Aurelius (to be called) Magnus

  Also by Victoria Goddard

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  Stargazy Pie

  Stone Speaks to Stone

  Bee Sting Cake

  Whiskeyjack

  Blackcurrant Fool

  Love-in-a-Mist

  Plum Duff

  Lays of the Hearth-Fire

  At the Feet of the Sun

  Those Who Hold the Fire

  Red Company

  The Redoubtable Pali Avramapul

  The Sisters Avramapul

  The Bride of the Blue Wind

  The Warrior of the Third Veil

  Standalone

  In the Company of Gentlemen

  The Hands of the Emperor

  Not Far From the Tree

  Till Human Voices Wake Us

  The Connoisseur

  In the Realms of Gold: Five Tales of Ysthar

  The Return of Fitzroy Angursell

  Petty Treasons

  The Tower at the Edge of the World

  Aurelius (to be called) Magnus

  Portrait of a Wide Seas Islander

  Terec and the Wild

  Watch for more at Victoria Goddard’s site.

  AURELIUS (TO BE CALLED) MAGNUS

  VICTORIA GODDARD

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Author’s Note

  1

  The forty-ninth Emperor of Astandalas, Aurelius of the house of Yr, walked his horse slowly up the long sloping meadow that ran from river-town to the hill-top villa that was his destination. The air was cool, the sun warm on his bare head. It smelled of green grass, distant flowers, the hint of cattle.

  He tasted the sunlight, drinking it in almost thirstily. It had been grey and wet all winter, which he had spent in a miserable encampment at the edge of a reeking estuary. He had not intended to winter there, but had been caught by early snow in the passes, and so made the best of it.

  It was an ironworks, one of many serving his armies. He had toured it, then been trapped there, learning more than he had ever imagined to of how iron was made. They cut down trees to feed the fires that burned constantly: fires to make charcoal, fires to bloom the iron, fires to purify it, fires to forge it. The camp had been choked by a heavy blanket of smoke and fog, and even when the wind blew the air clear all you could see were the denuded hillsides and sticky grey mud of the place.

  Aurelius’s horse pricked its ears forward, its step lighter than it had been. The gelding was feeling the spring, the sunlight, the fresh air, the grass. Aurelius patted its neck with a gentle hand, grateful for the horse’s easy companionship.

  He had left the ironworks as soon as the pass was clear enough to cross. It had been a strange winter for him, as close to idle as he could ever remember being. He had only a few books with him, and there were few in the camp; he’d read the three books of poetry owned by the ironworks’ supervisor several times over. One of them had been a book of lyric poems, all about love and idleness, gardens and repose. He had studied them intently, over the winter, to the supervisor’s bemusement. And his own, to be truthful. It was the first time Aurelius could remember studying anything that was not explicitly about either war or statecraft.

  He had spoken to the ironworkers: all of them, by the end of the winter. By the end of the winter they were willing to speak to him, almost forgetting the gulf between them. He had learned of their homes, their families, their quiet hopes, their small quirks of personality. Which carved scrimshaw in his spare time; which sang; which sketched the others in quick lines of charcoal or chalk on slate.

  He had listened to their songs, the rough carousing ones, the quiet melancholy ballads, the rousing martial airs. Some of them were about his own campaigns, and he listened quietly, a cup of watered wine in his hand, learning how they pictured him.

  He had had a great deal of time to think.

  He had left the camp two weeks ago, crossing the pass to find his household retainers waiting for him. He had had one servant with him to visit the camp, which had been supposed to be only a half-week’s journey, through the pass, an overnight, and back out again. His retainers had been relieved to see him, but as he listened to their reports, glad to know that all had been well through the winter, he could not help but be a trifle reluctant to return to his usual state.

  He had started towards the capital, then been forced to take a different road due to a flooding river, and when he had come out into the upper regions of the Gwair, his mother’s country, he had remembered his mother’s old general, and all the questions and inclinations of the winter had crystallized around the desire to see him. In his mother’s stories Winfer had been wise, and gifted at seeing things others didn’t.

  He might be a wizard, his mother had whispered to him, but not a wizard as his father’s people knew the term. They were learned men, whose magic was a thing of instruments and will. Her people considered them magicians; a true wizard, she told him, was one who saw things truly and worked to bring that truth to light.

  Aurelius had magicians coming out of his ears, it sometimes felt like. But there were no wizards such as his mother described in any of his armies.

  He had left his retainers continuing towards Astandalas, moving slowly with their trains of supplies and men. As far as they knew he had taken his manservant, but the man had come to Aurelius out of his mother’s household, and his own people lived in the river-town below his destination.

  Thus he rode, for perhaps the first time in his life, alone.

  No one in sight knew him as anything but a travelling lord, well-armed and well-appointed despite his lack of retinue. Without name or land his armour must be a gift from his own powerful lord—and so he was left alone.

