Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (72 page)

“I just think you could be a bit more sympathetic, at least to your aunt and uncle, if not Gaius Valerius.”

“Sympathetic to Magnus and Aunt Julia? Mama, it’s their fault he was such a spoiled brat, not Papa’s! They filled his head with all sorts of stupid ideas about his birthright and his destiny, as if his birthright were different than Sextus’s or any of his other brothers!”

Corvus carefully rose to his feet without using his hands, still cradling Decia in his arms. “Well, there’s naught to be done about it now. Did anyone see where my little warrior ran off to?” He kissed his granddaughter on the forehead then placed her gently in the arms of his wife. He started to leave the triclinium in pursuit of his grandson, but Valerilla placed a small hand on his chest.

“Father, Mama has told me how busy you are, but would you be free to take me to the Ephoran amphitheatre this evening? Laevius is reading twelve of the latest stanzas he composed for his
Amorriad
, and I thought you might like to hear it. Decius says they include a section about Valerius Victus and his conquest of the Marmori.”

Corvus started to shake his head, but the hopeful expression in Valerilla’s big brown eyes was more than he could resist. He hesitated.

Romilia took the opportunity to argue their daughter’s case.

“You must go, Corvus. You haven’t shown yourself to the people once since you’ve been back from the field. You really must give them the chance to see their new consul and show their appreciation for your victory over the goblins. The city is restless. They’ve lost a consul and a sanctiff in the last three months, and now everyone is talking about the murdered celestines and how the new sanctiff is much too young to be anything but a disaster. Give them something else to talk about, something else to think about.”

He glanced from his wife to his daughter. Valerilla nodded expectantly, enthusiastically, and he burst out laughing. How many times had she effectively lobbied him in that manner?

“Very well,” he declared. “I should be delighted to hear Laevius give our ancestor his due. Romilia, are you coming too, or are you going to watch the children?”

“And miss my first opportunity to see the Consul Aquilae finally receive his due? I’m not the one who is a stranger to our grandchildren, Corvus. Maronna will watch the children tonight. Now, do you have time to eat something before you have to run off to the Senate, or will you find something along the way?”

“I think I have time,” he said, winking at Valerilla.

“Oh, Father, I am glad!” she beamed, throwing her arms around him and nearly knocking him off balance. “And I’m so very proud of you! I always wanted to be a consul’s daughter.”

“I always said you were a princess,” he reminded her. “And given how quickly your husband seems determined to walk the cursum, I doubt it will be long before you’re a consul’s wife as well, darling.”

The sun was just beginning to set when the poet, Laevius, walked out into the center of the wooden theatre that had been erected for Hivernalia in the Forum.

Corvus had to admit that Romilia was right: The applause that greeted them as they took their seats in the middle of the second level was even more rapturous than that which the senators had given Amorr’s new Sanctiff. And, judging by the comments and compliments that were directed to him, he began to realize that it was his defense of the clausores, and not his defeat of the goblin tribes, that was the source of his unexpected popularity with the public. Severus Patronus and the auctares might be the most powerful faction in the Senate, but the common folk of the city were clearly less than enthusiastic about seeing the people of the allied cities raised to their level as full citizens of the Republic.

There were only a few other senators present. Laevius was much more popular with the plebs than he was with the patricians. Despite having been seated on a consular throne only hours before, Corvus felt uncomfortably self-conscious when the poet, upon reaching the candle-laden stand that had been set up for his manuscript, first acknowledged the audience to the left and right of the theatre, then threw a legionary salute in Corvus’s direction. Laevius was short and rotund, with a round face like a full moon, but he was blessed with a voice that might have done credit to a centurion. Even those seated in the heights of the theatre had no problem hearing him.

“Although, Amorrans, it is not ordinarily my custom at the beginning of a reading to explain my art, tonight I shall make an exception. I am pleased to present to you the sixth book in my poetic tribute to the history of our great city, which I have entitled
Amorriad
and which purports to chronicle the mighty deeds of our ancestors, to whom we owe an everlasting debt.

“We begin with the war against the treacherous king of the Marmori, Arsanius Tiranus, in which two legions, led by the consul civitas, Titus Valerius Victus, finally called him to account for the foul murder of Quintus Accius Plautus, an ambassador sent by the Senate to Marmorus in an attempt to negotiate an alliance between Amorr and that kingdom. But before I begin, I observe that we are honored by the presence of a descendant of that noble hero here in the audience tonight. So, I should like to dedicate this book to the new consul aquilae, Valerius Corvus, as well as to my patron, Licinius Lucretius.”

The audience again applauded, but more hesitantly this time and with an anticipatory air. Laevius did not wait for it to die down, but began declaiming in his deep, resonant voice, causing the crowd to fall silent in an instant.

The Senate spoke, and in one voice acclaimed

Quintus Accius of silvered tongue enfamed.

“Go you, now, to the land of Marmorus,

And eternal friendship with their folk discuss.”

