by Vox Day
Between the six of them, they were the effective council of the clausores now that Magnus had withdrawn from public life. Even a year ago, Corvus would have found it impossible to believe he would find himself a valued member of such an elite gathering, but any sense of accomplishment it might have given him was overshadowed by the emptiness that filled him now.
How he would face Romilia and tell her of the news seemed to be a much more urgent issue than the one they were there to discuss? That wasn’t actually true, of course, they were hardly the first parents in Amorr to have ever lost a son, and yet the feeling of dread inspired by the thought of telling his wife rendered him nearly mute. Was this how Magnus had felt?
“You look grave, Corvus Valerius,” Longinus said.
“These are grave matters,” Corvus said. He had no intention of sharing his pain with them.
“Grave matters indeed,” Aquila said. “I suggest the question is whether we are speaking of one grave or many. Between us, we represent no less than nine of the fifteen House legions. Eleven of the seventeen, if we count the two City legions. Even if Patronus has the full support of the other Houses, which he does not, he can mass no more than six.”
Longinus frowned. “I fear you are getting well ahead of events, Marcus Andronicus. There is no call to speak of legion against legion now. We know little more than rumor and innuendo, some of which is deeply troubling, to be sure. But as yet we can’t separate the truth from the fantasies. In every generation there have been whispers that this praetor or that proconsul is setting himself up for a king, and never once have the whispers been more than the fever dreams of an overly fearful Senate! Surely you cannot seriously contemplate the risk of a civil war over mere gossip.”
“Mere gossip?” Tillius half-rose from his couch. He was the youngest participant, and he looked younger than his years, but he possessed a fearsome reputation that prevented his elders from discounting his opinion. His savage repression of a brief rebellion in Orontis four years ago had kept not only the Orontines in line ever since, but the inhabitants of the two neighboring provinces as well. “We all know what Patronus is after. Everyone knows. That ludicrous vision of Greater Amorr he was trying to sell with the Lex Ferrata Aucta was simply his way of trying to buy support from the allies and provincials. He’s determined to put the crown on his own head before his pompous idiot of a son takes over House Severus!”
“Don’t underestimate Regulus,” Longinus advised. “He is young, pompous, and foolhardy, but I can remember when the same might have been said of your brother, Corvus. Speaking of whom, I do hope you can persuade Magnus to return to the Senate soon. You have been an admirable replacement—please don’t think me ungrateful. But I am sure that, with both Valerian brothers leading the defense of the citizenship, we would not need fear Patronus’s machinations.”
“I’m afraid not even a fraternal alliance would help at this point.” Aquila shook his head and reached for the wine to refill his goblet. The Lex Ferrata wasn’t more than Patronus’s attempt to sound out the Senate and demonstrate to the waverers among the auctares that his way is the only one that will work. I have it on impeccable authority that his real campaign will begin in the new year, as soon as the festivals are over.”
“Impeccable authority?” Tillius asked.
“Indeed,” Aquila answered, refusing to rise to the bait. “Make no mistake, my friends: The auctares will have their men among our party even as we have ours among them. That is why what we decide here tonight must never be shared with anyone else—not your clients, not your sons, and not your wives.”
“In that case, I do hope we decide against civil war, Marcus Andronicus,” Caecilius said drily. “While I have the utmost faith in our martial prowess, I fear we six shouldn’t amount to much against the Severan legions.”
Torquatus and Longinus laughed and saluted Caecilius with their goblets.
“Amorr has never known civil war, and it never shall, so long as we decide wisely,” Aquila declared rather primly. “Or rather, if we have the courage to do what must be done.”
Torquatus and Longinus fell silent, and the others looked around the triclinium at each other. Every man in the room had been a tribune and a general in his day. Each of them had fought with the legions, killed, and watched impassively as men under their orders marched forth to die. War was something they all knew well. But when it came to murder, that was a very different matter.
“And what is it that must be done, in your opinion, Marcus Andronicus?”
