Chapter 4:
Reflection From a Tarnished Mirror
I
The scents reminded him of a room he couldn’t place, one with pungent spices where slim, brown-haired women walked among low counters. Gnaeus recalled a particularly pretty girl who’d smiled at him and then he wondered where he was. He’d thought he’d been telling his boys to hold the line. He was supposed to be getting them into formation, and he couldn’t, not in this room that smelled of spices. He knew they had to be close and called to them. “Form up, boys!”
He was only vaguely aware of the beautiful wooden desk standing against the wall, a light brown oaken masterpiece carved with running horses, marred by a crushing blow to its right panel. A helm and some armor lay on a bench to the left, and in front of them were some vases that didn’t look Dervan or Icilian, for a ribbony creature floated in puffy clouds above a fleet of ships, and there weren’t any soldiers on any of the decks. Where were his men? “We have to form up,” he said mostly to himself. His attention shifted to the fellow in the black tunic standing near the door. Maybe he knew where the lads had gone. He certainly looked like a military man. His straight, jet-black hair was cut short over a high, pale forehead, and a thin white scar stretched diagonally across his large, square chin.
The scarred warrior gestured at him to a companion now filling the doorway, a tall, powerfully built man with fiery red hair and blue eyes menacing as spear points. “Will he do?”
“Maybe.” The big man advanced with an easy grace unlikely in someone so large and placed hands on either side of Gnaeus’ face. His fingertips were cool, and their touch oddly soothing. After a short moment Gnaeus felt a pulse at their tips, almost like the drumbeat of a galley. That reminded him that he had to get the men into order. “Form on me, boys!” he called loudly. “We have to hold the line!”
The big man withdrew his hands and looked back to the other. “I asked for a blank slate, legate. There’s still a personality in there.”
The legate scoffed. “He took a blow to the head that laid open his skull. All he can do is shout to his nonexistent men. If he’s not completely blank, then he’s like a smeared old slate you can write over. Besides, I can’t do better. I’ve accommodated you far enough. All of the rest of these things”—he gestured to the furniture and pottery—“were expensive.”
“Not for you.”
“For the state. What I’m saying is that you’re going to have to work with it.”
“I can’t guarantee the results.”
The legate snarled. “It had better work, wizard. The time and expense laid out demand more than a mumble and powder show.” His dark eyes blazed warning no matter that the larger man topped him by a head.
The wizard shrugged, unfazed. “Oh, something will happen alright. But you may not like it. This kind of magic is unpredictable.”
“Hold the line,” Gnaeus shouted again.
The legate sneered and snapped at him. “Shut up, Centurion.”
“Don’t call him by a Dervan rank.” The big redhead gripped Gnaeus’ left arm and helped him rise from the bench. “It’s time to put on your armor.”
Gnaeus was accustomed to putting on his armor. When the wizard handed him the cuirass, old habits kicked in and he pulled it over his head.
“Is all of this theater really necessary?” the legate asked.
The wizard, tying up Gnaeus’ shoulder tab, answered. “If this is really Hanuvar’s armor, it is.”
“It’s from Volanus,” the legate asserted. “All of it. Senator Apulius had it on display.” He snorted his contempt.
Gnaeus looked to right and left. The boys were probably putting on their own gear somewhere nearby. This was taking too long. “We’ve got to form up.”
“You’re not quite ready.” The big man held out a shining silver necklace, and bent his head as though in meditation, whispering words in a language Gnaeus hadn’t heard before.
Gnaeus’ gaze shifted to the helmet. He realized he wasn’t wearing a helmet, and he needed one, though that one wasn’t his. The armor wasn’t his, either, was it? The colors were wrong, no reds. And the crest wasn’t transverse. He started forward, but the big man put a hand to his chest almost gently.
“Hold up, soldier.”
Gnaeus complied with that simple command, remaining still as the other slipped a chain over his head. It was a necklace supporting a circle of metal set around a honey-colored stone oval half again the size of a sesterce.
The wizard passed him the helmet with the green horsehair crest. “Put it on.”
He obeyed the order. The moment the metal encased Gnaeus’ head, the big man resumed his whispering and touched the stone hanging upon the breastplate.
Gnaeus gasped, for he’d seen a flash of light within the gem. More than that, something within him had cleared, though he could not yet have articulated what it was. He raised his hands as if contemplating them for the first time.
“Is it working?” the legate asked. There was no missing the strained excitement in his voice.
Gnaeus couldn’t see out of one of his eyes and had to turn his head to observe both men fully. He lifted one hand to his face and discovered his eyepatch. He traced a line of tender skin that ran from his nasal bridge to his hairline.
“That’s new,” the legate whispered eagerly. “It’s like he’s more aware.” He then pitched his voice at the man in armor. “Do you know who you are?”
“Where am I?” His voice sounded strange to him.
The legate smiled with feigned warmth and adopted a patronizing tone. “You’re with friends, recovering from an injury.”
“Who are you?”
The legate’s smile deepened. “Who are you?”
He wasn’t sure. He’d thought his name was Gnaeus, but another name loomed larger now, and it was one he dared not say, not when he was in the presence of someone who looked like he wore a revenant uniform. His thoughts were hazy. He fought off the recurring worry that he had to form up his unit. There was no unit here.
“Who are you?” the legate repeated insistently.
“It’s likely to be a little while before it all takes effect,” the big wizard cautioned, and watched Gnaeus with his eerie blue eyes.
The padding inside the helmet wasn’t adjusted right, and Gnaeus took it off to examine the inside more closely. He’d worn this helmet when he was leading his army through Turia. But . . . he hadn’t ever been stationed in the south, had he?
“Does it seem familiar?” the legate asked eagerly.
“Don’t press too fast,” the wizard cautioned.
The legate’s lip curled at the criticism.
Wherever this was, he wasn’t among men he could trust. He knew enough to judge that, just as he knew his perceptions were flawed and confused. He glanced down at the amber stone centered in his necklace. The shade reminded him of something. A woman’s eyes. Yes, his sister Narisia’s eyes had been almost this same color. But he didn’t have a sister, did he? Much less one with a strange name.
The wizard indicated the amulet with a thick finger. The impact of those blue eyes was scorching. “Leave this about your neck. If you remove it, you’ll be incapable of doing anything but telling your men to form in line. Do you understand?”
He nodded. Recent memories were fuzzy, but he had the sense he’d been walking in something like a permanent dream, from which he was only now waking. “And what do you want from me?”
The legate laughed, as if he meant to soothe or disarm his listener with bonhomie. He failed. “Your advice. That’s all we want.”
They wanted more than that. There was no missing it in the legate’s hungry eyes, or in the other’s penetrating stare. Of the two, he preferred the big man, who at least seemed to speak truth. “Why am I so tired? What’s happened to me?”
The legate shot a probing look to the wizard, who said, “The spell may be taxing him.”
“So what do you suggest we do?” the legate demanded.
“Let him rest. It will give a chance for the magics to settle in.”
“How long before your spell starts working?”
“It’s already working.” The wizard at last betrayed a hint of annoyance at the constant challenge in the other’s voice. “Unless you thought you could take any kind of advice from him before.”
“But is he Hanuvar now?”
Hanuvar. Yes. He flexed his hands. They didn’t look quite right. But nothing felt entirely right. He was on enemy ground. He had to find a vantage. No. He had to get away, to a place where he could learn the lay of the land and consider his options.
The wizard shook his head and spoke wearily, as if explaining something for the fourth or fifth time. “He’ll never be Hanuvar. But for your purposes he may be close enough. You,” he said to him, “should rest. Think about your past. Remember you’re among friends. And leave the necklace on. We’ll be back in the morning.”
“The morning?” the legate asked sharply. “We have to wait that long?”
The big man spoke with an air of finality. “He should sleep with the amulet on. That will give the sorcery a better chance to root deep through him.”
He didn’t like the sound of that. But then he knew without the amulet he was . . . less than himself. “I will rest,” he offered. “And then, hopefully, all this will be a little more clear.”
The wizard agreed with an approving nod.
The legate frowned. “I can’t help noticing that you’re in a hurry to be out of here, Calenius. To be done with this.”
“I’ve made no secret of that. I have my own projects. And this one has already proved more time consuming than I had hoped. But by tomorrow morning I think you’ll be able to get some useful information out of him.”
He set the helmet on the desk.
“I’ll send a slave in to help you get the armor off,” Calenius said.
“Shouldn’t he leave all of it on?” the legate asked.
“No; he just needed it for the spell to start its work. Things Hanuvar had touched, things Hanuvar had used, or been near. To help focus the spell.” Calenius spoke to him. “This was your desk, wasn’t it?”
He nodded slowly as he drank in the elegant lines while memories and moments flowed through him. It was not until the two had left that true understanding dawned, though when the slave arrived he pretended to be muddled still.
The slave seemed surprised he was capable of conversation at all.
That night, he ate long and well. It was a three course Dervan meal, starting with hard-boiled eggs and ending with a nice selection of cherries, but he had to endure a fish heaped in their garum sauce in between. Then he pretended to be sleepy for a time before calling for the guard.
The next morning when the two returned, they would find the guard restrained with bedding in their charge’s chamber and a tale of having been lured inside and subdued in the middle of the night.
He slipped away, with armor and a weapon taken from a fool who’d tried to stop him. He also had a name, and a purpose. Never again, Hanuvar vowed, would the Dervans capture him alive.
