Sigrun suddenly spoke up. “You led the strike on Gazaca? I remember reading about it in the newspapers when I was at the Odinhall.” Her expression was intrigued. “As I recall, the commander at the time was noted for having spared the civilian population, permitting the local soldiers to surrender after confiscating their arms . . . and for having decorated the walls of the local bazaar with the bodies of the summoners who’d been involved in the disturbances.” She looked at him calmly. “That was you, sir? I hadn’t made the connection.”
“It was a number of years ago, my dear, and we were hardly acquainted at the time.” Livorus smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I was actually criticized at the time for having been too kindly on the local population, but I was trying not to start an actual war. The second strike on Gazaca was led by a different young tribune, a year later, after more provocations. It involved air strikes, and it killed about one third of the city’s civilian population. People who were citizens of a Roman province. The provocations halted at that point, and it was hailed as a success.” Livorus looked out the window into his atrium. “History will be the ultimate judge, I suspect, of who was right, and who was wrong there, but in my opinion, there’s almost no way to win in the area around the Wall.” He paused, and added, with another faint smile, “However, you do console me, my dear. At least you of all my lictors can remember all that transpired during that unfortunate period of my life, before I resigned my commission and turned to politics, instead.”
Adam blinked. He’d known Livorus had served, but not the precise theaters. All of this was extraordinary new information. And it again, hinted that Sigrun was far older than the other lictors, but as usual, he couldn’t quite determine by how much. “I didn’t know, sir,” he admitted, with genuine interest. “Then again . . . .”
Livorus awarded him a faint smile. “You were, quite literally, a babe in arms at the time, ben Maor. You were born in what, twenty-nine?”
“Yes, sir.” Adam and Trennus were the closest in age of the main lictors; Trennus was not quite a full year his elder.
“I said that it was almost impossible to find a victory in that part of the world.” Livorus looked around at them all. “I’ve been offered an opportunity to try to make right what I think was an appalling error of judgment by the young tribune who succeeded me in my command twenty-five years ago. But to do it will require . . . a certain amount of careful negotiating to avoid it becoming worse. And, best of all, it might not even be a genuine opportunity, but a trap, instead.” He raised his eyebrows at them all. “Interested yet?”
All of them leaned forward. “What is it?” Kanmi asked, quietly.
“The principality of Chaldea has made several furtive offers through intermediaries in the last year. And they’ve been joined by Media in the past month, in asking to meet with a Roman diplomat empowered to negotiate directly on behalf of the Imperator . . . asking to be taken into the Roman Empire as subject states.” Livorus’ lips quirked. “Now, what do you say to that?”
Every mouth dropped open. Sigrun was the first to recover, however. “That would be an almost certain cause for war by the Persians,” she said , immediately. “Media, Chaldea, and East Assyria are their border states, their buffer against Rome. If they lost Media, they would be cut off from the Caspian. If they lost Chaldea . . . .” Sigrun looked dumfounded for a moment, and groped for words.
“They’d lose the single largest group of magic users they have,” Trennus supplied, unexpectedly. “The Chaldean and Median Magi are not the only summoners in the empire, but historically, they were among the first, and they’re still considered the best.”
Adam, for his part, had a very good mental map of the region, and was already shaking his head. “No,” he said, bluntly. “Persia’s never going to allow this. If they lose Media and Chaldea, East Assyria becomes the tip of a very thin peninsula, and Babylon itself becomes a border state, precariously perched on the Euphrates.” He shook his head again. “Even if it is a legitimate offer . . . sir . . . even discussing it with the Median and Chaldean representatives is . . . probably not a good idea.” Belatedly, Adam cut off his words. He didn’t actually have a say in this. His job was to protect Livorus, nothing more. On the other hand, if he didn’t mention how insanely bad an idea this was, he wouldn’t be protecting the propraetor.
“At the very least, it’ll be an invitation to get the representatives of the two nations and their leaders mysteriously killed,” Kanmi said, gloomily, filling the silence as Adam met Livorus’ eyes, wincing internally at having so far overstepped his bounds. “Not to mention you, too, Propraetor.” The unexpected addition of Livorus’ title underscored Kanmi’s words.