Corvus noted that his colleague’s eyes were speculative and calculating as he awaited Aquila’s response. Torquatus was curious, as were they all, whether the head of House Andronicus, the First House Martial, the only House that traced its bloodline to the ancient kings of Amorr, would dare to express himself openly and say the thing that could not be said.
But instead, he withdrew a small, tightly-rolled scroll from his undertunic and silently passed it to Corvus.
“You have been silent, my lord consul aquilae,” Aquila said to Corvus. “Read that aloud, if you will, and I think it will answer the question raised by my lord consul civitas. Be careful with it: I will have to arrange to have it returned on the morrow.”
Corvus untied the red ribbon holding the scroll together and stretched it out as it unfurled. It looked like a hastily scribbled note, written in what appeared to be a half-literate hand. A missive from a slave, he thought, or perhaps a very plebian client, until he saw the signature and inked imprint of a ring at the bottom.
15 Sextilis, in the 416th Year of Our Immaculate Lord
I, Syrmis, son of Halos, by the grace and mercy of God, King of the Thursian people, do most solemnly vow, on their behalf, that we shall loyally serve as clients of Aulus Severus Patronus, from the moment we receive the Amorran citizenship. Upon his passing into the life that is to come, we shall faithfully serve whosoever shall be named the ruler of House Severus in his stead for the next 100 years.
This pledge we secure with the surety of our lives and lands, of our own free and certain will.
His Majesty King Syrmis I of Thursia
“I am told that there are at least six other scrolls just like that, four from the provinces and two from Utruccan cities,” Aquila told the stunned patricians. “Allied cities. Salventum and Galabrus, to be precise.”
“This is still not…this is certainly exceptional, I admit, but I cannot see how it is actually unlawful,” Longinus said. “Towns and cities have taken patrons before. Is not the city of Nobonia sworn to House Falconius? And in the Salventum case—what is the difference between this client’s pledge to Patronus and his existing rule over them as the Dux of Salventum?”
“The difference is that, as of right now, it makes no difference to anyone in Amorr what the Salventii think!” Torquatus snapped at the ex-consul. “But once they’re granted the citizenship, they’ll have to be assigned a House, which I suppose would be Severus. Whether it’s House Severus or not, wherever they’re assigned, they will comprise a very large voting bloc and one that is wholly owned by Patronus. That means that either the Senate must grow to accommodate all the new leading citizens who will demand a voice in it, in which case the voice of the City Fathers will be muted, or we’ll see our sons denied entry into the Senate when they are outvoted for the magisterial offices by Patronus’s hand-picked clients.”
“Either option is unacceptable,” Caecilius announced firmly. “And I agree with Aquila. This must be stopped, and there can be no question that Patronus is the man behind it all. But shall we seriously contemplate the murder of the head of a House Martial? Even if it can be done, do we not run the risk of unleashing the very civil war we hope to prevent?”
Tillius, Longinus, and Torquatus erupted into a simultaneous three-way argument that was as heated as it was incomprehensible. Corvus thought Caecilius looked deeply troubled, whereas Aquila simply reclined on his couch, his goblet resting on his ample paunch, watching the others through heav
y-lidded eyes that were almost reptilian in their seeming indifference. Having thrown the torch, the old ex-consul was quite willing to sit back and watch it burn.
They were getting nowhere and accomplishing nothing. Corvus cleared his throat, and to his surprise, the three men fell silent almost instantly. “The civil war can no longer be prevented. In fact, there is good reason to believe it is already upon us.” Corvus looked from one man to the next. He saw varying degrees of surprise on all of their faces, except Aquila’s. Marcus Andronicus was merely moved to smile, a little bitterly, removing any doubt from Corvus’s mind that the man already knew most of what he was going to tell the others.
“Marcus Saturnius is dead. He was murdered by Severan agents.”
The news of the Severan connection appeared to surprise even Aquila. The others were visibly horrified, for to a man they thought well of the late legatus. Tillius, in particular seemed outraged. He had once served as a tribune under Saturnius.