II
The summer sun hung only a dagger’s length above the nearby hills when Hanuvar crossed onto the expansive farmlands owned by Minucius. Long years before, bearded and armored, he had ridden this same road at the head of troops. Today he was clean-shaven, his dark, gray-peppered hair straight cut in the Dervan manner, clothed in a fine blue tunic of the kind a well-to-do merchant or their representative might wear. His only companion this time around was Antires, a dark young man on an old white horse.
When they topped a ridge, the worn mountains that ribbed the Tyvolian peninsula rippled into view through the morning mist; he and Antires gazed down on a line of lower hills beneath which a villa sprawled, overlooking a stream pretty enough to have been painted on a mural. Sun-hatted slaves worked among the vegetables and tended leafy vines pinned to trellises. A vast warren of slave quarters stood open beside a long run of barns and outbuildings.
They found two older men repairing a wagon wheel in the shade of a laurel tree, one of whom guided them deeper into the grounds and presented them to Lucretius, the estate manager, sturdy and dough faced, clearly a hands-on administrator, for he too wore a sun hat, and while his tunic had sleeves, the cloth was worn, faded, and spotted. Lucretius recalled the letter he’d received last week from Fabius, Hanuvar’s assumed identity for this enterprise.
“Ah, yes.” Lucretius cleared his throat. “I’ll have some refreshments set out. But I have bad news. I wrote you back—did the letter not come through?”
In point of fact it had, but Hanuvar pretended puzzlement.
Lucretius asked the slave to take the visitors’ horses away for fodder and water, and to send a girl with snacks. Once the man was leading both animals off, Lucretius started down the road for the villa, Hanuvar and Antires at his side. He spoke quietly to Hanuvar. “I’m not at liberty to make any decisions about the slaves. That’s the master’s prerogative, especially expensive ones like this. So I’m afraid your trip has been for naught. I’m sorry about that.”
For a man saying no, he remained quite welcoming. Hanuvar guessed the reason, but didn’t want to assume too much. “Have you written your employer about my request?”
Lucretius inclined his head. “I have, but there’s no telling when I’ll have a response. He’s . . . distracted with other business matters.”
Minucius, the villa owner, was actually busy gambling and drinking in Iskandria. Unlike the majority of problem cases Hanuvar’s liberation network encountered while trying to buy up Volani slaves, this one had no active interest in his belongings while they were out of his sight. He was simply unreachable, and his estate manager remained unable or unwilling to make choices without him.
“My employer doesn’t really need to purchase the slaves,” Hanuvar said. “Merely borrow them for consultation. As I explained in the letter.”
“Yes, yes. I understand.” Lucretius nodded and led them toward the back side of the white-walled villa, where a pleasant shaded patio surrounded a reflecting pool. “And the offer of remuneration is quite generous. But I simply can’t make such a decision without Minucius’ involvement.”
Food preparations must already have been underway, for a quartet of slaves stepped into the roofed area and laid out platters as the three men walked up. “What a nice-looking spot,” Antires said.
While Lucretius paused to praise the villa planners and previous manager, who’d apparently reworked the gardens, Hanuvar evaluated what he’d heard and decided how he would test his suspicion that Lucretius expected a bribe. Actual functionaries, like the two they pretended to be, would examine the merchandise before haggling. “Surely your master would not object to me speaking with your people here, at the villa?” Hanuvar asked.
“Of course not,” Lucretius said reasonably. “But wouldn’t they need to see the ground you mentioned, and evaluate the soil?”
They took the offered benches near a chipped statue of smiling cherubs.
“Of course,” Hanuvar answered. “Before we discuss any other kind of arrangements for the slaves, though, we should verify that these three men are the experts they’re alleged to be.”
“That makes perfect sense.” Lucretius clapped his hands. One of the slave girls trotted over and he asked her to send a runner to bring the Volani from the fields. She hurried off, and Lucretius swept a hand toward the repast before them. Gnats began investigating some of the grapes and salad greens. There was also a covered platter of what proved to be trout, the ubiquitous Dervan boiled eggs, and several bread loaves. Lucretius himself poured their wine, a lightly watered dry, robust red.
He then proceeded to tell them about his own role on the estate and the amount of time the job required for what amounted to very little money. He apparently took for granted the free use of skilled in-house cooks and ready access to Minucius’ wine stock. As he spoke about his relative poverty it became all the more clear that he was setting himself up for a gratuity and Hanuvar decided that he’d liked the man a little better before he’d proved so obviously corrupt.
Hanuvar announced that he’d like to walk with the slaves when they arrived and see if they could demonstrate their skills. Lucretius said that would be fine.
“And if you don’t mind, we’d like to talk to them alone. Without any input from any other learned agricultural men,” Hanuvar finished with a smile.
“We want to make sure they’re up to tackling our problems,” Antires added. “These Volani vintners are supposed be expert with both southeastern strains and high-elevation growing?”
“I don’t know about the latter, but they certainly know their way around vines in general, and all manner of exotic varieties. I’m sure you should be able to gauge their worth to you fairly fast.” He smiled amiably. “Converse away. I’ll sit here in the shade.”
A small, ruddy-skinned man presented himself to Lucretius and announced that the Volani waited just beyond the decorative hedgerow. Lucretius addressed the rubicund slave. “Conduct our guests to them. Tell them they’re to answer his questions.”
Hanuvar allowed himself to be led to where three lean, disgruntled slaves stood in sun hats. They had the air of craftsmen called away from the midst of a project. They looked askance at Hanuvar, then at Antires, who’d followed a few steps behind, still holding a wine goblet.
The young slave conveyed Lucretius’ instructions, which further soured the expressions of all three.
Hanuvar sent the slave off, then addressed the trio. “Your master’s manager has given me leave to ask you a few questions about selection for better yields at higher altitudes. Walk with me.” He started toward the vine fields and the three came after. Antires plodded silently at his side, sipping wine.
“Will this be long?” the oldest asked, his Volani accent thick. “We really must return to the work.”
Certain now that they were out of earshot of anyone in the villa, Hanuvar spoke quietly to them in Volani. “Show no reaction as we talk. I’m working to buy your freedom and return you to other liberated people of your nation. The manager appears to be bribable; will you be prepared to leave on a pretend consult and not return?”
One of the men faltered in his walking even as Hanuvar pointed to the ground near a vine winding about a trellis, as if he meant to ask something about its quality. He was well informed about a multitude of subjects, but wine growing was not among them, and had only acquired enough information to pass muster.
“Who are you?” the second oldest returned, likewise speaking Volani. His close set eyes narrowed. “Why would you buy our freedom? Why do you speak our language?”
The elder raised a hand to him and spoke quietly. The deep brown eyes in his weathered face studied Hanuvar’s features. “He is Volani.”
As if by chance, Hanuvar had led them to a run of open storage sheds, where they were closed in from view both from the villa and the fields. There he stopped and let the others scrutinize him.
The youngest looked no more than twenty, and his smooth brow furrowed. “It might be a trick. Maybe Lucretius wants to test our loyalty.”
The elder shook his head. “He’s not imaginative enough to play tricks.”
The young one, whom Hanuvar knew had been given the name Gisco by his parents, changed his thoughts on the instant and asked Hanuvar, “Can you free others, too?”
The one with the close-set eyes flashed a half smile and explained, “My cousin has a lover among the other slaves.”
“We’ve friends here,” the oldest told Hanuvar, his eyes searching for empathy. “People who deserve better than this.”
There were always complications. Hanuvar wondered how to address the hopes of these people. To suggest the removal of any beyond the three Volani wine specialists before him would arouse the manager’s suspicions.
Before he could formulate a counterproposal, Hanuvar heard a distant cry of alarm from somewhere near the villa, and then a shout of “bandits” from another point to the east. Hanuvar readied his knife just as a gang of men emerged from the vine fields on the right at a run; thickset, muscular spear bearers. The leader, startled to see Hanuvar’s group, paused long enough to point four their direction, then continued on his way toward the house.
From their build Hanuvar knew them instantly for gladiators, some of the most dangerous man-to-man fighters in the world. The Volani vintners clustered together as the interlopers closed on them. One of the intruders remained at a distance as two of the burly young warriors flanked and a third advanced with spear low and ready, pointed at Hanuvar. His brows were furrowed over wary black eyes. “You’ll stay quiet if you know what’s good for you. You three are slaves?”
“Yes,” the elder answered. He opened his mouth as if to say more, and gestured toward Hanuvar, but the lead gladiator’s focus had already shifted to Antires. “And you?”
The playwright had cleverly dropped the wine goblet as the interlopers ran up.
“Of course,” he said smoothly.
The curly-haired gladiator flanking from the left came then at Hanuvar, spear leveled.
Antires and the Volani cried out as one. “No!”
Hanuvar backed from the thrust, keeping just a foot away of the gleaming point. Another aggressor flanked from the right.
“No,” Antires cried. “He’s here to free these men!”
The Volani were shouting the same. The flanking gladiator paused to see whether his commander would order a change, but the first spear bearer came on with a scowl. Probably he’d fastened on the detail of Hanuvar’s dress and haircut and seen him as an eques, one of the same class who paid to watch men like him fight and suffer and die.
Hanuvar retreated toward a shed wall where a broken-down vegetable cart sat, knife in one hand, weighing his choices. If he took his attacker down, the others would swarm. And that assumed he’d be able to kill the young man swiftly. He wasn’t sure he could. But if he managed to stall, there might be time for cooler heads to intervene.
