“If it is the Carthegenian—”
“No, master. A Spartan.”
“A Spartan, here? What does he wish?”
“To speak with you, master.”
Varro sat up straight. “Very well, same as before. Send him in, but do come you and Servius and keep me company while he is present, lest he decide to attack.”
Calvus bowed and left.
Moments later a man entered. He looked quite different from the Carthagenian. This was an older man, more experienced—it was obvious—in both life and battle. His scarred hide spoke of wounds and fights, and his dark eyes had depths that were hard to pin down exactly. If Varro had been asked, he’d have said the man looked amused.
When he opened his mouth, he spoke in clear Greek, “Consul, I come to make you an offer.”
“If you’ve come to scare me with tales for children, of how Rome is going to crucify me—”
“No. Rome is unlikely to crucify you, Consul. We know better than that. Abibaal is young and not very experienced in the ways of Rome,” the Spartan replied evenly.
Varro snorted.
“I beg you to believe that he was not saying what he said at the instigation of Hannibal Barca, who is no fool,” the Spartan continued. “Abibaal was charged with bringing you a message that you could find not only safety but honor on our side, that we understand what happened, and none of us thinks that you betrayed your men or your co-consul.”
“Safety and honor from tricksters.”
The man looked surprised and wounded.
“I am Spartan,” he said. “We are not tricksters. If I were not here as an envoy I might have to demand satisfaction for such an insult.”
“No, not the Spartans, the Phoenicians,” Varro protested.
“Ah. Their ways are not ours, Consul. That is the difference between a warrior race, or, in the case of the Romans, a race of honest farmers, and merchants like the Phoenicians. They are not as blunt or honest as we are.”
The Spartan’s expression was briefly distasteful, as that of a man who had found a weevil in his fruit.
“Or at least that is not how they present, since they often have to wheedle, to deal, and there is some deception involved in business dealing,” the battered warrior continued. “But you know, it doesn’t make them necessarily fundamentally dishonest. I’ve been with them but not of them for over a year now. I’ve taught Barca his Greek, and yet, I assure you, he’s fulfilled his promises to me.”
Varro’s eyes narrowed. He gestured for the Spartan to continue.
“What you must think of when it comes to a deal with them is whether you’re a competitor, which you are as the commander of an opposing army, or an associate, an ally,” the Spartan patiently explained. “If you’re the commander of an opposing army they’ll treat you as though you were a competitor in business. There is no trick they won’t use to get the best of you and to win over you.”
Varro’s nostrils flared at that thought, his anger rising even as the Spartan sought to placate it.
“But if you’re an associate, an ally, they will be true to their word and keep it as though bound by the most stringent honor. You see, it is known in business that if you don’t treat your partners well, they will not trust you and will therefore then turn on you at a crucial moment.”
The Spartan spread his hands plaintively.
“If the Carthaginians—if Hannibal Barca himself—gave you protection and position with him and his people, you could trust him onto death, if it came to that. He would never be forsworn.”
This brought up the uncomfortable prickle of guilt again, in the back of Varro’s mind, because he had in fact broken his oath. At the same time, Varro realized he had gone down quite a wrong side spur in his protests. He’d never meant to say that he wouldn’t trust Hannibal. His objection to going over to the other side was quite of a different order.
“Forget what I said,” he said. “I am tired and have not slept much. I meant only to say that I’d never betray Rome. My duty, sworn, is to defend Rome from her enemies, not to make common cause with them.”
“Of course,” the man said. “And I understand that, but what you must ask yourself is whether it is most effective to make cause with the Carthaginians in order to defend Rome.”
Varro cast a suspicious glance to the jar of wine in the corner. It wasn’t particularly strong wine, and he’d added plenty of water to it, so surely he wasn’t dreaming this conversation and its peculiar lack of logic, was he?
“You speak nonsense.”
“Do I? As I told you, I am Spartan. My name is Sosylus. And I am fascinated with history.”
Sosylus gestured at his clothing.
“I am Spartan, a warrior,” he said. “As you probably know from Greek history, Spartans and Athenians have warred much. And my city started out proud and rough, a city of warriors. Each boy was brought up to be a warrior. There were no shirkers among us.”
The Greek gave a smile that softened his sharp features and at the same time made Varro aware that he knew the irony of what came next.
“And no historians either. I doubt if I’d have made it in the old days, as I was weakly when I was born, and would likely have been cast from the sacred hill by my father, to dash my brains at the bottom.”
Another barbaric process, Varro thought.
“But still that was what my people were, a strong and proud people, until we were invaded. You probably have heard—hasn’t every educated Roman—of the three hundred who defended the mountain pass, so their very sacrifice to the gods of war, their courage, would rouse the rest of Greece to defense. And it did. It worked. Or did it? Eventually the Persians conquered us, anyway. And changed us. And, yes, we changed them.”
Sosylus paused, taking a swig from the waterskin at his waist.
“The truth is, though, that by that time we were already changing. The reason that the three hundred needed to make their final stand is that Sparta had already lost its appetite for war. It didn’t rush to meet the enemy. It spoke big words but tried to temporize.”
