Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (54 page)

“Had you not rendered that moot.”

Senwosret’s voice was coldly ironic.

“Yes,” Shabaka agreed. “Had I not done so. We die but once, great-souled one, and your clan was sacrificed for the best of causes. One clan to buy the allegiance—the lives—of many.”

“It was not your choice to make!”

Shabaka shrugged off the jumbe’s anger, knowing that as hard as his next words were to say, they would be even harder for the proud Simba to hear.

“You made that choice when you refused to heed my warning.”

The blow struck home. It had the terrible ring of truth, and Senwosret dropped his eyes, groaning with the pain of his grief.

Shabaka waited. The moment of truth was upon them. Senwosret was here under a flag of truce, and although the three hundred warriors he had gathered to him could not hope to defeat Shabaka’s united Chii, a refusal to throw his influence behind Shabaka would likely doom the People. Shabaka had specifically chosen the Ndevu for destruction because of Senwosret’s reputation for wisdom, but was that wisdom enough to outweigh his grief, his hatred, and the need for vengeance that must be screaming inside him now?

The great Simba finally lifted his head.

“I see into your soul, Chiu, and I know that I am either in the presence of greatness or great madness. It cannot be easy to do as you have done. You have slain my heart, and I wonder if you have not slain your own as well.”

Shabaka knew better than to speak. He waited for the jumbe’s next words, knowing that he had won. Still, he found no sense of satisfaction, only relief that the People might still hope to survive.

“I will turn those who have rallied to me over to your command,” Senwosret said. “I will renounce my claim to vengeance, and I will ask the prides to recognize you as Kubwa Jumbe. The People will need a leader with your cruelty and your strength if we are to survive.”

He bowed and made as if to leave then turned back to Shabaka. His face was heavy with regret.

“You are right, Kubwa Jumbe. The fault was mine. How I wish I had listened to you when you spoke with words instead of deeds! I do not hate you, Shabaka Chungu, only my own foolishness. But I pity you.”

Shabaka nodded and held up his hand.

“I honor your wisdom and your forbearance, great jumbe. And so that you will know that I did not lie when I wished honor to your pride, I ask you to accept this gift.”

Senwosret stared at him with a faint look of curiosity enlivening his sorrow-deadened eyes. Shabaka stifled an anticipatory smile and turned around, raising his hand in the prearranged gesture.

A large group of bladesmen were standing behind him. At his signal, the Chii smoothly parted and stepped off to both sides, exposing a large group of Simba cubs who were sitting there silently, arrayed in rows. As Senwosret, speechless, took in the unexpected sight, the cubs rose to their feet as one, and saluted the Simba chieftain as Tjel had taught them.

“Hail, great father of the Ndevu!”

Shabaka had to look away from the radiant expression on Senwosret’s face. His incredulous joy was more than Shabaka’s guilt-shamed spirit could bear.

“They live?” the Simba cried disbelievingly. “The cubs... I was told you slew them all!”

Shabaka shook his head.

“It was my command that everyone should believe so, but the young were spared. I would have bargained their lives for your assistance had you refused me today, but it is better this way. Because you freely choose to join me, I have seen that your reputation for wisdom is justified, and I know you are worthy….”

But Senwosret wasn’t listening to him. The great Simba was already striding joyfully towards the surviving remnants of his clan.

The Ndevu live. Baasia grant that we all survive this war.

• • •

Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus knew his name would never appear in the scribes’ archives as one of Amorr’s military geniuses. That was of little concern to him, since he had only agreed to participate in the Holy Father's ridiculous crusade against the wretched cat-demons in order to bolster support for his planned campaign for a consulship next year. It had been more than twenty years since one of the Cassiani had last won the right to sit enthroned before the Senate, and Vopiscus was determined that it was long past time for that civic honor to return to House Cassianus.

He stood outside his command tent in the center of the rapidly rising castra, the flaps tied back in a vain search for a breath of wind against the desert heat, manfully resisting the urge to pour himself another goblet of chilled wine. It was only the late afternoon and he'd already had two; one more and he feared he would begin to lose his head. The great ditch was very nearly complete, to the south, the men had already begun burying the sharpened poles of the palisade into the ramparts inside the ditch. He determined that once it was up, he would indulge himself in a celebratory goblet, until then, he would have to suffer through listening to the tribunes reporting on the casualties inflicted by the day's march through the hostile desert with an increasingly dry mouth.

