a sprawling complex, covering almost three hundred acres of land at the heart of Tenochtitlan’s central island, and consisted of dozens of buildings. There was a zoo on the grounds—made open to the public only in the last century—and it had had salt and freshwater ponds for decorative fish since about the fourteenth century AC. Now, the complex had decorative fountains in the Roman style, which were lit up brilliantly at night with ley-power, the blue-white light extending from each open courtyard to touch the palm and rubber trees and ferns and all the other plantings in the palace gardens. At least two hundred guests milled to and fro in the central courtyard, where the emperor of Nahautl sat on a throne on a raised dais, where a couple of Roman eating couches had been positioned to either side, for the comfort of the governor, Dioscuri, and of Livorus, as well. Everyone was shoeless, naturally, and Sigrun wiggled her bare toes against the cool tile of the courtyard, and just hoped no one dropped one of the glass flutes used for serving Gallic sparkling wine, or a bottle of pulque. That would get messy and painful, very quickly.
The Tenochtitlan team had thrashed the Tikali team, quite literally; one of the Tikali players had been carried, unconscious, from the arena, with a skull fracture. Halfway through the match, Livorus had leaned over to her, where she sat beside him, and murmured, “Not quite as gripping as gladiatorial combat, I think.”
There were arenas here in Nahautl; they were common all through Caesaria Aquilonis, as far north as her home in the city of Cimbri-on-the-Caestus. There were professional gladiators, and death on the sands remained a common means of executing murderers and rapists. Sigrun had shrugged. “At least both teams appear to be equally skilled. It makes for a more gripping match than an exhibition of justice.”
“There is that,” Livorus had agreed, equitably. “It’s also something of a step up from bull and bearbaiting. I’ve never been much interested in seeing an animal torn apart by a pack of dogs. Never quite seems a fair contest, though the crowd always loves it.”
“Am I being suitably decorative, propraetor?” Sigrun had asked, after a moment, arching her eyebrows.
“My dear, you are always suitable, and on this occasion, perfectly decorative.” Livorus had taken her hand and given her an amused, almost affectionate look. “Most of our audience below is looking at you, and wondering about the proclivities of a debauched Roman senator, and not paying the least bit of attention to Ehecatl, ben Maor, or any of the other lictors’ movements. There are times when I need all of you to look like the fingers in Rome’s fist. And sometimes, there is value in being underestimated.”“Then perhaps it would have been best to have one of the lineage of Loki among your lictors, dominus.” Sigrun raised her eyebrows at him. “They are, by far, more skilled in illusion and deception than one such as I.”
“Do you happen to number any of them among your acquaintance?” he asked, as if making small talk with her.
“One, yes. Reginleif was one of my instructors in the Odinhall.”
“Is she available?”
Sigrun’s brow crinkled. “She’s remained at the Odinhall for the past seventy years or so. Or did you mean socially? I believe that she is married.”
“Ah, well. You will have to do your best, my dear, as must we all.” Livorus went so far as to kiss her fingers, lightly.
She’d stood to show respect to the emperor and Governor Dioscuri, and done her best not to raise her eyebrows; the governor had clearly gone a little native in his years here. He still wore a white toga with purple trim on this official occasion . . . but he also wore jade earplugs, and his hair curled almost to his shoulders, far longer than the Roman norm. His Nahautl wife, a woman introduced as Nochtli, trailed along behind him, dressed in native finery.
Now, in the gardens, as Livorus ate from a table situated in front of his couch on the dais, Sigrun was free to circulate and mingle. Not something that she did well, and she knew it. She also didn’t speak a word of Nahautl, so she was forced to rely on Latin, Hellene, Gothic, and Gallic. For the moment, however, she stood by the propraetor’s couch, listening to the conversation between the emperor, the governor, and Livorus. They’d been put off for weeks by Achcauhtli; Livorus had explained it all as an elaborate political dance, about a week ago. “He wants to look as if he’s not at Rome’s beck and call,” the propraetor had told them in his hotel room, dryly. “He wants to look independent and strong, in front of his people. Hence, holding the personal envoy of the Roman Imperator at arm’s length.” Livorus had shrugged. “It’s often a problem, particularly when time is of the essence, but kings move at their own speed, and our governor here has indicated that he can only motivate the emperor so far.”