“He was murdered,” Corvus said, “along with most of his command staff in the camp by a small group of soldiers led by the primus pilus. My son and one of the other tribunes were the only two officers to escape the assassinations. And after taking command of the legion, the lads found themselves under siege by Fulgetra—reinforced by more than ten thousand Cynothii auxiliaries.”
“How long have you known this?” Tillius asked him, almost accusingly.
“My son’s rider arrived at my house this afternoon.” Corvus withdrew the scroll and handed it to the heir to House Gaerus. “There are more details you can read for yourselves, but the main import is that the auctares have been planning this for some time. This goes well beyond Severus Patronus. Fulgetra may belong to House Severus, but Falconius Buteo is commanding it. We have to assume that means House Falconius is involved somehow.”
“They’re not standing in his way, at any rate.” Aquila sighed deeply. “I should have known. Patronus has never been one to risk everything on one line of attack, and he has a gift for making himself look the victim even when he’s the one on the prowl. He’s ten steps ahead of us, and I shouldn’t wonder if he’s been spending the last six months wondering why no one has tried to assassinate him.”
“The Cynothii…” Torquatus began. “If they’re serving as Severan auxiliaries now, what are the chances there was nothing more to Caudinus’s death than a simple defeat on the field of battle?” Corvus was unsurprised to see him reach precisely the same conclusion Marcus had. “Has your son heard anything from any of Legio XIV’s officers?”
“Nothing. He said Saturnius had scouts out looking for them before he was killed, but they found nothing. His assumption is that the same thing likely happened to them and that there never was a battle. I see no reason to doubt his conclusions. Patronus could do the legionary math as easily as Marcus Andronicus did earlier, so we have to conclude he has been actively seeking to improve his odds even as he builds a network of allies throughout Utrucca and the provinces.”
Torquatus nodded. “With House Falconius behind him and as few as three or four of the provinces, he could reasonably expect to fight us to a standstill, especially if he’s able to neutralize XIV and XVII—or worse, turn them. If the allies come in on his side as well, he may even conclude that we won’t dare to fight him, and who is to say he is wrong?”
“We can’t permit this,” Tillius said, shaking his head in what was either disbelief or anger. “He has to die. He is the heart of the auctares and he’s the one stoking all the provincial dissatisfaction of late. If we cut it out, we solve the problem. This requires surgery, not burning down our own homes, sacrificing our own sons, and salting our own earth.”
“Is there a counter-argument?” Aquila asked, glancing around the room.
There was a long moment of silence.
Finally, Longinus slowly sat up, then grunted and pushed himself to his feet as if they were in the Senate. “There are two, I should say. First, can we truly take such an action? Assassinating Patronus, I mean. Second, assuming we can, do we have the right?”
“If not us, then who?” Torquatus asked. “We are all patricians. The rest of you represent five Houses Martial and the majority of the city’s military might. Corvus and I rule the city as consuls. Three of you have sat in the very chairs we sit now. We don’t seek power—we already hold it. But responsibility comes with that power. If we sit on our hands now out of fear for the laws or of making a mistake, our sons and our sons’ sons will be right to curse our memories. We not only have the right to act, we have a duty to act!”
“You’re proposing that we abandon the rule of law, Titus Manlius,” Longinus said, “and jettison the traditions that have sustained this city for four hundred years. I can’t believe I am hearing it from you, a reigning consul! Why not take that Thursian letter to the Senate? Why not send fascitors to House Severus to obtain the other letters, and proceed in a lawful fashion?”
Longinus looked as if the thought of taking the law into their own hands was causing him physical pain. “How can we throw stones at Patronus and claim he is seeking a crown when we are paying no more heed to the hallowed and ancient laws of our city than he is? How can we claim the right to lead the nation when we are every bit as immoral as our enemies? Creatures of evil must do their work in darkness. Is it not enough that we shine the light of truth on his insidious plans in the certain confidence that the Senate and People will rise and stand with us against such faithless ambition?”