Every day, the desert cruelly bled them. Men developed blisters, fainted from heat stroke, drank their daily water ration at one stroke and collapsed, dehydrated, at the end of the day. On a good day, they'd lose twenty or thirty to the goat carts. On a bad day, one or two hundred. But every day's march brought them closer to the enemy. Every day, Cassianus Vopiscus was one day closer to the victory he so desperately sought.

When the subject of a full-scale invasion of the Qalabi had first been bruited about the great chamber, Vopiscus was quick to recognize his opportunity. He became an early and vocal supporter of the crusade, and he had argued so effectively on its behalf that when the measure passed overwhelmingly, with the support of all three consuls and only eighteen senators dissenting, the honor of leading the campaign fell naturally to him.

But Vopiscus was well aware of his limitations. His only real military experience was as a junior officer on the staff of his uncle, Cassianus Lepidus, on the last campaign against the Orontines. Although Vopiscus was by all accounts deemed to have acquitted himself bravely, he knew he was far better suited for managing supply trains than leading men in battle. Therefore, he spared no expense in ensuring that he had more than enough men, supplies, and officers for what all Amorr was expecting would be a short and easy war.

When the famed general of the Valerian House, Valerius Laevinus, had argued before the Senate that only one legion was required, Vopiscus declared House Cassianus would raise two. When the scarred ballisterius who was to command the war machines requested ten ballistae and fifteen onagers, Vopiscus made sure to build twenty of each. And although the crushing of the primitive demonspawn was not expected to take more than three months, victuals for eight had been prepared.

The Senate had voted a generous supply of funds for this expensive endeavor, but Vopiscus’s preparations were so thorough that he managed to spend his way through a good part of his own massive fortune as well. It was a frighteningly steep investment into a campaign that was almost sure to be devoid of any plunder or material reward, since the Qalabi and its barbaric inhabitants were not known for their riches.

But Vopiscus was certain that his efforts would be well repaid, in both this life and the next.

The sanctal blessing was of some value, of course, although like most of his fellow senators, Vopiscus was not a particularly devout man, and he harbored more than a few doubts about the efficacy of the Sanctiff’s influence with the Most High. But he knew that the backing of the Church, combined with the prestige of a successfully waged war, would make him a sure bet for consul, possibly even consul civitas. And if the barren desert was not known for its riches, well, a proconsular governorship surely was.

Vopiscus nodded, pleased with the progress of his long-term plans. After a year of fierce senatorial struggle in Amorr and months of expensive preparations, he was very nearly done marching through this desert hellhole in pursuit of the desert demons. The inevitable victory would be followed by a year of sitting in magisterial majesty at the fore of the Senate. Then he would comfortably ensconce himself in a governor’s palace, ideally in one of the closer, wealthier, and sunnier provinces. And there he would remain for as long as the Senate would permit, which, as the conqueror of the Qalabi, might well be the rest of his life.

The only proper justification for the pursuit of power, in his mind, was that enough of it allowed you to do whatever it was you wanted for the rest of your life. Let others strive for glory, God, and Amorr. Once he had done his duty and restored his family’s prestige to its proper, proconsular place, Vopiscus would happily settle for a small amount of decadence and a large amount of comfort.

A swirl of dust caught his eye and disturbed his pleasant ruminations. It marked the approach of a messenger riding quickly towards the south gate of the castra.

Lentulus Servilius, a quick-thinking young tribune who had been standing there at attention while one of his fellow tribunes droned on about the number of men from the fifth maniple of Legio XIII who were suffering from heatstroke, snapped to attention.

“Would the General like me to go and learn what news the primus pilus sends?”

Good lad. Vopiscus nodded briskly and watched the tribune run towards the gate. He wished more of his staff would follow young Servilius’s example and cease plaguing him with their constant questions. Calvinus, the senior centurion of Legio VI, was the worst of the lot, always trying to pin him down to one thing or another instead of thinking for himself and taking the necessary initiative.