Now that he had access to both the governor and the emperor at the same time, Livorus wasted no time at all in coming to the reason for their journey to this distant kingdom. “Your majesty,” he said, smoothly, taking a bunch of grapes from the table in front of him, “it pains me to bring this up so early in the evening, but I would be remiss if I did not extend the concerns of the Imperator to you. We have heard rumors that there may be human sacrifices being offered in your country once more.” Livorus raised a hand to prevent any reply. “I do not level any accusations, of course. You have been a loyal and excellent ally for the fifteen years of your reign, as was your father, before you.”
Achcauhtli raised his eyebrows slightly, his eyes like obsidian in the shadows of the garden, and waved his attendants away; they set down their trays and retreated, immediately. The emperor turned and gave the governor, Dioscuri, a dark look, before turning back to Livorus. “It pains us,” the emperor replied, using the royal we, “to express ignorance of this sad possibility, but nevertheless, we must. If such a thing exists, we suspect strongly that it would be confined to backwards, rustic areas. We have had . . . unrest . . . in the past few years in the largely Quechan southern reaches of our fair lands. We have requested, repeatedly, leave from Rome to put down the guerillas near Tikal who rebel against our reign. This is a matter of self-rule and autonomy, yet Governor Dioscuri and your revered Imperator have both denied us the ability to enforce our own laws and edicts.”
Some provinces and subject states had more autonomy than others. Nahautl had fairly strong autonomy in domestic matters, and was permitted to have a standing army of its own, in addition to Legion forces within its borders. However, they were not permitted to use those troops without the direct order of their Roman governor. Sigrun glanced past the emperor towards Dioscuri. The governor glanced up at the night sky in resignation, and leaned further on his elbow towards the center of their c
onversational grouping. “The reason why I have advised so strongly against using military force, for several years, is simple. If Rome chooses to chastise the rebels, we would undoubtedly send the Legions in, with vigor. Tikal and the other cities would run with blood.” Dioscuri went on, patiently, “This may incite more rebellion, not less, and the Quechan and Tawantinsuyan provinces to the south could rise up, as well. Everything I permit, I must weigh against the overall political situation, both south of here and north of here—”
“We have not asked for the Legions. We have asked to be allowed to mobilize our own army—”
“Allowing you to use your own forces is still an act of Rome,” Dioscuri replied, clearly choosing his words carefully.
Sigrun kept her thoughts to herself, but added, mentally, Or it will look as if Rome is weak, in not putting the cities to the sword, themselves. Of course, he cannot say that to the emperor, to his face, but they all know it.
“You are leaving us with very few options besides watching part of our empire go up in flames, or disobedience to Rome,” Achcauhtli said, biting off the ends of his words. “We are still a sovereign nation. We may be a subject state, but within our own borders, the power of the tlatoani is supposed to be absolute—by treaty!—but Rome insists on tying my hands.” From the royal we to the personal voice, in an instant. “And yet, Rome shows no interest in resolving the situation, themselves.”
“The entirety of the southern continent could go up in flames. And that is Rome’s interest in the matter.” Dioscuri’s voice was surprisingly firm. For as long as Achcauhtli had been on the throne—fifteen years, at least—Dioscuri had been governor. No, longer; he had been an assistant to the previous governor during the reign of Achcauhtli’s father.
At that point, Nochtli approached her husband’s seat; the Nahautl woman was small but lovely, with a round, sweet face, and wore, this evening, a vividly red dress, with red feathers tangled in her crow-dark hair. She murmured to her husband for a moment, and he nodded, looking over at Livorus. “Propraetor, if you wouldn’t mind? My wife would like to introduce your, ah, lictor around the court.” Dioscuri gestured. “And these are discussions of policy, I think, best left for fewer ears.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 23