Antires and the Volani continued to plead for him, but the man with the spear came in, jabbing surely but not overextending. Hanuvar pretended overreach as he swiped a return, then jumped aside when his opponent charged. The point of the blade caught in a cart slat. Hanuvar sliced into the hairy extended forearm and got himself cuffed in the face for his effort, although his opponent released the weapon. Hanuvar slid to the right and the gladiator stepped back to draw his sword. The younger man flicked his thick arm so droplets from the injury sprayed, his gaze showing nothing but contempt.
There was no time to seize the spear. He retreated further toward a space between the sheds, where it would be harder to fully swing a sword.
One of the other gladiators shouted to stop, and Hanuvar spotted Antires dashing for the discarded spear.
Hanuvar’s assailant heard his companion’s command and partly turned, halting his advance. Antires started after.
“Drop the spear!” one of the other gladiators ordered. They were all moving in now.
And then another voice called out. “What’s happening here? All of you, stand down!”
Warily, Hanuvar’s opponent backed off, his eyes still showing hatred. Finally, though, the gladiator glanced over to where Hanuvar himself stared.
An armored warrior on a sturdy brown gelding had stopped before the shed with the broken cart. His grizzled hair was dark, and a patch covered his right eye. A scar shown pinkly from just behind the cloth and puckered into his hairline. As he sat rigidly on the horse, the stranger took in the field, and Hanuvar saw that the cuirass he wore was not only of Volani make, with dark green trim, but that it was one he himself had worn a lifetime ago. And then, upon further reflection Hanuvar realized the horseman looked very much like the version of himself he had conjured up in descriptions to frighten Dervans: a formidable one-eyed man with jet-black hair, with a confident, military bearing. Had that rumor taken living form?
III
He had only one eye left him, but Hanuvar saw clearly enough when his orders weren’t being followed. Artus appeared to be at the forefront of the trouble again. He’d ordered Ennius to keep that one on a close leash.
“Report,” Hanuvar demanded.
“This prisoner won’t surrender.” Artus pointed his sword at the Dervan man holding the knife.
Immediately a Herrene—holding a spear—objected. “That’s a lie—this man with the sword has been trying to kill Fabius! But Fabius would have surrendered if he’d been given a chance. He doesn’t own any slaves!”
The farm slaves in sun hats asserted this was true, tripping over their own words in their haste to defend this Fabius that Artus had cornered.
Hanuvar spoke to Ennius, watching with dejected expectancy. “Do these men have the right of it?”
Ennius held his companion’s gaze for a moment, then faced his commander reluctantly. “It might be that Artus was a little too eager for the fight.”
That sounded right. “You’re done here, Artus. Join the sentries.”
“These men drew weapons on me, sir! And he cut me.” Artus then jabbed his sword in the direction of the Herrene. “And he’s got my spear!”
“Give him the spear,” Hanuvar ordered.
The young Herrene carefully laid the weapon in the grass with both hands, then stepped well back.
“Take your spear, get that wound cleaned up, and report to Olvus.”
Scowling, Artus snatched his weapon and stomped away.
Hanuvar turned so he could take in the villa, where he heard a clatter and shrieks, and the occasional shout. Then he considered the man who’d been holding the knife. The Dervan patrician had sheathed it. Hanuvar beckoned him closer, and as he neared he sucked in a breath, for the Dervan’s face was almost identical to the one he expected to see in the mirror when trimming his beard each morning, although this man was clean-shaven. His features were at least a decade older than they should have been, but there was no mistaking him for anyone else—not his father, nor even a sibling. It was him, Hanuvar.
The olive tinted face itself was weatherworn but unscarred, and somehow determined even at rest. His hair was dark, salted with gray, and his build was muscular and fit. Eyes the color of storm clouds searched his own.
Hanuvar could not help himself; he touched his eye patch, and the scar running down from his hairline. “Who are you?” he asked haltingly. He wanted to ask Fabius why he had Hanuvar’s face, but knew that sounded mad.
“Who are you?” Fabius asked.
“I am Hanuvar Cabera.”
Fabius addressed him in Volani. “That’s curious. I’ve seen Hanuvar Cabera and you look less like him than I do.”
Hanuvar understood the words, but they were hard work, and he touched his face again. He didn’t remember taking the wound, but he thought it must have something to do with the strange turns his thinking sometimes took. He was able to reply in the same language, though the answer was labored and, he realized, awkwardly pronounced. “I do not remember meeting you. But . . . I was wounded during my capture by the Dervans and my memory is not what it was. Your name is Fabius?”
“Some call me that. What has brought you here?”
“I’m building an army to fight the Dervans,” Hanuvar answered. “A lot of people don’t want to suffer under the Dervan lash any more than I do.”
A deep-voiced soldier called to him; he turned in his saddle, further than he was used to, so he could see him properly. It was Tafari, the resourceful Nuvaran he’d appointed third in command, jogging up from the villa. The dark-skinned gladiator came to a halt and saluted, then reported that the villa was secure.
“Good,” Hanuvar said. “Casualties?”
“Eight. None on our side, sir.”
“Prisoners?”
“Only a few. Most chose freedom. Laertes has a report for you. He’s in the villa.”
Hanuvar pointed to Fabius. “This one is to be our guest. He’s to be well treated but watched. I’ll speak to him in a little while.”
Tafari eyed the stranger curiously. “Yes, sir.”
“Put these with the others for questioning.”
The Herrene objected, but Ennius told him to shut it and he marched them out. Hanuvar stared at Fabius and found his scrutiny returned. It left him strangely unsettled, but he forced the man from his thoughts. He had to learn what supplies Laertes had found and organize their withdrawal to more defensible environs.
IV
Hanuvar was searched and his knives were removed, though he was permitted to keep his coin purse. Tafari, a muscular Nuvaran with refined features and skin so dark it was almost ebony, directed him to a young oak and handed him a wineskin.
“Thank you. Where are all of you from?”
Tafari eyed him with cool contempt before answering in a low voice with a clipped Nuvaran accent. He deliberately misunderstood the aim of Hanuvar’s question. “I am from Onatta. And I am a prince among my people, Dervan.”
Hanuvar pressed on. “And you were captured, and sold to a gladiator school.”
“I was.” Tafari crossed muscular arms. “I fought many bouts before your people. Perhaps you saw them.”
“No.”
The gaze of those dark eyes would have withered another man. “Hanuvar freed all of us in Surobok’s training school. That is what you meant, isn’t it? It is like a Dervan to think our origin starts where you place us. But we are Ceori, and Nuvaran, and Tyvolian, and Volani, and Herrene. We are brothers, and we are free.”
“May it last long,” Hanuvar told him and settled into a reasonably comfortable seat between two roots.
The Nuvaran’s skepticism of his sincerity showed in his frown. He retreated a few paces, then, like Hanuvar, watched the progress of the raid as outbuildings were systematically plundered. Men and women too ordinary to be gladiators carried off baskets of cabbages, grapes, bread, and other food. Others carted off pillows and blankets and fabric, and a few nervously emerged with armloads of glittering goblets, plates, or fine pottery. Horses were brought forth and inspected, and saddles were fixed across the best of them. Donkeys and oxen were hitched to wagons. Another line of raiders emerged from outbuildings bearing tools, and a third group, watched by a stern gladiator, left shouldering wine amphora.
For all that the looting was organized, it was folly. The Dervan legions would catch wind of this revolt and strike back mercilessly, crucifying the gladiators and every estate slave they’d freed in their march across the countryside. Hanuvar himself might be able to use the escapade to his advantage, particularly if this madman in his old armor were confused with him and killed, but the rebellion might just as easily draw too much attention to Hanuvar’s secret war of liberation. And he didn’t like to picture his noble Nuvaran guard, nor any of the other misused strangers here, nailed along the roadway to die in slow agony.
He’d been waiting in the shade for almost a half hour when a tall black-haired youth trotted up. He wore the same light brown sleeveless tunic as many of the gladiators, revealing the muscular build of his profession. A sword was belted to his waist and he carried a shield across his back. He stopped a few steps short of Hanuvar and scrutinized him, his expression growing more and more confused.
Tafari addressed the newcomer. “What are you doing here?”
The young man responded in Dervan with a pronounced Volani accent. “I have come to see the mystery man. I heard he speaks my language.”
“I do,” Hanuvar answered in Volani.
His young countryman eyed him keenly. “Who are you?”
“Does your friend understand Volani?”
The Volani gladiator shook his head ruefully, and quipped: “Most of my comrades barely speak Dervan.”
Hanuvar glanced at Tafari, but the man showed no sign of comprehension. He climbed slowly to his feet, careful not to suggest he meant any advance. “I know you,” he said. “You’ve bulked up and cut your hair short. You are Eshmun, a guard from the admiralty tower. We met when you were courting my secretary’s daughter. And you recognize me, don’t you?”
Eshmun’s manner grew more confused, then almost frightened, as though he had seen a spirit. But he nodded slowly.
Tafari picked up on the tension. “What are you two talking about?”
Hanuvar ignored him. “This man who claims to be Hanuvar—why do you follow someone you know is lying?”
“He freed us,” Eshmun answered. “And he speaks with authority. I’d almost convinced myself he was you somehow. But now . . . You live! What are you doing here? Is it true you were here to free these Volani slaves?”
“Yes. I knew some Volani were sold to the gladiator schools, but you’ve been hard to trace.”
“I’ve been sold three separate times now.” Eshmun’s stare grew more searching. Hanuvar took note of the well-tended scars along both of the younger Volani’s arms and wondered how many deadly stage appearances he’d already survived.
