Cold Steel (Spiritwalker 3)

Behind echoed first a ragged cheer, rising with each successive wave until its tide swept the legions. “For Rome!”

The general accepted their approbation with an unsmiling seriousness appropriate for the auspicious occasion.

“Bastard,” I muttered appreciatively. “Is this what you hoped for all along? To raise the Roman legions to fight for you as consuls used to do in the days of the old empire?”

“Rome has always been mine,” he said. “That is my destiny. You will not be the one to take it from me, Cat.”

“As long as Rome doesn’t bother me, I won’t bother Rome,” I retorted, and he smiled.

I waited as he conferred with the legions’ officers.

Then we rode the two miles or so back to Lutetia. Soldiers lit our way with lanterns as we drew up before a huge barricade that closed the Liyonum Gate into the city. Lanterns and torches blazed. Thousands of people stood on the walls and roofs, for it seemed half the citizenry of Lutetia had come to face the victor.

A young woman stood on a table, flanked by a blacksmith in guild robes and a djeli with blond hair swept up in lime-whitened spikes and gold earrings gleaming in the flame of the candle lantern he held. Half hidden among the crowd waited Brennan and Kehinde. Weaponry scavenged from the field was being hauled into the city.

Camjiata rode forward. His carelessly bold manner gave him a commanding presence. I alone followed. Bee marked me with a dark look that scolded me. Then, having dispensed with me, she pulled the shawl on her shoulder up over her hair and opened her arms in a matronly manner that mimicked the festival tableau called “Dame Fortuna Welcomes the Victors.”

“The good citizens of Lutetia have given me leave to speak on their behalf, out of respect for the Lady of the River whose voice runs all through the city.” Her voice had such resonance that, although she did not seem to be shouting, the sound carried deep into the evening. “We offer our thanks here today to you, General Camjiata. You have fought your battle outside our walls. In your wisdom you leave us to fight our battles inside them. This barricade we built from the furniture and pavilions of the prince’s palace, which we have torn down as the first act of raising an assembly to rule in the place of a prince. We will follow the example of our brothers and sisters in the city of Expedition on the island of Kiskeya across the Atlantic Ocean and devise a means to rule ourselves. Your offering at the altar of our radical enterprise we accept gratefully.”

“What offering is that?” he said, with a smile whose contours I could not interpret. Was he angry? Amused? Making ready to launch an attack into the city with his victory-soaked troops?

“You have generously shared your legal code as a model for the one that will be written here! Copies have been printed across Europa and now circulate on the streets of Lutetia.”

“I am aware of the strenuous efforts of printers. May I not stand on the steps of the prince’s palace and declaim the code? I did so twenty-two years ago on those very steps, only to have the law driven out by the hounds of greed who are ever whipped forward by princes and mages.”

Bee smiled bounteously. “The people of Lutetia are grateful for your efforts. We think you have done enough.”

“And wishful to see the backs of me and my army, is that what you are saying, Beatrice? Is this what you have seen in your dreams, that I will turn away when I and my army have won the victory that allows the citizens of Lutetia to overthrow their hated prince?”

She opened her hands, palms up. “Is this how you interpret my remarks, General? Can we ever see the truth when desire blinds us? Or do we call it truth because it is what we wish to see? If you try to enter the city, the citizens of Lutetia will resist. What you do now is up to you.”

Judging by the crease of his forehead and the blade of his narrowed eyes, General Camjiata was not well pleased to be told to go fishing or go hang by a ragtag assembly of disorganized civilians whom his soldiers could easily crush. That the young woman he had groomed as his protégé had absconded to speak for them could not sit well either. But his was not a lightning temperament; he could swallow his temper and consider all the implications before he acted.

o;You’re an Iberian. Rome has always been your enemy.”

“It is true that on my father’s side I am of Iberian princely descent and also the son of the sons of the emperors of old Mali. But through my mother’s blood I have a claim to Rome. Why should old enemies not become today’s allies? What can Romans and Iberians not do, if they work together under strong leadership? Will you join me? The old emperor is weak. But I am not.”

The legate considered the general’s offer and, naturally, grasped for the promise of glory.

He raised an arm in salute. “Camjiata!”

Behind echoed first a ragged cheer, rising with each successive wave until its tide swept the legions. “For Rome!”

The general accepted their approbation with an unsmiling seriousness appropriate for the auspicious occasion.

“Bastard,” I muttered appreciatively. “Is this what you hoped for all along? To raise the Roman legions to fight for you as consuls used to do in the days of the old empire?”

“Rome has always been mine,” he said. “That is my destiny. You will not be the one to take it from me, Cat.”

“As long as Rome doesn’t bother me, I won’t bother Rome,” I retorted, and he smiled.

I waited as he conferred with the legions’ officers.

Then we rode the two miles or so back to Lutetia. Soldiers lit our way with lanterns as we drew up before a huge barricade that closed the Liyonum Gate into the city. Lanterns and torches blazed. Thousands of people stood on the walls and roofs, for it seemed half the citizenry of Lutetia had come to face the victor.

A young woman stood on a table, flanked by a blacksmith in guild robes and a djeli with blond hair swept up in lime-whitened spikes and gold earrings gleaming in the flame of the candle lantern he held. Half hidden among the crowd waited Brennan and Kehinde. Weaponry scavenged from the field was being hauled into the city.

Camjiata rode forward. His carelessly bold manner gave him a commanding presence. I alone followed. Bee marked me with a dark look that scolded me. Then, having dispensed with me, she pulled the shawl on her shoulder up over her hair and opened her arms in a matronly manner that mimicked the festival tableau called “Dame Fortuna Welcomes the Victors.”