Livorus looked at them each in turn. “I am aware, believe me, of the potential repercussions. As is the Imperator. He is, however, of the opinion that we cannot afford not to pursue this opportunity, as it would mark the first possibility of genuine dialogue in an intransigent area in over twenty-five years. And for me, personally, it represents the chance to redress past errors.” He paused. “Additionally, there is one thing that we have in our favor. Persia has long stated that the issue of West and East Assyria is one of human rights. That the world as a whole should stand back and allow the two halves to re-unite . . . under the auspices of the Persian Empire, naturally . . . out of recognition of the principle of self-determination. Rome could throw that argument back into Persia’s teeth, and declare that if Media and Chaldea have determined that they no longer wish to be subject to Persia, then the Persian Empire must recognize their rights.” Livorus’ smile was wintery. “No. I don’t expect it to work. But it is something that might be strutted out upon the world’s stage for a time.”
“You spoke of errors, sir.” Sigrun paused. “Those mistakes were not necessarily yours. Both you and the other tribune were under order from the General Staff.”
“That does not remove from me either responsibility or culpability,” Livorus returned, quietly, but with force. “So yes. I will be traveling to Judea as soon as the travel and security arrangements can be made. This will undoubtedly take a month or two, as even the Chaldean and Median intermediaries will need to make similar arrangements . . . and all of us will doubtless need to been seen as traveling there for other, more sanctioned reasons. Some manner of cover will be required.”
Adam reached up and scrubbed, furiously, at his face for a moment. “There’s a meeting of the International Space Commission in Maius or Iunius this year, in Jerusalem,” he offered. “It rotates every year between Hellas, Judea, and Nippon. You could attend that, as an interested observer from Rome.”
Livorus’ lips quirked. “My dear boy. If I were to bring you to such an event, we would lose a lictor among the various panels, and possibly to the mercantile booths.” He paused. “That being said, it is not a bad notion. And yes, it is a matter that Rome should take a more active interest in, I am aware. Merely funding Hellas’ program is, perhaps, not enough.” He gestured. “Formulate other notions. The less this looks like a high-stakes negotiation team, the better.”
“In that case,” Sigrun murmured, tipping her head to the side, her eyes narrow and considering, “should you not consider taking your wife and children with you, sir?”
Livorus gave her a pained glance. “Judea is not precisely the province that my lady wife so often asks to sojourn in.”
“The provinces cannot, sir, all be Hellas.”
Livorus snorted faintly. “I am not over-fond of the notion of taking my family into what could be the line of fire. They would require full protective details of their own.” He clasped his hands in front of him on the desk for a moment and regarded them, clearly revolving variables in his head. “On the other hand, it would surely make our business in Judea look more of a . . . family outing . . . than a high-level diplomatic mission.” He raised his eyes. “I will be certain, however, to mention to Poppaea that this was your notion, my dear.”
“By all means,” Sigrun agr
eed, her tone equitable. “I will be happy to take the blame on your behalf, sir.”
Adam remembered the first time he’d heard Livorus’ wife’s name . . . Poppaea Sabina. He’d asked Livorus at the time, “Wasn’t that the name of one of the early empresses?”
“Actually, it was the name of both a mother and a daughter who both happened to become empresses, by marriage.” Livorus had looked mildly amused. “We are long since past the day when a woman was solely named by her father or husband’s cognomen, with perhaps a ‘first’ or ‘second’ or ‘elder’ or ‘younger,’ involved. What antique charm we may have lost by adapting the old system of praenomen, nomen, and cognomen, I believe we have more than made up for in specificity. I cannot imagine walking into my house and calling out ‘Antonia Valeria Livorus!’ and having both my wife and daughter reply ‘Yes?’ I much prefer calling for Poppaea and Aquila, rather than shouting, ‘you, who belong to Antonius Valerius of the house of Livorus!’”