Tafari’s tone had grown challenging. “What are you two talking about?”
Before either Hanuvar or Eshmun had to answer, the false Hanuvar rode up and dropped down from his horse a few paces shy of the tree.
He nodded to Tafari, then greeted Eshmun with a question. “What are you doing here?”
The young gladiator politely bowed his head. “I heard that this man spoke Volani, and I came to speak with him.” He indicated the real Hanuvar. “Do you know who he is?”
“He says he’s called Fabius.”
“He’s you,” Eshmun continued in Volani. “This is Hanuvar Cabera. Who are you, really?”
The false Hanuvar’s brow furrowed. “I am Hanuvar Cabera.”
“Then why do you speak Volani with a Dervan accent? Why can’t you recall—”
“Enough!” the pretender said sharply, speaking Dervan once more. “You have your assigned duties. Or are you so unhappy with my service that you wish to leave it?”
Eshmun hesitated, then bowed his head and departed. The false Hanuvar then looked to Tafari. “Leave us.”
The Nuvaran’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Sir? Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go.”
The pretender waited until the gladiator passed out of earshot, then felt the scar along his hairline before snatching his hand back, as if irritated at himself. He continued to study Hanuvar, his left hand shifting to stroke his necklace chain, the bottom of which was hidden beneath his armor. “I don’t know what to make of you,” he said. “You claim to be Hanuvar?”
“I made no claim,” Hanuvar answered. “I was recognized by Eshmun. Who are you, really?”
The pretender’s response was level and solemn. “I am Hanuvar Cabera.”
“Are you. Where did you come from?”
“I am from Volanus,” he answered impatiently. “What are you doing here? I spared you because I do not make war upon the innocent. But if you mean to sow dissension—”
“I mean to free the Volani slaves,” Hanuvar interrupted. “And your actions are jeopardizing that. You’re going to have legionaries pouring through this countryside just as I need it officially ignored.”
“So I should fail to fight what is wrong because I fear reprisal?”
“You should look further than the struggle. If you’re planning to build an army made up of fieldhands and gladiators, you’ll have at most a few months of freedom and then you’ll be crushed.”
“We shall see.”
Perhaps the pretender wasn’t an opportunist, but a madman who believed his own lies. If so, Hanuvar might still play upon shared goals to reach his objectives. “I would like to leave here with the slaves I came for, and their allies. They have friends and loved ones waiting for them.”
“They are free to do as they will.”
“And am I?”
The other man didn’t answer immediately, then acquiesced with a sudden head nod. “Of course. I will ask them if they wish to leave with you.”
“I would prefer to speak with them myself.”
“You will wait. Your presence has already disturbed one of my men, and may yet cause further trouble. If they want to go with you, they will be here shortly.” The pretender’s gaze lingered over Hanuvar’s features in confusion. Then he turned away.
Hanuvar almost stayed silent. In the end, though, he could not hold his tongue. He had still not deduced his counterfeit’s true motivation, although the man’s sincerity was manifest. “You need to flee now.”
The pretender stopped and turned. “We’ll be pulling out shortly.”
“I mean you have to leave Tyvol. Commandeer some ships. The Dervans will come for you. Even with a hundred times the resources you could gather here, they will overwhelm you and slaughter every man, woman, and child you protect.”
The pretender clenched his jaw. When he spoke again it was in fluent Volani, with no hint of accent. “I will find a way or make one,” he declared, in his delivery sounding so much like Hanuvar’s father, Himli, that Hanuvar felt a chill down his back.
The pretender climbed into his saddle and rode toward the villa.
Hanuvar was used to quickly taking the measure of a man, but after a conversation with the pretender he’d grown even more confused about him. The false Hanuvar had acknowledged a head injury. While some who survived such wounds were forever changed in personality, capability, or both, he’d never heard of someone assuming another man’s identity.
Tafari returned to stand guard, saying nothing, although his manner was more contemplative than before. A short while later Antires arrived, munching a peach. With him were Eshmun and the older two Volani vintners bearing their few belongings.
Eshmun handed over Hanuvar’s knives. “You’re free to go, General.”
Hanuvar nodded his thanks and belted them back on. He addressed the vintners. “Where’s Gisco?”
The eldest sighed in disgust. “The woman he loves wants to live free with the others. Our friends, too, did not wish to leave, though I told them I thought we’d be safer with you.”
“They’ll have no true freedom, nor a very long life,” Hanuvar said. “They’re being led to ruin.”
“That may be,” Eshmun said. “But we will die free.”
His words astounded Hanuvar. “You’re not coming with us?”
The young man shook his head no.
Hanuvar eyed him in disbelief. “You know he’s not who he claims. There’s something wrong with him.”
“I owe him.” Eshmun spoke like a man making a vow.
“Because he freed you? Thank him, then, and come with us.”
Again Eshmun shook his head.
“Are there other Volani gladiators with you?”
“Yes,” Eshmun answered. “Only one was in the same school as me. A wheelwright who took to the sword faster than many soldiers.”
Hanuvar took a step closer to him. “Listen to me, Eshmun. The legions will come. I didn’t stop them when I had an army, and allied cities behind us. How can your tiny force stand against them?”
“You didn’t have an army of gladiators. We’re getting more every week.”
Eshmun surely knew he overvalued the skills he’d acquired in the arena, and the ability to quickly teach them to others. His gaze was briefly furtive, as if he recognized his reasoning was flawed, then he stiffened with resolve and tipped his chin toward Antires. “Your friend says you’ve freed whole families of Volani.”
Hanuvar wished Antires wasn’t so free with that information, because Eshmun might well be caught alive, and could spread that news to Dervans. He guessed Antires had shared the details because he’d hoped to convince the gladiator to come with them. “It’s true,” Hanuvar confirmed at last.
Eshmun swallowed, as if doing so gave him courage. “Do you know if my family is among them?”
“Come with me and find out. Bring the other Volani with you.”
Eshmun considered it briefly. “I need to stay and fight.”
“Our people need protectors like you. There are a lot of battles to win. We are all one family, now.”
He thought he might have him then, for Eshmun wavered. But the gladiator shook his head a final time. “May Varis watch your steps,” he said. And he strode away without another word.
Hanuvar’s mood was dark as he turned to the others. “Come. We’ve a long way to go.” He started away, his companions following. After a moment Antires walked at his side.
“They’re keeping our horses?” Hanuvar asked. He was more than a little irritated to lose the roan he’d trained since he and Antires had begun travelling together.
“I asked about that. I was told they needed them more than we did. Who is that man, really? And why is he pretending to be you?”
“I’m not certain.”
“Is he just fame hungry?”
Hanuvar shook his head. “That’s what I thought at first. But . . . no. He’s something else.”
They passed through the fields and down to the main road with Antires questioning and speculating the while and Hanuvar barely speaking. They’d walked a good five miles before the cavalrymen rode up. Like many of the legion’s horse-mounted troops, these were foreign auxiliaries, pale-haired Irimacians for the most part, led by an older veteran, a lean decurion possessing only a faint accent.
He and his entire patrol were hot eyed, alert for escaped slaves and ready for bloodletting, and it was only Hanuvar’s patrician clothing and confident demeanor that stayed them. A few hours prior the same characteristics had nearly doomed him, but Hanuvar’s guise as a well-to-do Dervan gave the decurion enough of a pause to examine Hanuvar’s papers, which were perfect, for Carthalo himself had fabricated them.
He would have told the soldiers he’d seen no sign of the rebels, but the vintners reacted so visibly to the question that Hanuvar had to admit that they’d interacted with them. When asked how he’d survived, Hanuvar explained that the slaves with him were his own and had vouched for him as a kind master. The decurion ordered four of his troopers to escort them back to camp. Hanuvar tried to demur, but the decurion ignored him, and there was no convincing lower rankers after the order had been handed down, so before long they were conveyed to a small military camp. There were a few dozen cavalry troopers and their support staff within its boundaries, along with a handful of men in the somber black with silver death-head ornamentation of the revenant order. Hanuvar had occasionally experienced nightmares that unfolded like this.
Because the papers, appearance, and lack of accent showed that he, alone among his companions, was a Dervan citizen, the cavalrymen moved to separate them the moment they reached camp, saying that the legate would want to talk with him. Antires’ look was tense, and Hanuvar tried to bolster him with a nod, silently willing all three to maintain their composure as they were pushed toward a fire at the outskirts where a few cooks were preparing large quantities of food.
“This way,” the cavalry optio said, then bade Hanuvar follow him. They made for a larger tent on a little rise near the middle of the encampment but had to keep to the edge of the lane between tents when a disordered band of mounted revenants clomped past. Dusty and begrimed, many bore minor wounds. Others toward the rear proved far worse off, and had to be helped down from their saddles. There were calls for a medic even as a handful of tired corpsmen emerged to attend them.
Approaching the camp’s center, Hanuvar concentrated on his breathing, counting his steps as he had on Narata. The loss of control and sense of impending doom in his chest was akin to that when and he and his friend Eledeva were plummeting hundreds of feet toward the sea after she had been struck from the air by a Dervan catapult stone. It was hard to think through.