Varro thought again of Fabius Maximus.
“And in time, it got conquered. And in time it fell. In time all of Greece fell. Yes, and to everyone.” He paused a moment. “I bet you any of my ancestors, brought forward to see what the city has become, would be horrified and feel that the sacrifice was for naught.”
“So?”
“So, what do you think of Rome, you, Varro, the butcher’s son, who, through wealth and your own brains were elevated to Consul and commanded the greatest army the city has assembled.”
“Rome is the best city in the world,” Varro spat angrily. “It is the only one where men are men and don’t grovel at the foot of a king.”
“Ah. But they do grovel at the foot of their noblemen. Their great families, their gens, all of it counts, doesn’t it? How many times did people throw in your face that you were plebian born, and not even a landowner, but the son of a butcher.”
Varro shrugged.
“It is always hard for the first one who places his foot upon the ladder of success. It can’t be thought—”
“Of course. But how common is your path to success, Varro?” the Spartan interrupted. “If people are all alike, really, in Rome, and if your origin means nothing, if there are no kings, then why is it so difficult? Why aren’t there more butcher’s sons who ascend to commanders? Why aren’t there more in the Senate? And why—and you know this is true—will you be reviled for doing the sensible thing, whether you did it on purpose or not, and escaping a killing trap?”
Varro felt the need to interrupt the man, but bit his tongue.
“Do you think if it had been the noble Paullus who had done so, anyone would have blamed him? Or do you think that anyone will believe you two were united and of a mind, both decided to attack as soon as possible; both agreed to the strategy and the place where the battle would happen?”
The Spartan gestured at Varro.
“Or wi
ll they blame you, Varro, while enshrining Paullus’ memory because the Cornelians will not have it otherwise? Will they say you attacked without his agreement, perhaps even without informing him, simply so they can hold him blameless?”
“That would be difficult,” Varro said. “Both of us spoke before the Senate and the people of Rome, both of us said our strategy was the same.”
“Rome is performing human sacrifices,” Sosylus said, “and has sent to foreign oracles for solace. Do you believe they will remember what they do not wish to remember?”
“But why would Hannibal want me to turn? Or need me? Myself and my seventy body guards are as nothing before his troops and his advisors, even foreign ones such as you,” Varros said.
“Ah, but you are a Consul of Rome,” Sosylus replied smoothly. “You see, if Hannibal is to do more than simply harass the countryside in Italy, he must get more troops and more support from the Assembly of Carthage. And there are too many people in it who hate the Barcas and their vendetta against Rome. Now, after Cannae, many of the local tribes have come to pledge their loyalty to Hannibal, but he doesn’t know how to deal with them, and they don’t seem to trust him very much. Now, if a consul of Rome itself were at her side—”
Varro wanted to Sosylus to be gone, to be thrown out, as he had told his servants that Abibaal should be thrown out—even if not whipped to death—but something stayed him. He turned to Calvus.
“See this man, Sosylus, gets a room, and bring him back when I tell you.”
If Sosylus saw his position as hostage, he did not show it, nor react. He smiled and bowed, both looking oddly with his craggy and scarred countenance, and he followed Calvus out of the room.
* * *
Varro paced. He paced the small room with the leaking ceiling and the pitted mosaics underfoot, and he tried not even to think of the man to whom it belonged, and where he might be, and what he might think of the Romans who had commandeered his house.
The truth was that Rome saw itself still as a small and rural city, where her sturdy sons defended her with valor on the battlefield.
But Rome had become far more than that. Its webs of alliance and influence, of fear and trade, permeated the entire Italian peninsula. This was why Hannibal had managed to hurt her without ever coming within sight of the city.
And therein lay the problem. More and more, the lands outside Rome were not honest farms, worked by families and those connected to the family. They were vast estates, worked by slaves for the benefit of landlords who could not be called farmers.
People like the Cornelians didn’t dirty their hands with any work. And they did despise those who did, no matter how far they reached from their humble origins.
Which—
Which meant Rome was changing.
Varro was not stupid; quite the opposite. He could see the time coming when Hannibal was defeated. He needed someone to convince the Assembly in Carthage to give him support. If that didn’t happen, he’d run out of men and support.
And it was unlikely the revolting tribes of Italy would be able to form a cohesive bond and help the invader.
But if he had Varro…
If Varro helped, yes, Hannibal would win. But Hannibal could not run home any more than he could manage to weld the tribes into an alliance.
He was a good general, but, ultimately, a desert raider. He wouldn’t be able to think long term.
Sooner or later he’d die. Probably not naturally, and Varro would not need to instigate it. And then Varro would have power. Power to weld the republic back into the honest thing it was meant to be. To get rid of wealth-and-blood proud noblemen and create a strong republic where all men would be equal.
His path was now clear. He’d betray the republic, in order to save it and make it what it should be.
He walked to the door, his step firm. “Calvus, send for Sosylus, the Spartan.”