Livorus’ expression had been mildly amused at the time, and was again, now. “Speak truthfully,” he told Sigrun. “You will be most relieved to have my wife along for this venture, will you not? So that you will not have to resort to any various impostures?”
Sigrun started to reply, then just smiled at Livorus, merrily. “Yes, dominus,” she told him, after a moment. “Just as you say.”
Livorus chuckled. “I leave this all in your capable hands. Interface with my secretary and the rest of my staff. Make this happen.” He gestured towards the door, and his lictors, as one, stood, brought their fists to their hearts in respect, and inclined their heads, before leaving.
Outside, Adam shook his head, as they stood on the small landing overlooking the lobby of Livorus’ palatial home, with its very Roman frescoes on the walls. Priapus and Flora. “No small task,” Adam said, quietly. “I think we’ve a better chance of getting the moon base operational in the next ten years than of seeing the Persian border quiet and at peace in my lifetime.”
Kanmi snorted, faintly. “Doesn’t feel like a step down, does it?”
Adam looked over, startled, at the sorcerer from Tyre. “What do you mean?”
“Last Iunius, we were dealing with human sacrifice, and, well, gods, not to put too fine a point on it.” Kanmi shrugged. “Now . . . we’re back to political shit.”
Trennus snorted under his breath. Sigrun turned and gave Kanmi a direct look. “We spent most of the last eight months chasing down members of a political conspiracy to overthrow the Nahautl government and end Rome’s influence in the region. Human sacrifice or not, it was all ‘political shit,’ just as you say.” She grimaced, however. “Just on a different scale.”
Kanmi moved over and rested his hand on the balcony’s rail, looking back over his shoulder at the rest of them, every line in his body taut and almost angry. “Yes, and every time I've tried to follow the propraetor’s original orders to investigate further into the background of the whole conspiracy—and by that, I mean more than just the people used by our angry bumblebee and our black bird—I've been stonewalled.” He slapped one hand on the rail, in mild agitation. “I’ve spent eight months trying to find out more about the whole ‘Source Initiative’ and whether it’s more than just a professional networking group. Every time I request Praetorian assistance with it, I’m told that it’s been assigned to someone else, and that I’m not to pursue it.” He grimaced. “Are the rest of you encountering the same problem?”
Sigrun shifted a little, and Adam caught the look of discomfort on her face. “Sig?” he prompted, quietly.
She shrugged a little. “It has bothered me,” she admitted, reluctantly, “that when I reported the dying words of the god-born of the Morning Star . . . the question of ‘do you know where your gods are . . . ?’ and when I reported that humans had harnessed a god as a technological power-source . . . the response was that they asked a different valkyrie to look into the matter.” She looked at the floor for a moment. “Admittedly, the god in question was weakened, and the humans in question were powerful, but why cut me out of the investigation entirely?”
“You aren’t receiving any copies of their results?” Adam asked, surprised. Admittedly, Sigrun hadn't brought the topic up in Nahautl, any more than Kanmi had, but since they'd all been extremely busy, Adam hadn't given much thought to what they might be finding. Or not finding, rather.
“It’s been put on a need-to-know basis, and apparently, I do not need to know.” Sigrun frowned. “I'm acquainted with the valkyrie they assigned. Reginleif was one of my instructors at the Odinhall. She is of Loki’s line. If there is deception and trickery, she will find it. I just . . . don’t know why they would keep me out.” She glanced at Kanmi. “It’s not just you. But, in truth . . . this is not a step down. Everything we do to protect the propraetor is of equal value.”
Kanmi grimaced. “I know. That’s what I think whenever my wife complains about my job. It’s just an easier lie to tell myself when there’s a grain of truth in there, somewhere.” He glanced at Trennus and Adam. “And the two of you?”