The optio had mentioned a legate, and if he meant the revenant legate, whom Ciprion had said was desperate to prove Hanuvar’s existence, then Hanuvar’s situation was very dire indeed. Of all Dervans, the revenants were most likely to be aware of his true appearance. The murals and busts of him that had been visible in multiple points of Volanus would have depicted him with a thick beard, a Volani hairstyle, and dressed either in statesman’s robes or armor, but those superficial differences might be easily discounted, especially if he conducted himself in his usual manner. He would have to depend upon more than a good command of the Dervan language, and channel everything Antires had ever taught him about losing himself in the performance of a role.
The optio bade Hanuvar wait while he conferred with the sentry before the largest and most ornamented tent to be seen. Even the tips of its tent posts, protruding above the red canvas cloth, were gilt with bright brass. The optio disappeared inside where he asked and received permission to report. The sentry, another of the Irimacian auxiliaries, gave Hanuvar a once-over but said nothing, more interested in overhearing the discussion inside than learning more about the stranger beside him.
The cavalry optio supplied information about the looting of Minucius’ villa, the deaths of its overseers, and the exodus of most of the slaves, along with horses and supplies.
The angry officer demanded additional details, and the cavalryman suggested the legate might want to speak to the survivor they recovered.
“A survivor?” the legate said with a curse. “Why should I care about that?”
“He was travelling with some slaves. Says he’s a merchant. His papers are in order. He says he met some of the rebels.”
“Fine. Bring him in.”
The optio pushed open the tent flap and motioned Hanuvar forward.
The command tent was large enough that it was subdivided and lit with a handful of strategically placed lanterns. Presumably a rest area lay beyond the canvas to the rear. The central area into which Hanuvar had been conducted was dominated by a campaign table across which a detailed regional map had been tacked, and a cloaked officer was frowning down at it.
He took Hanuvar in with a sour glance. He was a revenant in early middle age, of middling height, with short, jet-black hair, probably dyed. His skin was badly sunburned, and a thin, pale scar stood out along his heavy chin. From the gold-leaf gilt along his dark armor and the additional lightning pattern around the skulls upon his shoulder tabs, the man’s high rank would have been apparent even if Hanuvar didn’t recognize him from descriptions. This was Tertius Aetius Aquilius, legate of the revenants. That he was in the field hunting gladiators rather than sitting behind a desk in the bowels of the capital dictating to his minions was an ominous development in its own right. Hanuvar bowed his head, channeling his own fear into the natural nervousness any revenant surely expected as their due.
“Did you see the leader of the gladiators?”
“I think so,” Hanuvar answered hesitantly.
“And he was healthy?” Aquilius watched him alertly.
Hanuvar stood with slumped shoulders, his expression blank with simple-minded dread. “I think so. I mean, he had an old injury. On his face. A scar. And he had an eye patch.” Hanuvar sounded both frightened and foolish to his own ears. He kept his eyes wide and worried, the better to suggest he was someone completely different than himself.
“I’m referring to his mind,” Aquilius said impatiently. “Was he clear, well spoken?”
Hanuvar thought this an interesting line of questioning. Either Aquilius had intelligence about the false Hanuvar, or he’d encountered him himself. He gulped. “I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him. Sir. Sorry.”
The legate sighed and looked back down at the table. His eyes hadn’t fastened on any of Hanuvar’s more distinctive physical features, but then many men had a slight hook in their nose, and in the dull lighting his eye color would not be as obvious, and, as Antires had taught him, much of a man’s character was revealed in how he carried himself. Presumably Aquilius had not imagined Hanuvar pretending to be a random, accentless, clean-shaven Dervan merchant of no great intelligence. And he seemed preoccupied with the pretender’s uprising.
The tent flap was pushed open and a tall man ducked inside. He wore a massive dark bronze cuirass, and heavy boots rather than soldier’s sandals. His red hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and his eyes were a stark blue. Calenius. His right upper arm was heavily bandaged, and he smelled of soap and vinegar.
Hanuvar knew then that his time was up. He might be able to take out Aquilius, who would not anticipate the first blow, but the optio and Calenius would bear him down. He hoped Antires might be able to slip out in the noise and confusion—he’d have to draw things out as long as possible.
Aquilius saw the look of recognition that passed between Calenius and Hanuvar. “You’ve met this man?” he asked the wizard.
“I have.” Calenius sounded reluctant to admit it.
“When?”
Hanuvar answered, putting a stammer in his delivery. “I arranged to buy some slaves this man owned.” He watched Calenius, wondering if he would be contradicted.
But the big man seemed content enough with that simplified accounting of their interaction. And he had apparently decided to hold to his pledge to keep Hanuvar’s identity secret, for he turned to Aquilius. “We need to get back out there.”
“We need to regroup,” Aquilius countered. Both men had miraculously decided to ignore him.
“It was a clever ambush. But that is what you would expect.”
There was something in the big man’s tone that raised a frown on the revenant’s lips. “He’s not even the real Hanuvar! If this keeps up, I’m going to have to send for an actual legion!” Suddenly Aquilius turned to the actual Hanuvar. “Was he still lying about that? Is this impostor still claiming to be Hanuvar?”
Hanuvar nodded earnestly. “He looked just as the stories say he does.”
“It isn’t him,” Aquilius said curtly. “He’s a fraud, just trying to stir up trouble.” The legate sounded as though the false Hanuvar had acted out of spite against him alone.
“You have to press him,” Calenius advised. “Keep after him. This was a screen because he knows he’s vulnerable. He doesn’t have enough men to do it again and again.”
“You’re sure of that?” Aquilius demanded. “Now that he has the manpower from this estate, he has even more men to keep watch and lay ambush.”
“Which is why you should follow, now, instead of staying in camp,” Calenius advised. “His new recruits won’t have been trained yet to fight.”
Aquilius shook his head. “My men need rest. I’ve got my cavalry following him. We’ll pin him in place and then strike.”
“You ask too little of your men,” Calenius said.
The revenant stabbed a finger at the bigger man’s chest. “You forget your place. I don’t want your military advice. He keeps slipping away. You said you could track him.”
“And I did. I need to recover before I can do that again,” Calenius finished. Meaning his spell energy was spent.
Aquilius turned back to Hanuvar. “Did the rebels say anything about their plans, or where they were going?”
“Not to me. I’m lucky I got away at all.”
The legate sighed.
“Um. I’d like to get back on the road to Rivona,” Hanuvar said hopefully.
Aquilius snorted in disbelief. “Just because marauding slaves spared you once doesn’t mean they’ll do so again. I’ve no extra men to protect you.”
Hanuvar wanted to be well away from Aquilius. “We couldn’t possibly . . . I mean they took all our effects and I’ve already lost a week’s sales and . . .”
“Fine. Go.” Aquilius pointed to the door flap. “Optio, I’m done with this man and his slaves.”
Aquilius didn’t acknowledge Hanuvar’s effusive thanks.
Hanuvar felt Calenius’ eyes on him as he passed through the tent entrance. Though he had faced death countless times, the close brush with the legate had shaken him, and his heart still raced. While being escorted through the revenant camp he kept his face down, occasionally rubbing his cheek to better hide his features. No one looked at him more than once.
On the camp edge, Hanuvar found the Volani sitting nervously, listening to Antires tell a coarse tale to a pair of troopers while some rankers bustled to dole out rations to others.
Antires delivered a punchline about the goat not being his, the soldiers laughed, and the cavalryman with Hanuvar told him to stick to the north road and to not rest until they reached Rivona. While the Irimacians gossiped in low voices about the revenants and their terrible soldiering, he caught Antires’ eye. It was clear how worried the Herrene had been. Antires opened his mouth as though to ask a question, his eyes betraying relief. Then his gaze swayed over Hanuvar’s shoulder.
Calenius had followed from the camp and beckoned for Hanuvar. Neither the legate nor other revenants were near him, so he must not have intended betrayal, although Hanuvar doubted the visit was inspired by the wizard’s sense of fellowship. Hanuvar pointed Antires to the vintners. “Get those two ready to march.” He couldn’t stand the thought of Antires and the two Volani remaining here any longer.
Antires stared at the big man in alarm, then checked with Hanuvar to make sure he understood.
“It’s all right,” he assured Antires. Hanuvar stepped away, hoping it was. He steadied himself for this new confrontation.
Calenius walked a dozen yards beyond the camp edge entirely, halting beside a spindly elm that blocked line of sight. He coolly appraised Hanuvar. “For a moment there, I thought he had you.”
“For a moment there, so did I.”
The big man regarded him at length, then addressed him bluntly. “I’ve had to go to greater effort than I anticipated to keep your identity safe. You owe me now. If anyone can take down this false Hanuvar, it’s a real one.”
“You expect me to kill him?”
Calenius shrugged. “No. All you need to do is take his necklace off.”
Hanuvar had noted the chain the pretender had been fiddling with. “You made him.” The truth and its implications clicked into place, and with it a clear-headed calm.
“Yes.” Calenius answered Hanuvar’s questioning look by providing more detail. “Aquilius wanted to find Hanuvar. I told him my magics didn’t work that way, but he had this idea we could conjure up a simulacrum of Hanuvar that could tell us what he might be thinking. Apparently there were rumors that some other Dervan leader tried that.”
“One of them tried something like that. Go on.”
“It was a terrible idea,” Calenius concluded. “This fake Hanuvar is enough like the real one that he escaped.”
“Why did you help the revenant legate in the first place?”
“Aquilius threatens what I hope to achieve in this land.”
The response intrigued Hanuvar. He’d expected that the answer would be money or resources. “I thought you were well regarded by the revenants, or you’d long since be dead in some grisly way for daring magic in Tyvol.”