  Aurelius kept his posture correct, his shoulders back so his black cape hung properly over his horse’s hindquarters. This was friendly territory, his own friendly territory, so his formal heavy armour was left with his pack-house and manservant at the man’s family-run inn, and he wore only a long mail hauberk with a plain black surcoat over it. Only his signet ring proclaimed his rank, to any of sufficient rank to recognize it.

  The air was fresh, springlike; there were birds singing. Aurelius let his horse walk at its own pace, listening to the birdsong. No alarm-calls, no warnings, no distress-signals. Merely the sweet songs of a spring morning, courtship and territorial defence.

  He let himself enjoy the sound for the length of time it took to walk up the lane. Soon enough he would be back on the road, in the midst of the jingle and stamp of horses and men, any birdsong inaudible above their noises. For now he could listen and accept that there were no enemies anywhere close.

  The villa ahead of him was beautiful, graceful pillars and white stone. He had been told in the town that the lord owned all this side of the valley, and that he was a good master, taking reasonable rents, assisting when trouble came to those below him. Aurelius had been doubting his course more and more with every step his horse took away from his retainers, but that news steadied him.

  He would, at least, present his request. It was not an order; that was why he had come alone.

  Someone had been watching, for when he reached the villa’s gate there were a handful of people waiting. A young groom, he guessed, and the white-haired old man in good cloth must be the person he had come to see. A middle-aged woman was probably a daughter or housekeeper or both; she had that orderly, pleasant air, and shared some features with the old man, but not so close that she was necessarily blood kin.

  Aurelius stopped his horse at a polite distance and dismounted. His m
ail settled around him with a slithering, chinking sound, usually so familiar as to be unnoticeable, but here, in this peaceful courtyard, with no other weapon or armour in sight, it seemed loud.

  He was not wearing a helm or even a hat, relishing the opportunity to ride bareheaded, freely, almost at peace. He looped his reins over his arm and focused his attention on the old man.

  “Sayo Winfer?” he asked politely. W was a hard sound for him, but he had practiced it in preparation, remembering his mother teaching him a handful of names from her own country.

  The old man stepped forward, his hand coming out in a kind of recognition, almost supplication. Aurelius let him approach, not resisting as the man gently touched his face, lifted his chin, peered into his eyes.

  It was rather an odd feeling, to have a stranger look so deeply on him. Most people, he knew, found his eyes rather uncanny, and of course as the emperor he dared not let many come close.

  “You have a familiar look,” the old man said, dropping his hand and stepping back. His voice belied his age, being rich and strong; Aurelius could understand why he was still remembered as a great orator. “I am Winfer, yes. Whose son are you?”

  Aurelius smiled involuntarily at the question, which no one had ever bothered to ask him before. “My mother was Berwalla,” he said simply, “and my father Zamyr. I am Aurelius.”

  The woman gasped, her hand coming up to her mouth, but Winfer merely looked at him with a sad, thoughtful expression.

  “Yes, I thought so,” he said. “Berwalla’s golden boy. Be welcome, then, for the love I bore your mother.”

  Aurelius inclined his head in courteous gratitude, and when the young boy came up handed over his horse’s reins. “Thank you,” he said. “I had hoped you would remember her with fondness.”

  “She is dead, then.”

  “She died of a fever some ten years ago,” Aurelius said, the grief old and blunted in his heart. “I am sorry I was unable to visit you before, but the empire is wide and I have been on its farther borders until this past winter.”

  The old man gave him a strange look, but instead of responding directly turned to the woman. “Prepare a guest room, and refreshments,” he instructed her, and when she had bobbed a sort of curtsey turned to Aurelius. “Please, come inside, and be at your ease. Would you change out of your war-gear? I swear to you on your mother’s memory that you are as my own grandson in my house.”

  Aurelius felt both a great relief, for this boded well for his purpose, and a kind of astonishment for this expression. Surely an offer hospitality would have been sufficient? He remembered his mother’s stories of what hospitality meant, that a guest under the roof was always to be considered as sacred, that the gods themselves guarded their safety.

  “Thank you,” he said, and when the woman came back followed her to a simple but elegant guest room. She brought him clean garments in the local style, loose trousers and tunic of good linen, with a kind of surcoat in fine wool to go over it. There was a basin of water, and Aurelius washed as thoroughly as he could before changing into the new clothes.

  He hesitated over his sword-belt with the leather already around his waist, his hands on the buckle. He always wore a sword; always. Even in the palace, he wore it, reminding anyone who looked upon him that he was a warrior, first and foremost; that he fought for them.

  But he knew, of course he knew, that in the dwellings of family one did not need to wear a sword. It would be an intolerable rudeness, if he were to disregard Winfer’s offer of hospitality, that Aurelius should be as a grandson in his house.

  His father, Aurelius remembered, had taken off his sword-belt, left it to one side, when he came to visit his mother. Aurelius hesitated, and then he set down the sword, the leather belt wrapped loosely around the scabbard so the hilt was clear, on the bench against the wall.

  It was good to leave his mail off; he felt light, almost light-headed, as he went out and found a servant to guide him to his host.

