When the members had been given their plaques, Vespasian looked toward the Suffragat as a whole. “The voting may begin,” he said simply.
At once the air filled with plaques as the members cast their votes. As the plaques levitated, Vespasian held his breath.
Not a single black plaque hung in the air. Because there would be no need for a formal count, the members recalled their plaques. As they recognized the full import of what they had done, the Suffragat members went silent again.
Vespasian was astounded. In the entire history of the empire, only two other votes had been unanimous, and those had been “black-plaqued.” This had indeed been history in the making.
“The motion is passed,” Vespasian announced. “So that all three factions of the Suffragat might be represented, Gracchus, Lucius, and Julia, to you I delegate the responsibility of starting work on the battle plan. Leave no stone unturned.”
Pleased beyond measure, Vespasian nodded. “This session is adjourned,” he said. “But before we leave for the games, we have one more responsibility.”
As Vespasian stood from his chair, Benedik Pryam edged closer toward Gracchus.
“It seems that we finally have our great campaign, after all,” he said quietly. “And just as we hoped, it was Vespasian’s idea. I pray that thePon Q’tar and this amazing emperor that we have created are equal to the task…”
Gracchus smiled. “All in good time, my friend,” he answered. “We have taken a greater victory from this day than we could have possibly wished for. I suggest that we go to the arena, drink some wine, and watch more skeens die-for we will soon be on the battlefield.”
“Do you mean to say that we are going to accompany him?” Benedik demanded.
Gracchus nodded. “Given that he so cleverly demanded the right to alter the campaign on his sole authority at any time, I’d say that we have little choice,” he answered. “But do not fear. I know how to manage our headstrong young ruler. And if I cannot, well, the battlefield can be a very dangerous place-even for emperors. Besides, once his gifts have won the day, his further usefulness will be questionable.”
Gracchus watched Vespasian walk across the Aedifficium floor. Against the far wall was mounted a golden war lance. Only the emperor was allowed to handle the lance, and it held great significance for the empire. When the lance was brought before the public, its appearance meant only one thing-that a new and important campaign against Shashida had been ratified by the Suffragat.
Vespasian stopped to regard the sacred lance. He had never held it in his hands. The lance’s tip was sharply pointed, and a golden eagle adorned its haft. A gray and white eagle feather dangled from shaft near the tip. Black leather strips were wound around its center, forming a tight gripping surface.
Vespasian reached up and took the lance down from the wall to find that it felt right in his hand. As he marched toward the Aedifficium doors, the entire Suffragat eagerly followed.
Flushed with victory, Vespasian pointed one hand at the massive bronze doors, and they opened quickly. After purposefully striding out onto the massive Aedifficium landing with the Suffragat in tow, he stood among the structure’s huge columns and looked down the hill and out across Ellistium’s massive forum, the city’s great center of trade and commerce. While the Suffragat gathered around him, Persephone and Lucius came to stand by his side.
As was always the case whenever the Suffragat was in session, an eager crowd had gathered on the hill before the Aedifficium steps, waiting to hear news of the meeting. When they saw the war lance in Vespasian’s hand, the crowd joyfully erupted, their rising cheers quickly attracting more curious citizens. Soon the entire area was full to overflowing as the mob eagerly waited for their emperor to speak. When Vespasian lifted the war lance above his head, the crowd went wild.
“The Suffragat has granted you a great campaign!” he shouted.
Gracchus smiled at Benedik. “It seems that our creation can do no wrong,” the lead cleric whispered. “That man was born to end life.”
As Vespasian walked down the hill and toward the coliseum, Persephone took his arm and the Suffragat followed.
In ways that even Vespasian could not have imagined, the die was cast.
CHAPTER VI
HIS NAME WAS ROLF OF THE HOUSE OF BRIGHAM, AND he had hunted the length and breadth of Eutracia’s Hartwick Wood since his father had given him his first bow. Many said that these glens and gullies were deeply enchanted by the craft. Rumor also had it that the woods were the strict provinces of wizards and sorceresses and that these regions should never be entered, lest an intruder come to some dark harm. It was also said that an ancient cave lay in the woods, its opening long sealed by mysterious wizards. Rolf always smirked whenever he heard those old wives’ tales. He had never seen such a cave, and nothing in these woods had ever harmed him.
Even so, Rolf had more in common with the craft than he realized. Shortly after he was born, some men in dark blue robes had come to his parents’ home and taken a drop of his blood for examination. They had then informed his mother and father that he was of fully endowed blood. At the time, such visits were not unusual, for all newborns were once tested this way. It was needed for the nation’s birth records, the mystics had said.
Shortly after, an official-looking certificate, complete with a royal wax seal, had arrived by messenger from Tammerland. Signed by two Directorate Wizards, it attested to the quality of Rolf’s blood. Being unknowledgeable about the craft, his parents had thought little of the matter and filed the parchment away. Over the years the document somehow escaped to wherever so much of life’s flotsam seems to go and hide, never to be seen again. Taken up as they were with the joy of rearing a child, Rolf’s parents never told him of the wizards’ findings. And because he had never been trained in the craft, his blood showed no signature.
Most of the time, Rolf felt as safe here in these woods as he did on the front porch of his modest farmhouse. He had been ten years old when his father had given him his first bow, and twenty-five more Seasons of New Life had passed since. As he expertly moved across the mossy ground, no sound betrayed him.
Rolf’s father was dead, but the birth of his son Dale had helped to fill the void left by his father’s sudden passing. And as his father had done with him, Rolf started teaching the boy archery at the age of seven. Now that Dale was ten, it was time for the young man to learn the ways of the forest. During the last three years the boy had become an excellent bowman. But hitting a standing target and killing a living creature were two different things, and that realization was not lost on the nervous young hunter as he trod alongside his father. Although his hands shook, the boy was overjoyed that this day of days had finally come.
It was late afternoon in Eutracia and the sun was starting to hide behind the tops of the trees. The fading sunlight cast ephemeral beacons onto the forest floor, granting the woods the wonderfully surreal appearance that only this time of day could bring. Soon the night creatures would start to prowl and sing and the stars would compete for space in the dark night sky.
One hour ago, the great stag that Rolf and Dale were tracking had unexpectedly turned north. The beast’s change in direction had been welcome, otherwise the two tired hunters would have been forced to give up and head for home. They had caught a glimpse of their quarry only once, but that had been enough to convince Rolf that the stag was the largest he had ever seen.
As night neared, Rolf hoped that he and Dale would overtake the deer soon. If so, he would let Dale try to make the kill. If the deer was taken, Rolf would partly dress it, leaving the entrails behind to make the carcass lighter to carry. He would then smear some of the deer’s blood onto Dale’s face, signifying the boy’s first kill. His only real concern was to leave the forest before the Hartwick wolves started their nocturnal prowling, for the scent of stag blood would draw them like flies. As they walked side by side, Rolf turned to look at his son.
When Dale reached manhood he would be tall and lean. His hair was dark blond and his sharp eyes were blue. Like his father, he wore a brown leather jerkin, matching breeches, and a narrow, brimless hat with a jaunty pheasant plume pinned along one side. His arrow quiver was strapped across his back, and he nervously held the ancestral family bow in his sweaty hands. A large hunting knife lay in a sheath secured to his belt, and his knee