“He surely reminded me of that.” Calenius’ mouth twisted in a brief surge of anger, then his entire expression shifted into one of blithe carelessness. “Ordinarily I’d have killed him then and there, but I don’t need such complications right now. Enough. Can you take care of it?”
“I want more information first. Who’s the poor man you put the spell on?”
Hanuvar’s interest in the assignment seemed to have granted the big wizard a modicum of patience, for he answered in detail. “A centurion from a legion posted in Herrenia. His men were so loyal they fought their way in to save him after he went down, then held a sword to the best Herrenian physician they could find, threatening to gut him if he didn’t live. The healer kept him alive. But the man’s mind is ruined. He could barely remember his name.”
“What is his name?”
Calenius frowned. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Gnaeus Calpurnius.”
“How did you lay my personality over his?”
“Drawn from accounts, items you had in your possession when you were in southern Tyvol, and . . . other sources. Memories copied from other worlds,” Calenius added. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Calenius underestimated him, but Hanuvar saw no point in correcting the assumption.
The wizard continued gruffly, “I could have more easily just pointed them to you. This has taken a lot more time than I wanted and now I want it over, tonight.”
“What if I just get him to stop freeing slaves?”
Calenius’ tone grew faintly mocking. “Feeling sentimental?”
“Maybe I’m being practical.”
The big wizard eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “The magic will only last about seven more days. If you can get him to stop the raids until then, I guess I’m fine with that. Aquilius was planning simply to wait him out, but Gnaeus has kept causing trouble.”
“And when the magic runs out, he’ll be Gnaeus again?”
“And no threat at all. That shell of a man only has one idea in his head.”
“Which idea?” Hanuvar asked.
“To get his men ready for the fight.”
So. Even broken, Gnaeus Calpurnius tried to look out for his soldiers. “Perhaps I can use that to bring this whole thing to an end. Do you know anything else about him?”
Calenius’ cold eyes searched Hanuvar’s own, and then he opened a belt pouch, pulled out and unfolded some papyrus, and glanced through it as if to confirm its contents. Finally he handed it over. “Aquilius gave me a report on him.”
Hanuvar nodded his thanks and took it. “I’ll need a horse, and weapons.”
“Very well. Wait here.” Calenius turned and walked off.
Antires had been watching and hurried to Hanuvar’s side the moment Calenius was gone.
“What were you talking to him about?” Antires asked. “What are you going to do?”
Hanuvar faced his friend and clapped his shoulder. “First, I’m going to thank you for your acting lessons, because they just saved us all.”
Antires blinked in surprise, then grinned at the compliment.
“Second, I’m going to get you on the road with the Volani. No arguments. They don’t know where to go. You must lead them. I’ll catch up.”
Antires never liked to be ordered away; it interfered with his ability to directly witness and record Hanuvar’s activities. Moreover, they’d just been through a serious shock, and the Herrene would probably have felt a lot happier if they stayed together. There was a challenging note in his voice as he asked: “And what are you doing?”
“I’m going after our false Hanuvar. And do what I can for the men and women he has with him.”
V
The lone hill commanded the best field of view in the area, steep on two sides so it was defensible, and was topped by a small screen of bushes and trees. It was such an obvious vantage point that Hanuvar set a band of his men to wait in the greenery upon one of the steep sides. When evening fell, an excited Artus brought him back to the site, gleefully saying that the lure had worked. A half-dozen cavalrymen, led by a decurion, had ridden up to the hill. Now each of them lay dead.
“These are good horses,” Artus said, a glint of avarice in his eyes as he put his hand to the reins of one of the small black mounts. “And fine javelins.” He patted the saddle, where a holster for the weapons hung.
Something about those javelins jarred a memory. Hanuvar had wielded weapons like those himself, many times. He remembered a black man laughing with him as they inspected the shoddy work on the points one of the green legionaries had sharpened—what was his name?
He started. Why would he have been laughing with a centurion, in a field he knew was in Herrenia? He’d never been to Herrenia, had he?
“Something wrong, sir?” Artus asked. There was doubt in his eye, and his gaze shifted to Hanuvar’s hand, reflexively rubbing his necklace chain.
Hanuvar released his fingers and pulled himself together. He would have liked to have questioned a survivor, but he knew in the heat of combat obtaining prisoners wasn’t always a reasonable option. Besides, Artus was clearly eager to be back in his commander’s good graces after his embarrassment earlier. So Hanuvar commended him and told him and the others to be off to camp with their recovered gear.
It was twilight by the time he returned. Hanuvar personally checked with all the sentries, then made final arrangements for the predawn departure before returning to his tent, in a clearing above the forest camp. Two mornings before he had resolved to keep his bed a stone’s throw beyond the others when he discovered he’d been crying out in his sleep for his men to form up. He didn’t want his people concerned or having cause to question his guidance.
This evening he was glad for the distance, for there was loud laughter and raucous talk among the newly liberated. The gladiators had silenced their singing and kept the fires banked out of caution, but no one was in a mood to fully quash the high spirits that followed their recent string of victories.
He knew he should rest, yet he sat staring at the amulet, trying to remember exactly what the revenant legate and Calenius had talked about. His recollection was vague, like most of his recent memories until he’d donned the necklace.
His mind turned again and again to the man whom Eshmun had said was the real Hanuvar. He was Hanuvar, though! He knew it. He remembered the wide boulevards and the long quays and the scent of bread from the silver city’s bakeries wafting through the morning air.
But if he was Hanuvar, why did he remember the men in a shield line with him, all in Dervan armor, fending off the line of Herrenic rebels? The ridge had to hold, and he had sworn that his boys would do that.
How then did he also remember seeing his brother’s severed head on the camp outskirts after the sentries had called him over? He would never forget Melgar’s sobbing anger, and how he’d feared he’d lose two brothers in one day, for Melgar had dashed off with only an honor guard and somehow sneaked behind enemy lines to recover the rest of Adruvar’s body.
“Sir.”
Tullus spoke to him from the tent entrance. Hanuvar tucked the amulet beneath his shirt and turned. “Yes?”
“Report from the sentries. There’s a man with a lantern riding forward across the valley. He’s calling for a parley with Hanuvar.”
Hanuvar frowned. “Bring him to me.”
“Should we blindfold him?”
“No. An astute enemy can guess our forces. And we will be gone from this place tomorrow.”
The sentry saluted and left. Hanuvar fingered his necklace chain. The vocabulary he’d used to speak his orders felt right, and yet somehow the words were different from what he would normally have said, weren’t they? Thoughts like this confused and unsettled him.
It was not long before Tafari and Ennius presented themselves at the tent, proclaiming that they had brought the visitor, and it was Fabius, from this morning.
Hanuvar went out to meet him, struck again by the sense he was staring at the face that should have been his. “Why have you returned?”
Fabius answered calmly. “Because the Dervans are coming, and I need to make you hear me.”
Hanuvar held the tent flap open and bade his guest enter. He addressed his men. “I’ll handle this. Stay within shouting distance.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hanuvar lifted the flap for Fabius and followed him inside. The tent didn’t come close to the size of those designed for officers to hold strategy meetings, but it was the largest they’d recovered from their raids. There was enough room within both for a cot and a writing desk and stool.
He pointed his visitor to the stool and sat down on the side of the low cot. “I heard you the last time. You seem to think I have better options than the fight before me.”
The other man’s eyes were frank with concern. “You have had options all along. You escaped captivity. You decided to free the gladiators. You decided to have them free the farm hands.”
Did his visitor think him a fool? “How am I to oppose the Dervans with no army?”
“You don’t oppose them.” The other man leaned forward. “Gnaeus Calpurnius. Do you remember that name? That’s the one that defined you until eight days ago. Centurion Gnaeus Calpurnius. Of Savona.”
He felt the blood drain from his face as a tide of memories washed through him. He spoke haltingly. “I remember a wide-hipped woman with freckled cheeks, brushing her hair. I remember my cousins, and my uncle, home from the legion in his uniform. I remember my legate, stern but steady. My best friend, Macro. I remember my optio, Quintus . . .” He was chattering to no good purpose, and frowned at the other man. “You’re saying these are my original memories, but they’re . . . embers in a dying fire. My memories as Hanuvar are so much more real.”
“What all can you remember, Gnaeus? Do you remember standing with Gisco before the battle of Acanar?”
Yes, he did, with incredible clarity. Eight legions of Dervans had gathered in the plain below, an impossibly huge army, more than twice the size he himself had fielded. “Gisco remarked that it was amazing to see so many men numbered against us.”
“And you remember what I said?” the other man asked.
“What I said,” Hanuvar corrected, and slipped effortlessly into Volani. Should he know Volani? “‘I’ll tell you something even more amazing. In all that number of men there is no man named Gisco.’ The laugh rippled through the ranks. And the fear of the men eased. I knew we were halfway to winning already.”11
“Many men heard that,” the other Hanuvar mused.
“You think I need to prove myself?”
“I know who I am. I want to see how much of me is in you. Do you remember our first words to Imilce?”
“I do. Do you?” He could not help but take umbrage.
Hanuvar and Imilce had met at the behest of parents more interested in cementing an alliance than building a romantic partnership, though Father had declared he thought the girl intelligent and pretty.
The man across from him spoke with surprising gentleness. “We will get through this together.” He then breathed out slowly. “Do you remember her last words?”
He did not. It had not occurred to Hanuvar that she’d had last words, and he gasped. “She’s dead?”
“Yes. Do you remember Melgar’s last words?”