Vopiscus immediately forgot the messenger and returned to the more pleasant pastime of debating which province would be most ideal for his proconsular retirement…or governorship, as some still insisted on calling it. Mindoros was very pleasant, as was Epra, but both were on the wrong side of the gulf and rather too far from the heart of civilization. That left Thursia, which, it just so happened, was sure to have a vacancy, as its current governor was reported to be in poor health after ten years of wallowing in wealth and decadence on its southern coast. Vopiscus smiled, thinking about how the days would stretch into weeks, lying in the sunshine in a palace overlooking the calm blue waters of the Amorramare, surrounded by skilled musicians and his most amiable slave girls.

He shook his head, sadly abandoning the vision of a happier future as his ears were assaulted by the unmistakable sound of centurions shouting orders behind the tent. He went to investigate and saw a large force was in the process of assembling in the forum behind his tent. And the men were in full battle armor! Where was Servilius? Damn the boy, where had he gotten off to?

“General Cassianus! Sir!”

Servilius came sprinting towards him, kicking up sand and pulling up just in time to avoid a collision.

“The scouts report a medium-sized force of armed catpeople about two leagues ahead of us. They say three or four hundred at most, all on foot. Calvinus has sent out the first, third, fourth, and fifth maniples from Legio VI to meet them, and he’s requested you to order two maniples from Legio XIII to march out and flank them while he engages.”

Calvinus did what? Curse the fool, what was he thinking? Sending out half a legion against only three hundred? This was obviously a ruse to split his forces and lure them away from the castra! Vopiscus could feel the blood pounding in his ears. He was so panicked, he thought for a moment that his heart might burst.

“Get a horse, tribune, and ride to him at once! Tell him his orders are to halt immediately and return here without delay. His request for reinforcement is denied! I will not have us stumbling into an ambush due to his carelessness!”

“An ambush? But sir, we’re in the desert! Where would they be hiding? There’s not a tree or hill in sight for twenty leagues!”

“I gave you an order, Tribune!” Vopiscus roared. “Do I need to repeat it?”

“Sir! No, sir!”

Servilius saluted and ran off in the direction of the makeshift stables.

Vopiscus sighed with relief. That was a close-run thing! Was Calvinus out of his mind? How could any Amorran officer forget the lesson of Galanas Wode, where two legions had been destroyed and their aquilae lost thanks to the carelessness of their glory-mad commander? There would be no such mistakes made under his command.

No doubt there were those among the senior staff who would mock him behind his back for his caution, but he would have the last laugh. Was it not the tortoise who won the race? By the time they returned to Amorr for his triumph, none would deny that his careful preparations had been well made indeed. Qalabicus? No, too awkward. Perhaps Felicus, yes, that was better. Quintus Cassianus Vopiscus Felicus. Felicus, now there was a name! He rather liked the sound of it.

• • •

The skies were just growing dark when Shabaka woke from his afternoon nap and made his way to the twisted tree that served as his command post. Aside from a few brief skirmishes with the Amorran army’s scouts, he had resolutely refused to give battle, choosing instead to withdraw slowly before the invading legions, remaining in constant contact while avoiding any combat that would seriously commit his forces. The Amorran commander seemed content to follow him, marching twelve or fourteen leagues every day, then stopping long before nightfall in order to construct the massive fortifications, which were simply abandoned the next morning.

It was an impressive sight, this daily assembling and dismantling of what to Khatuuli eyes looked like a city to rival Bas-Tiat, the stone city of the Neheb-kau. It was intimidating too, although Shabaka was starting to suspect that the Amorrans’ reluctance to press their huge advantage and attack might just possibly be cowardice.

If not actual cowardice, it was at the very least an extreme sense of caution, suggesting that the Amorran commander lacked faith in his troops, or, more likely, in himself. Shabaka had no reason to believe that these soldiers were any less capable than those of any other Amorran legion, whose eagle standards could boast victory after victory all across the lands of Selenoth, so he was beginning to believe that this strange reticence was indicative of weakness on the commander’s part.