Trennus shrugged. “I wasn’t really involved in any of the investigations directly . . .” He glanced down, and to the side, and then shook his head. “But this is what I’ve been the most concerned about.” He looked up, and met each of their eyes in turn. “My various spirits insist that Tlaloc is dead. That being said, I think that one or both of them . . . caught a piece of him. A portion of his power, at any rate. One of them has been fighting to retain her personal identity in spite of it for the past eight months. We know, from physics, that energy, like matter, cannot be created or destroyed.” He looked around at all of them, his expression as taut as Adam had ever seen it. “What happened to all that unbound energy? Perhaps the identity behind it was destroyed, but the power was not. It could not be.” He shrugged. “We saw the kinds of creatures he summoned. The ahuizotl . . . I’ve made a little headway in studying them, at least. They were independent spirits, capable of incarnating on their own. They're well-attested in Nahautl mythology. A spirit has to be fairly powerful to create a physical form on this side of the Veil.” He exhaled. “What I’m getting at is . . . I haven’t been blocked from researching the issue, but I haven’t made any headway on it, either.”
Sigrun had looked up as he was speaking, and her eyes had narrowed. Now she said, sharply. “Trennus?”
The Britannian’s eyes widened slightly, almost comically. “Yes?” His tone was apprehensive.
“When you say that one or both of your spirits caught some of the god’s power . . . was one of them the one who was injured to begin with?” Adam understood why Sigrun was being so very careful not to use the spirit’s name; Trennus was chary with true-names.
Trennus’ eyes flicked to the side, and he nodded, once. Silently.
Sigrun exhaled. “Would you care to estimate how much more powerful she is today than the last time I saw her? I noticed that she’s been . . . staying out of sight. I thought that she’d been further damaged in that battle.” She paused. “Would she have enough power to incarnate, now?”
Their summoner looked away, this time up, as if listening to someone or something, and then, finally, reluctantly, held out a hand, high in the air. “Lassair?” he said, quietly. “If you wouldn’t mind?”
Sigrun’s sharply indrawn breath made Adam’s head turn. Her gray eyes had widened in shock, and in watching her, he actually missed the precise moment that Lassair willed herself into existence; there was merely a brilliant light now shining in his peripheral vision, and apricot-gold suddenly washed over Sigrun’s face. His head snapped around, and his mouth dropped open.
Perched on Trennus’ wrist was a bird made entirely of flame, or so it appeared. It was the size of a hawk, but with incredibly long tail feathers, much like a peacock’s. The body itself was white-hot and too searingly bright to look at directly; ethereal wisps of white and apricot fire billowed out from the body as a whole, like veils, or a halo. The tail and flight feathers we
re pure gold flame, with wisps of red around the very outer edges, each with markings, again, like the eyes of a peacock, which burned blue-violet. The bird’s eyes gleamed the cherry red of a forge. “Gods,” Kanmi muttered. “That’s the Phoenix. Not a phoenix. The Phoenix.”
“She’s been experimenting with different forms,” Trennus commented, looking at her with a hint of fondness in his expression. “This is one of her favorites, I think.”
Surprisingly, the fierce-eyed creature tucked her head, hopped onto Trennus’ shoulder, and hid her face and beak in the Britannian’s braided hair. Perhaps more surprisingly, it didn’t burn.
“She’s beautiful,” Adam said, staring. He . . . wouldn’t have thought that could be said of a spirit, but there it was.
“It is good to see you looking so well,” Sigrun added, directly to Lassair, smiling slightly. There was delight, and a little awe, really, in her face. “You were smaller, and much hurt when I first met you. It is a rare pleasure to see someone heal.”
And heal without your having to pay for it in your own blood and pain, Adam thought, glancing at Sigrun.
At Sigrun’s words, the firebird lifted her head, and suddenly launched herself, fluttering over to land on the valkyrie’s shoulder for a moment. To Adam’s shock, he heard the creature’s words in his mind, as he had, once before, when she had intruded gently upon his mind to translate words spoken under the Pyramid of the Sun for them all. Well met, fair-sister. Your heart is far kinder than you allow others to see. The bird ran her viciously hooked beak through Sigrun’s hair, pulling a tendril or two loose, before sweeping her face along the valkyrie’s cheek, as gently as a dove. You should let others see your heart more often, Stormborn. It is a good one.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 51