He felt the blood drain from his face. No. Not Melgar too. First Narisia, then Adruvar . . . Now Imilce and Melgar both. “How? What happened?”
“In the end I think he died of bitterness, although he’d been happier than I’d seen him in years. So many are dead. Even Volanus itself. Did you know that?”
“I . . .” Hanuvar’s hands closed on the amulet chain and his eyes burned. “You’re lying.”
“Do you think so? Or do you just want to think so?” His visitor’s voice grew more challenging. “Do you remember how you came into Dervan hands? What’s the last thing you recall about being Hanuvar before you were imprisoned?”
“There was . . . a parade. No, a siege. Harnil was there—”
“Harnil is dead.” The other man’s speech was brutally terse. “The armor you wear was mine almost twenty years ago. The spell is tied somehow to items that I wore then . . . among other things.”
Hanuvar put hands to his head, and they came again to the scar. Why did he have that scar? He didn’t remember, but he had a vague recollection of Calenius and the legate talking about a spell, and how he had to hold to the necklace if he wanted to remain himself.
Once again he fingered the pendant chain. He admitted then that his own reasoning was flawed, just as his memories seemed to be. The man before him was not lying. There were great gaps in his understanding of the world, and his time in it. Worse, he had avoided deep consideration of many troubling observations he’d made. He needed to study and evaluate all with logic, not just emotion, as his father had taught him . . . although it seemed more and more likely Himli Cabera had not been his father at all.
He could not believe that Harnil and Melgar and Imilce were dead. He wanted to ask about Ravella and his daughter, but feared what he would hear. But did any of that matter? As it turned out, he hadn’t ever really met any of these people. None of these memories were his.
He massaged his forehead. “So . . . I am . . . Gnaeus.” He met the other man’s eyes. Hanuvar’s eyes. “I think I knew that Volanus had fallen,” he said slowly. “But not as . . . me. Hanuvar me, I mean. This other man, Gnaeus, knows. I can see some of his memories, but it’s like peering through a heavy fog. And I recall what it was like, before I had the amulet. I think . . . I think he was worried about his men. I mean, I was.”
“Like any good commander.”
“So I am Dervan.” It was hard to say. “And I should hate you, enemy of Derva.” He looked across the tent at the man who had his face. Hanuvar’s face.
“If you like. I don’t find hate accomplishes much.”
“I know that it’s these memories that are keeping me going, even if they’re not mine. I . . .” It was so confusing. Almost he ripped off the amulet. “But I need an army. I need to stop the Dervans! The Dervans must be stopped or they’ll be the end of us!”
“They will not be stopped by you.” Hanuvar spoke with weary sorrow. “You think you can outlast them, and you can’t. You think you can reason with them, and you won’t. The Dervans will not surrender. They drove me from their lands, and my resources were a thousand times grander than yours. And what is more, you are Dervan. You have no reason to wage this fight.”
“I am neither you, nor Gnaeus,” he admitted at last. “I think that man is lost. So who am I?”
“Right now you’re a commander who’s led his soldiers into danger. Because you thought you needed an army.”
“I can make them one.” He knew, with time, he could forge them into a force to be reckoned with, and that others would join them.
Hanuvar spoke slowly, with the air of a messenger bringing word of a loved one’s death. “You do not have the time. Your necklace will stop functioning well before then.”
“How do you know?
“Because I talked with the man who made it, and he spoke truth, because he owes me a debt. But think. You have my memories. You must recall some of the magic in the war, on both sides, and how fragile and finite its effects were.”
Gnaeus brought out the amulet and weighed it in his palm. “How long do I have?”
“A week at most.”
“A week to be a thinking man.” Gnaeus’ teeth showed in a snarl. “And then I am once more a simpleton. You bring hard news.”
“You are a soldier. We always live on borrowed time. Any day I could be caught and killed by the Dervans. I’ve already lasted far longer than I expected.”
“You’re freeing slaves, too.”
“But not to build an army.”
“Why, then?”
The real Hanuvar was a long time in answering, and Gnaeus guessed that he wrestled with sharing his mission. Finally, though, he did, his voice low, almost vulnerable, as though he revealed a terrible burden and source of shame. “To bring them to a life far from this conflict.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Gnaeus slowly breathed out. He caught a blurred reflection of the lantern light in the stone at his neck. “I led them to this.”
“Yes.” Hanuvar’s answer was blunt. “You did it because the Dervans tried to make you into a different man. It didn’t fully work, and your reasoning wasn’t entirely sound.”
He winced to hear it. “Why did they do this?”
“Because they wanted someone like me to reason out what I was doing, so they could find me. Whomever does will be celebrated, probably land a triumphal parade, unless I miss my guess.”
Gnaeus nodded. That sounded right. He shook his head, trying to remember he was a Dervan himself. “Most of the people I freed aren’t ours . . . yours. Will you help them, too?”
“Yes. If I don’t get them away, the Dervans will crucify them. No matter that most haven’t even lifted a sword. It’s enough that they rebelled.”
What he said was true. “It’s my fault. I led them to this.”
“And I will do what I can for them.”
“Why?”
“Because no one else will, and because you and I are one, in a way.”
Gnaeus smiled sadly. He understood. “And you can get them away?”
“There’s a good chance.”
He was no stranger to difficult circumstances. “Then I will explain the matter to them. And we will have to provide a distraction for our pursuers. Is it me or the slaves they’re after?”
“Your pursuers don’t want escaped slaves roaming the countryside. But it’s mostly you. I’m almost certain their leader, Aquilius, created you without any official approval. If the emperor finds he accidentally let a new Hanuvar loose in the countryside, the rest of the legate’s career will be very short.”
Gnaeus liked the sound of that. “I’ll rouse the men and tell them the truth. I’ll need a few volunteers to stay with me, at least long enough to create the semblance of a large remaining unit.”
“Good thinking,” Hanuvar agreed.
Gnaeus felt a surge of affection for the man across from him, who so easily understood his reasoning. But then that was only to be expected, for sorcery had twisted him into this man’s mental double. In Hanuvar’s eyes he saw a flicker of that same regard, though it was overshadowed by sorrow. And pity.
He did not wish to look upon pity. Gnaeus pushed to his feet and stepped to the tent flap. He called for Ennius, told him to bring some refreshments for his guest, and then to assemble the men, because he was going to make an important announcement. Ennius hurried away.
Hanuvar stood.
“I want a moment alone,” Gnaeus said. “To ready myself.”
“Of course.” Hanuvar looked as though he was considering laying a hand to his shoulder, then decided it might be unwelcome and passed from the tent.
Only after his visitor’s footfalls receded did Gnaeus turn from the tent flap, hands to his face. Deep grief welled up from within. Harnil and Melgar both were dead . . . Imilce was gone. And what of his daughter, named in honor of lost Narisia? Tears tracked down his face and he wrenched out a sob. He had known none of these people, but could not help himself. He was a child, he thought, deceived by someone’s chicanery. They had thought to make him a pawn. At least they had failed at that.
Even if he were not truly Hanuvar, he was not truly Gnaeus. He was some middle thing, and he would not even be that for much longer.
He heard someone slide into the tent behind him. He began his turn too late, on his bad side, and didn’t see the object that struck his head. He staggered and dropped to his knee, hand falling toward his knife. He raised an arm and partly blocked a second blow that brought stars to his eyes. His knees folded and his senses swam. Someone reached around his shoulders and fumbled at his necklace chain.
He threw an elbow at whomever stood close, then was clouted in the face. “Guards!” he called weakly, then shouted again. “Guards!”
VI
Ennius, Hanuvar’s escort, had set him up with a wineskin and moved away to pass along his commander’s orders. When the weak cry for assistance came, Hanuvar paused in midswallow, then dashed toward the command tent in the small hilltop clearing. He was almost there when the gladiator staggered clear. Despite the darkness, Hanuvar recognized him as Artus, the curly-haired brute who’d been so intent on killing him at the villa.
A long necklace with an amber stone hung about his neck and Artus blinked, shaking his head, moving almost as if drunk. He paused, swaying after only two steps.
“What did you do with your commander?” Hanuvar demanded.
Artus stared at him. “How do you see so much . . .” he croaked. “How do you . . . the weight of it all . . . it hurts.” His eyes were wild. He tore the amulet from his throat with a savage motion and dropped it.
“You’d best not have hurt him,” Hanuvar said.
“Are you threatening me?” Artus asked with a sneer. “You couldn’t take me before.” He drew his sword. The arm he held it with was bandaged, but the wound Hanuvar had given him looked like it was causing no obvious trouble. “I knew there was something strange about him, and his necklace. And you. I was listening in.”
“Then you know the amulet’s going to wear out in only a few days.”
“That’s if I wear it all the time. I figure if I only put it on when I need a great battle plan, it will last a lot longer. I guess I’ll have to get used to the rest of your nonsense, too. I never thought Hanuvar would be such an old woman. You’re supposed to be fierce. Tough. But you’re so worried about everyone. You love them so much,” he continued mockingly. “I’ll make a better Hanuvar.” He trotted forward.
The gladiators had searched Hanuvar, but then he’d been expecting that. He pulled a throwing knife from the holster snugged along his inner thigh. He threw, a direct shot for the throat at close range.
Few could have dodged it, but Artus was a veteran. He deflected the attack with his blade tip then leapt forward with a chop.
Hanuvar ducked beneath a backhand strike and threw himself into a roll toward a pile of tinder. He came up with two thumb-width sticks.
