The Legions of Fire (26 page)

“Pandareus and Atilius, you mean?” Varus said. “Yes, you're right. And this Menre who spoke to Pandareus—he must be on our side too. Perhaps he'll appear shortly and give us some direction more useful than simply telling our teacher to come to Carce.”

They chuckled together. Varus felt better just for being with his friend. Corylus was in his way just as solid as Vergil's perfectly constructed epic.

The wooden staff leaned against the wall of the alcove, beside the headrest where Corylus could snatch it instantly if an alarm awakened him in the night. It had been wiped clean of fur and blood, then apparently
waxed. Alphena must have told a servant to polish it before returning it to its owner.

Which forced Varus to think about his sister.

And about his friend. “Alphena was holding a marriage divination in the Temple of Tellus tonight,” he said, looking at the mosaic floor. In the center were Neptune and his bride Amphitrite, while all manner of sea creatures swam in the border running along the walls. By sheer effort of will, he raised his eyes to meet those of Corylus.

“She—and my stepmother—heard a voice saying that she was going to marry Spurius Cassius,” he continued, keeping his voice calm. “I think that must mean the would-be tyrant of five hundred years ago. The temple was built where his house was.”

Corylus smiled. “And here I was wondering if our rhetorical training would ever be useful in normal life,” he said. “Cassius is the rhetorical model of a man who reached the highest level in the Republic, consul and even dictator, and then fell to the depths of ignominy to be executed for treason. He was so perfect”—his grin grew playful—“that I wondered if he was real or just the creation of orators who weren't above improving history for a really good example.”

“I recall mention of him in the Chronicles of the Claudian Family,” Varus said. “I believe he was real. A very clever, dynamic man, but unfortunately a man who wouldn't stop at anything to gain the power he wanted.”

He thought back to the week he'd spent in the library of one of his father's senatorial colleagues. He'd been looking for information on the First Punic War for his epic, but he'd found a great deal of other interesting information also. The oldest scrolls had been written on leather, not papyrus.

“That he was executed,” Varus continued, looking into his friend's calm eyes, “was both the law and common sense: the Republic would be in danger for as long as he lived. But the particular savagery of his execution and the fact that his house was pulled down over him—I think that must have been because the other senators were terrified of him.”

Varus made a deprecating gesture, turning his palms up and then down again before him. “That's how I would have described him,” he said, “if I'd written an epic on the early Republic as I considered doing: an enemy as great as Hannibal, but growing in the heart of the Carce instead of attacking us from the outside.”

A pang of embarrassment twisted his face.
I was
such
a fool to think that I could be a poet!

“Varus?” Corylus said. His voice was perfectly calm, but a hint of worry pinched the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry,” Varus said. “It wasn't anything important; I was thinking about my poetry. And that's
certainly
”—he didn't even try to hide the bitterness and embarrassment—“not important.”

Corylus cocked his head to the side. “I think you're wrong,” he said. “Poetry mattered to you, and you were willing to put in the effort to do it. Not many people really try to do anything.” He smiled and added, “I'm proud to know you.”

Varus opened his mouth to snap, “And did you like my epic?” His mind caught the reflexive sourness before it reached his tongue, though.

He smiled broadly and said, “Thank you. I put in enough effort to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have no talent for poetry. Perhaps I should have concentrated my efforts on swordsmanship like my sister.”

Corylus's face became completely blank. Varus winced at the expression and said, “I was
joking
. Yes, I know you've seen me doing sword exercises. Although it could be that I'd still make a better gladiator than I would a poet.”

“If you put in the effort, Lenatus and I could turn you into a passable swordsman,” Corylus said carefully. “It would take a
lot
of effort.”

“Whereas Alphena is pretty good, isn't she?” Varus said. The conversation was where he needed it to be. He'd vainly hoped that his pause in the library would show him the way to broach the difficult topic; sitting down and talking to his friend had been the right answer.