* * * * *
Sarah A. Hoyt Bio
Sarah A. Hoyt was born in Portugal and lives in Colorado. Along the way she’s published over 32 books (around there anyway. She keeps forgetting some every time she counts) she admits to and a round dozen she doesn’t. She also managed to raise two sons, and a countless number of cats. When not writing at speed, she does furniture refinishing or reads history. She was a finalist for the Mythopoeic award with her first book, and has won the Prometheus and the Dragon. To learn more about Sarah and read samples of her work, visit http://sarahahoyt.com.
# # # # #
Here Must We Hold by Rob Howell
Frost filled the courtyard of Abingdon Abbey as a golden dawn promised the best of days. Crisp and cool with brilliant orange, yellow, and crimson leaves on the trees.
The archivist of the abbey, cloak tightly held around himself, breath coming out in clouds, rushed across the frosted grass as quickly as his crutch would allow. He entered the scriptorium, sighing with relief when he saw his assistant had already arrived. A fire burned in the hearth, and the boy was lighting the last set of candles.
“Bless you, lad.” The archivist went to the fire and warmed his hands. “How much progress have you made on the copy for Peterborough?”
“All the way through Alfred’s death.”
“Excellent.” The archivist moved to the assistant’s desk and looked at the parchment. “This is well done.”
“My letters are wretched, brother,” protested the young man.
“You’re already much better than I was at your age.”
“Perhaps.” The assistant glanced at the crutch and then at the scribe’s gnarled fingers. “But then, I hadn’t—”
“My gifts?”
“Your…gifts?” The assistant blinked. “But your hands? Your leg?”
“It is true my fingers ache more than you’re ever likely to know, and it would be nice to walk as I once did.” He shook his head. “But they are gifts nonetheless. The Lord granted them to me so I would never forget.”
The assistant blinked again.
The archivist smiled. “It’s of no moment now. You must continue your work. Make sure to copy that section on Aethelflaed. I’m sure the monks in Peterborough don’t have it, and few enough remember her these days.”
“Yes, brother.”
“Good lad.” The archivist limped over to the armarium set into a niche in the wall. Inside was a bound codex. He reverently lifted it out and carried it over to his table. Small pieces of parchment, dry and old, fell to the ground despite his care. He then retrieved another codex, this one much newer and set it alongside the first one.
He stared at the older codex for a long moment before slowly turning it to a page. The old parchment cracked. The morning’s gloom forced the scribe to squint at the letters. Then he opened the other codex to the corresponding page and compared his previous day’s work with the words on the older pages, a difficult, tedious task even in bright light. Painful at the moment.
He sighed in relief after completing the examination. He looked at the next section.
Before continuing, he bowed his head. “Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium.” He crossed himself and reached for a quill. He dipped it into the inkpot and started to move it toward the blank page. Then his hand shook, causing an ebon drop to fall to the floor.
Hastily, he pulled the pen back.
No. Not today of all days.
He bowed his head again in prayer, flexing his fingers.
He tried again, but the quiver in his hand made it difficult for him to even fit the tip of the quill into the inkpot.
I must get this right.
He tried again but with no better results.
Maybe it’s the cold. Yes, must be the cold.
The scribe reached for his crutch and rose.
His assistant looked up. “Is everything well, brother?”
“It is as God would have it. My task today is one that must be done well and correctly. We all must age, though, and my eyes and hands
require me to be patient on a cold, dark morning.”
The assistant’s eyes flicked to the codex. “You have waited years for this, if it is what I think.”
“It is.”
“If I may be so bold, I think God will not begrudge you performing the task after Terce.”
“Nor do I, lad.” He limped over to the abbey’s chapel and knelt before the altar. Behind it was an icon of Mary. He bowed to her.
Bless me in this task, Mary. Especially with this page.
As had often been the case, he thought he saw her icon smile upon him. He knelt there on the relentless stone floor until Abbot Siward came in hours later to lead the abbey in their mid-morning prayer.
“What is wrong, brother?” asked the abbot.
Startled, the scribe looked over. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet. “I apologize, my lord abbot. I needed to pray.”
“The Lord will not chastise you for praying, brother,” Siward said with a smile. “Nor will I. Is there anything you need?”
“No, lord abbot. I am just old and today’s task is too important for me to attempt before the sun warms the scriptorium.”
The abbot considered the monk and then smiled again. “Thank you, brother.”
“For what?”
“I was debating which psalm to read for Terce. Nothing seemed right. Now, it is clear that God wishes me to read Psalm 143.”
The scribe bowed his head and whispered, “You needn’t do that one on my account.”
“No, I don’t. However, I’ve not read it in some time, and I think it fits. Besides, I know it’s special to you, and I would give you all the strength I can today.”
“Thank you, my lord abbot.”
The other brothers of Abingdon Abbey filed in.
When they had settled, the abbot intoned, “Remember with me, brothers, the wisdom of Psalm 143. ‘Blessed be the Lord my God, who teacheth my hands to fight, and my fingers to war…’”
* * *
Trouble in the Wind Page 6