Artus sneered and stabbed. Hanuvar slid clear of the strike, drove one of the stick ends into the nerve cluster along his opponent’s wrist at the same time he jabbed at his throat.
The gladiator dropped the sword but snagged the second stick and tore it from Hanuvar’s grasp. He pivoted and kicked Hanuvar’s midriff, sending him sprawling.
Hanuvar had feared Gnaeus was already dead. Over Artus’ shoulder he spotted him crawling from beneath the tent flap, calling his boys to hold the line.
Artus bent to grab his sword; Hanuvar rolled to his feet.
“You’re slow.” Artus leapt again, with another savage swing. Hanuvar slipped back. “Stand still, old man!”
The turning course of the battle had revealed Gnaeus to Artus, who swore.
Gnaeus lifted the necklace with shaking hands, shouting to hold the line. Tafari and Ennius arrived from the camp ringing the hill and paused to take stock of the commotion.
“That’s mine!” Artus snarled at Gnaeus, and hurried toward him.
“Got to form up the men,” Gnaeus shouted, his face glazed with desperation.
Artus reached him and lifted his sword.
Hanuvar heard the shout of the big Nuvaran, demanding to know what was happening. It was probably unwise to risk himself for the sake of Gnaeus, who had only a few days of coherent thought left him.
But Hanuvar threw himself for Artus’ knees. He bore the gladiator to the ground.
Trained warrior that he was, Artus kept hold of his sword when he fell. He swore foully, rolled, and struck toward where Hanuvar had just been. He too had rolled, pressing himself flat so the blade just missed taking off his nose.
Artus scrambled upright. Hanuvar was up at the same moment. And Tafari, Ennius, and Eshmun had arrived. They warded Artus with bared blades.
Hanuvar stepped clear and bent toward the throwing knife he spotted winking moonlight in the grass.
Gnaeus climbed to his feet and addressed his people, his voice weak and strained.
“Artus attacked me.”
Artus’ voice rose in anger, and he stabbed a finger at Gnaeus while keeping his weapon ready. “He’s a fake!” He waved the sword toward Hanuvar. “This one’s the real Hanuvar, and he’s just an old man. A weak old man with a soft heart!”
“Put down your sword, Artus,” Gnaeus ordered.
Artus ignored him, his voice rising as he tried still to convince his fellows. “That necklace he wears? That’s a spell. With it any of us can be as smart as Hanuvar. Better, even, because we’re gladiators!” He seemed as though he’d go on for some time, but fell silent when Hanuvar’s throwing knife caught him in the throat. Only blood spilled from his lips then. Soon, he was down to his knees, and then upon his side, writhing on the grass. Then he moved no more.
The gladiators looked uncertainly between Hanuvar and Gnaeus.
“Is it true, what he said?” Tafari asked.
Eshmun answered. “It’s true. I’ve known since this morning.”
Hanuvar added, “The Dervans put a spell on a man they thought would help them find me, but he escaped. And then he set you free. And he has led you again and again to victory.”
Gnaeus spoke then, one hand pressed to the side of his head. “The spell’s only temporary, and it’s not going to last much longer. When it wears off . . . I’m useless to you. Or anyone. I didn’t know.”
The gladiators muttered among themselves.
“You need to go with the real Hanuvar,” Gnaeus said. “He can get you out of this.”
“What about you?” Eshmun asked Gnaeus.
“I’ve put all of you in danger. I’m going to distract the Dervans following us, but the rest should go with him. He’ll get you away.”
Tafari lowered his spear. He looked skeptically at Hanuvar. “There are more than sixty of us. How are you going to get us to safety?”
“It will be a challenge,” Hanuvar admitted. “I can get you to a ship, but you’ll need to shelter in the woods and stay hidden until I can arrange for it.”
“Whose ship?” Tafari demanded. “Where is it going?”
“There are many choices,” Hanuvar replied. “But it can take you to freedom.”
The gladiators were startled by this news and a few spoke quietly among themselves until Gnaeus addressed them once more.
“I’ll need a few to stay with me for a time. We’ll lead the Dervans on a nice chase so the rest of you can get free.”
“I’ll arrange a rendezvous point for those in the diversion, once you’ve led off the Dervans,” Hanuvar added.
The gladiators brought the rest of their number into the conversation that night, and Hanuvar and Gnaeus explained the situation and their plans in detail. The news wasn’t easy for the freed slaves to accept, and some blamed Gnaeus for their plight. Most, though, remained grateful to him, regardless of his reasoning, and Hanuvar expected that Gnaeus’ impending doom made them more inclined toward sympathy than anger.
After, the young Volani vintner, Gisco, and his lover and the dozens of others, some of whom Hanuvar recognized from the farm, readied themselves for departure.
Eshmun, though, said he could not abandon the man who had freed them, and took his place with Tafari and the other twelve who’d elected to stay with Gnaeus. To Hanuvar’s objection he only shook his head. “If I can, once we know all of you are free and clear, we’ll find our way to your rendezvous. If not, well, death and I are not strangers. I glimpsed her during the siege, and I’ve seen her on the arena field. If I go down by the sword, at least this time it will be a battle I’ve chosen.”
Seeing that the young man had set his course, Hanuvar offered his hand to him, then, finally, turned to Gnaeus.
The man who was almost him had turned his blind eye away, to have a wider field of vision. “You will get them to safety?” he asked.
“If it can be done, I will do it.”
Gnaeus nodded once.
Hanuvar pointed to the chain of the pendant, hidden behind Gnaeus’ shirt. “You said you could barely function without the necklace. Yet you had the clarity to seek it.”
Gnaeus’ gaze was reflective. “I knew I was less than I wanted to be. I knew that my men needed help. And somehow I knew the necklace would aid me. I didn’t really understand, but even lost as I was, I felt it was something that had to be done.”
Hanuvar understood. He offered his arm, and Gnaeus took it. Their grip was long, and Hanuvar’s words were heartfelt. “Good luck to you, Gnaeus. It has been an honor.”
“Likewise.” Gnaeus released his grasp, hesitated a moment, then spoke frankly. “I never had a brother. I suppose . . . this is what it would have felt like.”
“Yes.” Hanuvar wished there was something more that he could do. Some way to turn the course, and grant this man more time.
Gnaeus smiled sadly, sensing the line of his thoughts. “You said before that you never expected to live long. No soldier does.”
“No.”
“All we can do is live well for the moments we have, and die well, for the right reasons. Hail and farewell, Hanuvar.”
When he had the collection of liberated slaves moving out ahead of him before dawn, Hanuvar looked back a final time from the back of his trusty roan, who had snorted appreciatively at their reunion. Gnaeus stood on the forested ridgeline, a tall, cloaked figure, head turned to one side, hand raised in parting.
Hanuvar lifted his own in response, thinking then of his final letter from Adruvar, and the hurried meal he’d shared with Harnil, never knowing it was to be their last, and the final hushed words with Melgar, at his bedside. This man wasn’t his blood. He was more like an actor forced into a Hanuvar stage costume. And yet it had fit him well, and Hanuvar knew he’d reflect upon this moment with sorrow for the rest of his days. Thus he memorized the stance of that gray silhouette alone against the horizon, and breathed deeply of the piney scent, and felt the cool breeze. Only with reluctance did he turn away at last and follow his charges into the morning.
Gnaeus played cat and mouse with Aquilius and his cavalry for almost a week, laying traps and false trails and generally leading his pursuers in frustrating circles. And then, one day, when the Dervans crept cautiously up to a position, they found him lying dead with what was apparently a self-inflicted wound beside a letter in his own hand, laying out the crimes of the legate, though its exact wording may never be known, for it was swiftly burned and the cavalry man who’d found it met with an accident.
Of the twelve gladiators who rode with Gnaeus, three were dead. Ennius and the former Volani wheelwright turned up at the rendezvous point with two more. But Eshmun, Tafari, and the others melted into the woodlands, and were not to be found.
As for the youngest vintner, the farmhands, and the rest of the gladiators and farm slaves they’d freed, Hanuvar sequestered them in the wilds and sneaked them away by nightfall via boats out to one of our ships, and thence north to Selanto. The majority elected to make the journey to New Volanus when the ships returned, or the new ones were completed. Transport to other distant lands was arranged for the rest.
It should be mentioned that while Gnaeus still lived, Calenius claimed he had cast new magics to keep the man from further raids and slave recruiting, but with that he was done. Aquilius was little pleased with him, for the wizard insisted his power was spent and that he required time to recuperate. He withdrew to his mountain.
Once Gnaeus was found dead, Aquilius, still wroth that so many slaves had escaped, hunted for signs of them for another week, departing finally in grand dudgeon. He might have claimed to have found and slain the real Hanuvar, but he instead hushed that up, announcing he had merely destroyed an impostor. He hadn’t even managed the little glory to be found in recapturing rebels. Ironically, gossip did spread to fuel Aquilius’ reputation, for there were those who’d said he had hunted and hounded Hanuvar until the dread Volani had taken his own life. No one in positions of power believed it, but many commoners did, and that was to have repercussions in coming years.
Eventually we would learn that Aquilius blamed Calenius at least in part for the failure of his plans, but that did not impact Hanuvar yet for many weeks.
—Sosilos, Book Thirteen
11. Gisco is a name so common among the Volani that it sometimes leads to confusion, but it is unused by Dervans. The jest, then, was found humorous by its listeners, but perhaps not to readers, for it is a sad truth that jokes that must be explained are rarely funny.—Silenus