Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones (93 page)

Marcus nodded and called back to the walls. “Floris Siculo, I do not wish to be unreasonable! Return my men to me now and I will return tomorrow to discuss the supply issue.”

“Reason with this, Amorran!”

A massive cheer went up as twelve pikes rose suddenly from the two nearest battlements. Upon each one was a head wearing an Amorran helm. Marcus was close enough to recognize the faces. Gavrus’s eyes were closed but Dardanus seemed to be staring at him accusatorily. Sickened, he reeled in his saddle, badly enough that Proculus reached out to steady him. His vision went black, and for a moment, he was back standing on the platform, staring in horror at the bloody, headless body of his cousin.

“God, God, God,” he whispered brokenly, despite himself staring at the lifeless faces of the men he had unknowingly sent to their deaths. “How can men do this? In what image of the devil are they made?”

“Steady on, Tribune.” The centurion’s calm tone more than his words were like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Marcus clung to it as he fought to master himself, to prevent his insides from turning themselves inside out and choke down the bitter gorge that rose and burned the back of his throat. “Steady on, General.”

The Solactae were jeering him. Behind him, the realization of what was happening was just beginning to sweep through the legion, and soon the angry shouting became an indeterminate roar.

Marcus didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to leap from his horse and clutch the insolent, elderly consul by the throat and squeeze until he turned black and his eyes popped from his head. But that was foolish.

Instead, he simply drew his sword, held it above his head, and waited until the taunts and howls from the Solactae died down as they grew curious about his reply.

“You shall have our response on the morrow,” he shouted as calmly as he could manage, then sheathed his sword, spit on the grass and turned his horse around.

Gaius Proculus and Servius Commius followed suit, and together, the three of them trotted back toward the legion in a somber silence that did nothing to disguise their mutual rage.

Behind them, twelve pairs of sightless eyes watched their retreat with the indifference of the dead.

SEVERA

Severa had not been so excited since the day she saw the gladiator wearing her token. But now she could show the world her delight, as there was no shame in taking pleasure in her handsome fiance, who cut a very fine figure indeed in the unadorned white robes worn by the candidates for the various offices being presented to the voting tribes. Sextus was easily the most handsome of the fifty or so young men who were rivals for the twenty-four tribunates available, and she felt that even if he wasn’t a Valerian endorsed by the heads of four of the most powerful Houses Martial, he would have commanded enough votes to win on the basis of his noble appearance alone.

If his speech had been nothing special, being full of the conventional platitudes and patriotic declarations, it was no worse than those of the other candidates. Indeed, the three years he had on most of them gave him an air of gravitas in comparison. There had been no jeering by the clausores or any of the common folk who sympathized with him, so it appeared her fear that Sextus might be harmed by his engagement to her, and therefore connected to her father’s perceived betrayal, was groundless. Of course, it probably helped that he’d been nominated by his uncle, the consul suffectus, who was now seen as the city’s great hope to quell the rising tide of rebellion outside its walls.

The tribal assembly was a massive affair, and the Forum was about three-quarters filled with the men gathered into their various tribes as well as the inevitable vendors and prostitutes looking to earn coin among the large annual gathering.

It was interesting to see the way in which the tribal divisions cut across the traditional house and class lines. With the exception of the three Houses Martial, Cassania, Falconia, and Valeria, each of which served as their own tribe, a man’s tribe didn’t necessarily align with his House or his patronage. The Sabatina tribe to which most Severans belonged was easy to spot from her vantage point on the base of a statue on the west side of the square, as they were all wearing black in mourning for her father. Their gesture of respect touched her, and she bit her lip to distract herself before she started crying.

This was a day for celebration and joy, not grief, and she remind herself of how proud her father would have been to see his future son-in-law standing astride the rostra in front of the assembled citizenry of the city, looking for all the world like a prince waiting to be publicly crowned heir to the throne.

“Do you see him?” Marcipor, her fiance’s golden-haired slave who was always underfoot, called up to her. “What is he doing?”

“Yes, yes. He’s waving to people and talking to two of the other candidates.”

“Amazing. Do you know, a week ago I’d have sworn we’d have to get him blind drunk to get him through this!”

She rolled her eyes at him and returned her attention to the platform. She didn’t trust the beautiful slave and considered him to be a bad influence on Sextus, but she tolerated him for Sextus’s sake. Though it was tempting to try convincing Sextus to get rid of the man, who was a notorious gambler and philanderer, her mother had advised her strongly against wasting her own influence on such trifling matters.

“Never attempt to convince a man of something he doesn’t already think he believes,” she’d told Severa. “When he is a man of influence, he won’t have the time or inclination to run around carousing with slaves. But mind you don’t let that slave compromise you either. You’re quite right not to trust him. He knows very well how attractive he is, and he’s not shy about using it either.”

Marcipor was very good-looking, she supposed, especially if you didn’t mind beards. She wondered idly what it would be like to kiss a man with a beard and grimaced at the uncomfortable prospect. It was just as well that she was immune to the slave’s charms.

“Can you see who is voting first up there?” she asked.

“Not yet. The magistrate is still talking with the candidates.”

The magistrate presiding was the outgoing urban praetor, a Viturius who was well past his year, being older than any of the consuls. It took him a long time to greet all of the fifty-some young men, but at last he turned his attention to the gathered tribes. But if his actions were deliberate and his shoulders were a little stooped with age, his lungs were in fine condition, because Severa could hear him clearly from where she was clinging to the oversized stone arm of someone the carvings identified as M. Fabius Pulvillus.