Corvus saw Torquatus looked at him and shake his head. Corvus nodded. It wasn’t that Longinus was wrong in the great scheme of things, but it was already too late for ideals and legal processes. They could no longer afford them. Events had already moved beyond them. The time to expose Patronus’s underhanded dealings was before Caudinus had ever marched north to meet his fate, before Marcus Saturnius had fallen, before the allies and provinces had been aimed at the city’s throat like a giant dagger in the deadly Severan hand.
A thought occurred to him.
“What about the celestine deaths, Marcus Andronicus? Is there any chance that Patronus is behind them?”
The head of House Andronicus spread his hands. “I’ve heard nothing from anyone, either from my cousin Tarransus, who is in the Sacred College, or my brother the archbishop. There are two Severans in the Sacred College, Tigridus and Furius, but I can’t see Patronus resorting to sorcery in order to create a Falconian Sanctiff even if they are knowingly backing his play for a crown, which I doubt. Whatever the nature of their alliance, I doubt it runs so deep. This new Sanctiff, I believe Valens was his name, doesn’t appear to have much interest in the political currents.”
“It could be useful if he had reason to be interested,” Torquatus mused. “In his role as Censor, the Sanctiff can remove a senator from the Senate. That might be one means of cutting Patronus’s legs out from under him once he reveals himself.”
“Yes, yes!” Longinus said. “Surely the new Sanctiff will not tolerate such a grievous affront to God and the People alike! Once we array both the Senate and the Church against the auctares, surely Patronus will see reason and be forced to submit! And if he does not, he will learn that not even the princeps senatus may hope to stand against the law!”
“Are you not listening, Gaius Cassianus?” Tillius rose from his couch in a fury and jabbed his finger at the older man’s face. “We cannot wait to array the Senate and Church against Patronus! He has already struck the first blow! We may have lost one legion already, and he’s made a play for a second one, which might easily have succeeded. We are not discussing if we should take this to the Senate or not—we are deciding between assassination and civil war!”
“Calm yourself, Gaerus Tillius,” Aquila snapped, and the authority in his deep voice was enough to cause the red-faced Gaeran to abruptly close his mouth and sit back down on his couch. “Gaius Cassianus, you have but a year on me. We are old, and I suppose we are as wise as we are ever likely to be. But in this case, I fear that our
hot-tempered young friend has the right of it. This is no different than another uprising in the provinces. Once the tinder has caught fire, no amount of wishing or legislation will put it out.”
“No different?” Longinus shook his head. There were tears in his eyes, and his voice was thick with emotion. “For four hundred years the Houses Martial have stood together. We have defeated men and elves, orcs and goblins, trolls and dwarves—and we have done so because we stand together as one city, one senate, one people. If we do this thing, if we take it upon ourselves alone to judge this traitor and give him his due, we may very well break Amorr in two!”
“It is already broken in two, my friend,” Aquila said gently. “And if we do not act, and act decisively, it may well be shattered beyond all repair. We knew the provinces were stirring, and now we know why. If we do not assassinate this man, if we choose open war with House Severus instead, who knows how many rebellions we will face? Already Cynothicum is in revolt. If civil war breaks out, will we see five, ten, or perhaps even all fifteen provinces up in arms at once?”
Corvus whistled softly. Having spent the last few months arranging the logistics for two campaigns in the north, during the course of which he’d worried greatly about the Cynothii revolt spreading west or south, it was daunting to imagine having to draw up a plan to address an uprising the size of the one suggested by Aquila, even if he had all of the Severan and Falconian legions at his disposal. Depending upon how many provinces rose against them, it would be years, perhaps decades, before peace would be restored.
Torquatus saw his face and snorted. “You don’t fancy fighting a civil war and putting down the provinces at the same time, do you?”
“It can’t be done,” Corvus said. “It can’t be done!”