  The old man, his mother’s old general, sat on a sunny porch. Vines were trained overhead, just leafing out now; in the heat of the summer they would provide welcome shade and, later, fruit. Aurelius glanced up at them a little wistfully, remembering a garden his mother had had when he was young.

  Winfer invited him to sit, then offered him a plate of bread and salt, a goblet of rich red wine. Hospitality, according to his mother’s teachings. Aurelius broke off a piece of bread, sprinkled it with salt, ate the morsel; drank a small sip of the wine, which was very good.

  From here the view was of the back side of the villa. Instead of the rich green meadows, there were orderly rows of vines to the right, a chequerboard pattern of fruit trees to the left. The fruit trees were in blossom, all pink and white; their fragrance was what he’d been able to scent on the wind. Farther off were more fields, arable land and pasture.

  Winfer watched him with the same grave thoughtfulness with which he’d first greeted him. He drank wine, ate bread, himself, and Aurelius relaxed another fraction. Now the hospitality was sealed.

  The old man was hale, his frame still strong, his eyes still keen. They were blue; his skin was pale and papery. He had a depth to him, a stillness to his presence, and Aurelius felt some inner part of him turning curiously to that depth, that stillness. He took a deep breath, settling himself.

  “I remember hearing that your father died, oh, these five winters past,” Winfer said.

  Aurelius accepted this conversational sally. “Yes, that’s correct. I was crowned the month following.”

  It was due to Winfer, everyone had always said, that Aurelius’ mother had been empress-consort, and not a mere concubine, and thus Aurelius, of all his father’s sons, was the one to take the throne. He was also the eldest, but that had not always been a matter of importance to the succession.

  It was also due to Winfer that this land, the land of the Gwair, was so peaceful and prosperous, for his brilliance in war had been met with a brilliance in negotiation when it came to peace.

  The Gwair were a solid, comforting presence on the eastern flank of the empire on Ysthar, holding all the land from the coasts of the inland seas to the northern walls of ice. Aurelius had been so grateful they were there, solid allies of his from his mother’s side. They sent retainers to his household, men to swell his armies, and they guarded their outer borders well. He had not had to turn here to put down uprisings or the creeping, insidious challenges from outside enemies.

  “Five winters you have been emperor,” Winfer repeated. “And at war for all of them, I think.”

  Or all but this past one, stuck in that ironworks camp, far from the armies that were holding his borders.

  “The emperors have been at war for generations,” Aurelius replied, for that was the legacy of his father’s family: a vast empire, always crumbling at one border while expanding at another, yet rich in tribute and trade for all that. “I myself have been leading soldiers for seven years.”

  Winfer nodded solemnly. “And how many winters have you?”

  Aurelius lifted his chin. Few gainsaid him on this account now, but it still happened. “One-and-twenty.”

  Winfer closed his eyes. “So young. Is that the custom among your father’s people?”

  “It was unusual,” Aurelius replied. “My father thought me able to the challenge, however.”

  “As your deeds have proven. We have heard of them even here. I had not thought you so young.”

  Aurelius did not say anything, though he felt a stir of pride at his accomplishment. He sipped his wine and looked at the bucolic landscape. The sun was so kind on his face, the air so clean, so alive. He was not sure he’d sat in such a beautiful place, at his ease, in years. When he was at the palace for the winter tributes it was not easy like this. His mother’s gardens were all gone.

  “What brings you here to see me, young emperor? You came with no armies; not even your retainers.”

  “I did not think I should need them, in my mother’s country,” Au
relius said.

  He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts together, but everything he had seen so far said he was right to come to this man.

  His father had given him books to study, all the generals of old, all the accounts of war and history. He had been trained in arms since childhood, arms and the art of war, and statecraft too. There were others who would not have been able to hold the throne of Astandalas if they’d taken it at sixteen.

  He had spent the winter, forced into idleness by the mountains, thinking of what it meant to be an emperor, and what lay before him—and what could lie before him, if he were able to find the way to it.

  “I have come,” he said at last, plainly and simply, the way he felt most comfortable speaking, the way his mother had been, the way Winfer himself was, “to ask for your wisdom.”

  Winfer regarded him for a long, pensive moment. Aurelius did not fidget; people stared at him far too much and too often for that; he sank instead into himself, the precarious balance stable as two feet square on the ground.

  The birds seemed very loud. Perhaps they were in the pergola above him, hidden behind the translucent, still-folded leaves.

  “And what wisdom might that be, young emperor?”

  Aurelius had already humbled himself beyond measure, coming without retinue and regalia, asking for hospitality, asking for aid. He set himself and spoke again plainly. “Your wisdom in making war, and ending it, Winfer.”

  Surprise sparkled briefly in the old man’s eyes. “You have many great generals; even here I have heard that you yourself are one. And if you wished for the wisdom of old warriors, your father and your father’s father had many. Why come to me? I was on the side that lost.”

  Aurelius looked away deliberately, out at the orderly vines, the flowering orchard, the distant cattle grazing in lush meadows, the farmer tilling good black earth behind a team of white oxen, the bells and the sowing-song coming faintly through the air.