“Yes,” said Corylus simply. He looked directly at Varus, but his face wasn't giving anything away. “Not as good as she thinks, but good. If she were sparring instead of hitting the post, she'd learn she lacks strength. She's got lots of stamina, though.”

“You're not going to be sparring with her tomorrow, though,” Varus said. He didn't make the words a command, but he wasn't asking a question either.

“Not tomorrow or any other time, Varus,” Corylus said. He stood up, but that was just to make him less uncomfortable. To show he wasn't trying to threaten his friend with his height and strength, he turned sideways. His hand squeezed the corner of the alcove. “I wouldn't do that, and Lenatus
wouldn't let me if I tried. And”—he grinned again, but from his tone this wasn't a joke—“if he needed Pulto's help to convince me, he'd have it.”

Varus stood also. “She's my sister,” he said to the wall fresco of a Cyclops standing on a rocky cliff. “After she's married, she's her husband's concern. But for now she's my sister.”

Corylus put his arm over his friend's shoulder. “Varus,” he said, “believe me, it never crossed my mind. And I don't mean just because of the difference in our stations. Alphena doesn't interest me.”

Neither of them was mentioning Alphena's father. Varus grimaced.
With me the closest thing in the family to a man, no wonder Alphena behaves the way she does!

“I do believe you,” Varus said. “But it's pretty obvious, even to me, that she's interested in you.”

Corylus said, “Well, she's going to have to put a lot more snap into her backhand cuts before
I'll
give her more than a peck on the cheek.”

Varus felt his torso turn to ice. He stared at his friend's perfectly straight face—then burst out laughing. “I'm sorry, Corylus,” he gasped. “You told me, so I should have just shut up. As I'm doing now.”

“Do you believe that Cassius is behind …,” Corylus said, as though Alphena's name hadn't come up at all. He gestured with his right hand. “That Cassius sent your visions and all the other things? Because I still think Nemastes is involved.”

He paused as though wondering whether to speak further, then went on. “A woman I met when the dogs attacked me said Nemastes was responsible. And I don't think they were dogs. They were wolves.”

He sighed. “Also,” he said to the mosaic of Neptune and Amphitrite, “I was in a forest, not Carce. I just ducked into an alley and I was. I don't know how that could have happened either.”

“You had sap and pine needles on your tunic,” Varus said. Corylus was wearing a tunic borrowed from a footman of roughly the right size. Varus was too stocky to loan his friend any garment but a toga, all of which were cut to a standard size. “Along with the blood. I suppose you could have gotten them in Carce, but if you say you were somewhere else, I don't have a problem believing it.”

He waited till his friend raised his face, and added, “If you say you were dancing with nymphs in the moonlight, Corylus, I believe that too. I don't know what's going on, but I know I trust you.”

“We weren't dancing,” Corylus said steadily, “and there wasn't much moon. But I think she was a nymph. A rose nymph. In the forest. Though it was firs, not pines.”

“Well, I was happy to have a three-hundred-year-old Egyptian as an ally,” Varus said. “I'm not going to turn down nymphs and dryads. We need all the help we can get, it seems to me.”

He was still at a loss about what was happening, but it didn't bother him as much as it had before he and Corylus began to talk. Some of the things hiding in his ignorance were
good
; and as for the bad surprises—he and his friends had survived them so far. Though—

“I hope nobody sends a wolf after me,” Varus said aloud.

Corylus grinned, but the expression wasn't entirely one of humor. “It was a pack of wolves,” he said. “And the only thing that saved me was the woman, mainly because she sent me back to Carce.”

He cleared his throat while looking at the wall, then faced Varus again. “Your father knows Nemastes,” he said. “And your father is the one who's rebuilding the temple where this Cassius spoke to your sister. Varus, is Saxa …?”

Varus swallowed, appreciative of the way his friend had let the question trail off. He said, keeping his voice calm, “My father isn't a conspirator, Corylus. He isn't capable of conspiring, even if he were willing to. I can imagine him weeping in his bed for days, but he wouldn't have sent Alphena and Hedia into a trap if he'd known what he was doing. And he certainly couldn't have set a pack of wolves on you.”