Willing, Plautus obeyed; and, hither bound

To Marmorus, its king at length he found…

Something stabbed into his side, and Corvus nearly leaped to his feet, wondering where he was. Then he realized he wasn’t being attacked, he was in his seat, safely ensconced between his wife and daughter, and the weapon with which he’d been assaulted was only his wife’s sharp little elbow.

“Do wake up, my lord consul. He’s just reached the climax, where your ancestor is confronting his sworn enemy. And mind your mouth!”

Corvus wiped at the left side of his mouth. It seemed he had been drooling a little, and he was exceedingly grateful that the reading was taking place under the cover of night, as not even his daughter, sitting on his left, appeared to realize that he’d fallen asleep under the mesmerizing flow of the poet’s verse. He cleared his throat and straightened his back, thinking that he really must pay close attention to this particular part of the poem, as the slaying of the Marmorite king was generally deemed to be one of House Valerius’s proudest achievements.

Laevius seemed to have hit his stride. He gestured grandly, and his voice showed no signs of weakness as he told of the bloody battlefield of Lausentius, where the Amorran legions shattered the army of Marmorus and the consul confronted the royal villain of the piece.

Titus Valerius brandished his long spear

Against the foe, and so inflamed his fear:

“What further course can you hope to find?

What empty hopes are hidden in your mind?

There is no swiftness to secure your flight;

Not with their feet, but arms, the valiant fight!

Vary your shape in many forms, and run

All across the world under the scornful sun;

Pray for wings or winds to mount the sky;

It will avail you naught, for today you die!”

Tiranus shook his head, and uttered reply:

“No threats of yours could ever give me pause;

For mine the right and the gods’ own cause!”

The king fled not, but firmly stood his ground

Before the man that him had hunted down.

The Marmori king was sworn never to yield

And, as he cast about the bloody field,

A javelin lay, broken, but free to wield;

He drew it from the earth, and, poised on high,

Charged toward his foe with a loud war cry,

But so shattered in spirit that he scarcely knew

His way, or what unwieldly spear he threw.

He hurled it forth, but it fell well short

And, want of vigor, mocked his vain effort.

He sought to stand, but destitute of force,

His sinking limbs failed him amidst the course:

In vain he heaved, in vain he cursed;

His last strength failed, by his wounds dispersed;

On royal tongue the futile curses died.

Tiranus failed; whatever means he tried,

All force of arms and artful skill employed,

They went for naught and the endeavor void.

Death’s cold whispers through his soul resound;

He shouts for aid, no help nor succor found;

Encircled, legions all his men surround;

Once more he pauses, and looks up again,

Calling to his pagan gods all in vain.

Trembling, he views the Valerian advance,

Brandishing aloft that most deadly lance:

In despair he retreats before the conquering foe,

Forsaken by all, awaits the coming blow.

Alone he stands, as ruthless Death draws near,

From behind his shield sees he the flying spear.

The hero marked first, with an eagle’s view,

His intended mark; and, rising as he threw,

From his right hand the fatal weapon flew.

Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls,

Or stones from war machines shatter walls:

Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong,

The lance flew past and bore grim Death along.

Naught could the king his silver shield avail,

Nor aught, over his breast, his coat of mail:

It pierced through all, and with a grisly sound

Transfixed his thigh, hurling him to the ground.

In pain, Tiranus rent the vaulted sky:

With howls and curses did he his gods decry

Now upon earth the haughty king is laid,

With face cast up, lost in the victor’s shade,

Humbled, he thus to the conqueror prayed:

“I know my death deserved, nor may I hope to live:

Save what the gods and your grace may give.

Yet think, Amorran, if there may not be

That which you claim from your god, mercy.

Pity my people, ten thousand in the grave;

And for your soul’s sake your sworn foe save!

Though if your vengeful vows require my death,

Give my folk a body void of breath!

But all your legions see me beg my due;

Yours the victory, the crown belongs to you:

Against one fallen, the strike is no virtue.”

In suspense the Valerian held his hand

Although eager to strike this foe of God and land.

He searched his heart, and at that moment felt

His angry soul with more compassion melt;

When, casting down his eyes, he spied

A medallion glittering at the king’s side,

A fatal spoil which Tiranus himself tore

From Quintus Accius, and in triumph wore.

Born again to wrath, angry flames did blaze

From the fiery rage of the Valerian gaze.

“Traitor, I say, you are to grace pretend,

Clad, as you are, in trophies of my friend!

So now, to him, a fitting offering go,

It is for noble Plautus give I this deadly blow.”

He raised his arm, and at the final word,

Into Amorr’s enemy drove his iron sword;

Valerius Victus killed the king abhorred.

Valerius Victus. Corvus liked the sound of it. He would give much to be able to claim such a name for himself. Then he glanced at his wife on his one side and his daughter on the other. He would give much. But he would not give everything.