“Men of Amorr, you have heard from each of the candidates. The custodes will now present the lists of the men whose vote has been selected by their tribes, in the order that their name is drawn from the basket.” He gestured to a slave who was carrying a small woven basket, and when the slave approached, he withdrew a small object from it. “Aniensis is the principium!”

A cheer went up from a small group of men belonging to the Aniensis tribe halfway back from the rostra. The other tribes applauded and made way for the proud custodis as he marched toward the elderly praetor and handed him a wooden tablet. The magistrate peered at it, briefly consulted with the custodis to clarify a name he could not distinguish, then read them aloud.

The third name on the list of twenty-four was Sextus Valerius. Severa shouted and shared a triumphant glance with Marcipor. One tribe and already one vote. That was a good omen: Sextus had told her that it was always lucky to be named by the first tribe to vote.

Tromentina was drawn next by the praetor, and they had Sextus listed fourth. He was also on the lists turned in by Tetius and Cassiana. A loud roar went up from the powerful tribe associated with the great House Martial when the magistrate read the name Appias Cassianus Canina, which unsurprisingly headed their list. Menenia left Sextus off their list of names, but he was second on Papiria’s, first on his maternal tribe of Romilia’s, third on Falconia’s, and fourth on Macea’s. When Valeria’s custodis turned in his tablet, Sextus’s name was met with a cheer to rival the one Cassianus Canina had received.

Even with less than half the tribal results in, it was obvious that Sextus would be elected one of the twenty-four. Indeed, his showing in the votes was so strong that the question now was whether he would be named first tribune! It seemed to be between Sextus and the younger Canina for whom would claim that honor.

Marcipor had disappeared, and she was not surprised to hear, upon his return, that he had gone to place a bet. The monetary stakes kept the crowd’s level of interest high. The most common plebians, those without any political clout or even the least bit of interest in the Senatorial rivalries, alternately groaned and shouted with glee depending upon the order in which the most commonly heard names were read.

As pleased as Severa was for her husband-to-be, though, Severa felt bad for the young men who looked up in surprise on the rare instances when their names were called—and for those few who never heard their names at all. How cruel it was, she thought, for a father to insist upon his son’s candidacy when he could not even deliver a single vote from his own tribe!

When the last tribe, Ramnes, turned in its list, only a very few of the most sober and keenly attentive were still keeping track. Fortunately, it did not take long for the three slaves who were acting as scribes to add up the results, so the crowd did not grow too restive before the list of winners was presented to the praetor. That magistrate, in keeping with the festive spirit that now pervaded the Forum, read the twenty-four names beginning with the winner who had received the least and lower-ranked votes.

It was a delight to see the reactions of some of the lesser candidates to their victories. Laughter filled the air when one unlikely winner, a thin young man with the decidedly unpatrician name of Hostus Herminius Tubertus, looked from side to side upon his name being called as the twenty-third tribune, as if there might be another Herminius in the contest. Another winner, from a lesser Falconian branch, finished fifteenth and fell to his knees sobbing in ecstatic disbelief. Others were not so fortunate, and as the names the praetor read out became more and more familiar to Severa, the faces of the likely losers grew longer and more grim.

Eventually, it came down to the last two: Sextus and Cassianus Canina. Severa frantically tried to recall how many times the Cassian, who was in his year, had finished above Sextus in the various lists. She thought the Cassian had finished first more often, but balancing that, he had failed to place in the top five as reliably.

“The second tribune,” the praetor announced, “is Sextus Valerius. Elected first tribune, in his year, is Appias Cassianus Canina!”

The shouts and cheers from the crowd echoed off the buildings surrounding the Forum as the Cassians and Valerians alike celebrated their victories.

Severa was disappointed that Sextus hadn’t finished first, but she was exceedingly proud of him. She watched him smile and congratulate the younger man with a hearty arm clasp then exchange words with his fellow victors and the disappointed losers alike. It was a signal victory for the clausores, which would have been a blow for her father, but anything else could not have been expected in light of the dreadful news from outside the walls. And it boded well for Sextus’s uncle. To her surprise, that struck her as a very good thing. How ironic it was for a daughter of House Severus to anticipate the consular election of a Valerian with no little relief!

She climbed down from the statue and found Marcipor looking like a cat in the cow’s milk, which she found a little suspicious.

“You didn’t bet against Sextus winning first, did you?” she demanded accusatorily.

“No, I knew he’d be first three, but so did everyone else, so the odds weren’t worth it. And it’s always hard to say which of the best candidates will end up on top. With all the vote-swapping that takes place between the Houses, even the most obvious winners will sometimes fall a place or two. Second is a great finish for Sextus given that he was three years late entering his name. Magnus told him to be happy with anything better than sixth.”

“So, what did you bet on, then?”

“Some fool gave me fifteen-to-one against Sextus finishing first on the Sabatina list. With all that’s been happening the last few weeks, half the city has forgotten that you’re engaged to marry him.”

She burst out laughing. It was a rather clever bet on his part, for without taking her marriage into account, no one would have ever imagined that the tribe to which the Severans belonged would so heavily back a Valerian. Whoever took Marcipor’s bet must have thought he was stealing from him.

“Let’s go find Sextus,” Severa said. “And then, as you’re so newly wealthy, you can buy lunch for me and the new tribune. But I want to come back here for the consular vote.”

“As my lady commands.” He bowed deeply, and a just little mockingly, to her. Then his blue eyes, so like the sky, grew serious. “My lady Severa, I know you don’t like me. But I beg you, after you are married, please don’t make him send me away.”