The thought amused him, though he knew his smile was a poor excuse for one. “Like as not,” he said, “he would have fallen into the wolf pen if he'd tried.”

“Sorry,” Corylus muttered. “It was a silly thing to say.”

“No, it was a question that had to be asked,” said Varus, feeling stronger as he spoke. “My father has gathered more information than any other person I know. None of it's connected, though. I don't think he could use it to do anything, either good
or
bad. He isn't disciplined. But”—he felt his face stiffen, and looked toward the frescoed Cyclops again—“he has a superstitious streak. And that might make it possible for someone who
is
disciplined to lead him in bad directions.”

Corylus clasped Varus's hand. “We'll deal with Nemastes,” he said. “And if Spurius Cassius is with Nemastes, we'll deal with him too. We
will
, friend.”

It made no logical sense, but the confidence in Corylus's voice made Varus hopeful again.

“And now,” Varus said, “we'll sleep.”

C
ORYLUS WAS DREAMING
. He knew that, but the wind through the forest was chill and the ground felt cold beneath his bare feet. There were patches of snow between the spruce trees.

He was wearing the tunic he'd borrowed to sleep in; it wasn't sufficient clothing here. The sun was well below zenith, but he suspected that meant he was looking south. He must be dreaming of the far north: farther than his physical body had ever been.

A bird jeered angrily, then flew through the straggling branches to another hidden perch. It looked like a jay, but the rusty brown color was wrong, and its tail seemed too long.

Corylus listened intently. There were distant birds and a chatter which might have been a bird or a squirrel. Over everything else came the rustle and creak of wind through the branches.

He didn't hear wolves. If he didn't find food and shelter soon, wolves wouldn't be necessary to dispose of him.

He grinned at the thought. Apparently he'd stopped pretending that he believed he was dreaming.

A pair of ravens curved through the trees. One landed on a sandstone boulder the size of a man's chest; the other gripped the trunk of a spruce for a moment, then croaked harshly and hopped to the ground.

The birds stared at him, cocking their heads sideways. Neither was more than ten feet away.
I'm not hungry enough to try to eat a raven. I'll never be that hungry
.

“You see?” said one raven to the other. “I told you he was injured.”

“Not seriously, though,” said the other. “He'll still be able to accompany us.”

The second raven looked at Corylus, twitching its head slightly side to side so that one eye or the other was always looking at him. “You can walk, can't you?” it said.

They were huge birds, even on the ground with their wings folded. Overhead they had a black majesty more impressive than that of most hawks.

Corylus flexed his right leg. The knee felt constricted as though he were
wearing heavy breeches, but it bent and there wasn't even as much pain as he had expected.

“Yes,” he said. “If I want to go.”

“Want!” said the second raven. It gave another croak, scarcely less harsh than its normal speaking voice. “Do you want to stay and freeze to death, is that it? You have that choice surely, but no other choice.”

Corylus wished he had sandals. He would have liked to have a heavy cloak and a woolen scarf to wrap around his head, but sandals were what he would have described as necessary if he'd had the slightest hope of getting them. There wasn't, and he wasn't about to give up.

“All right,” he said. “Where do we go?”

The ravens hopped twice to turn, then lifted with powerful wing beats. They didn't answer.
It
was
a silly question, I suppose
.

Corylus started at a trot, though he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. The birds curved to the ground only fifty feet away, their black plumage gleaming against the snow.

Despite their being willing to wait for him, Corylus decided to continue trotting for as long as he could. The exercise warmed him, though his feet would lose feeling before very long. “How far are we going?” he called.

“Not far,” said a raven. They looked back at him over their shoulders.

“It will seem far to him the first time,” said the other raven. “But no, not very far.”

The birds flapped off but again landed within sight. Their beaks were deep black chisels. Ravens would eat carrion, but they also killed their own prey when opportunity sent them a lemming or a young rabbit.