Chapter 8

Devnum

Medb sipped her calda, a mixture of wine, spices, and warmed water that she found oddly pleasing in spite of herself, as she watched Cormac stand in front of the mirror, its clear and even glass reflection one of the several miracles she’d seen since coming to the capital, adjusting his tunic. The very sight of him preparing frustrated her. Another day of him wasting away as an observer in the Britannian Senate.

Months had passed since he’d been sent here to observe and act as his father’s direct representative. It had seemed a real opportunity for her at the time, especially after the disappointment of learning she would be forced to marry him in order to keep her head. A chance to reclaim some of her lost power. Yet here they still sat, guests of the Empress, her naive husband still clung to notions of loyalty and duty.

Medb set her cup down loudly, the sharp sound breaking the silence.

“You seem weary of late, my love,” she said, forcing gentle concern into her tone.

Cormac glanced over with a weak smile and said, “Just tired. The days in the Senate are long and boring.”

Medb rose and went to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I know this is not the purpose you hoped for when we came here,” she said, suppressing her mounting frustration.

Cormac nodded reluctantly, “I know, but what can I do? I’ve argued that I’m wasting my talents, but Llassar and the Empress refuse to listen. I’ve made suggestions to improve the legions, but they are ignored or pushed away as ill-conceived. Until my father changes his mind or Llassar says I’m ready, all I can do is continue my lessons and do what I’m told.”

She turned him gently to face her, meeting his eyes with feigned sympathy.

“Loyalty is an admirable quality, but you must not forget your own ambitions,” she said gently. “When your father passes on and you take the throne, it must be as your own man and not some lapdog, seen doing everyone else’s bidding.”

“I’m not a lapdog,” he said, stepping back slightly, angry.

She suppressed a frown. She’d pushed too hard.

“No, of course not. I meant just that you can’t be seen to be one by your people. Do you disagree with how the army is run? Do you think the Senate is making the right decisions, giving away so much power to peasants and ex-slaves?”

“No, but father agrees with them. Or at least agrees to follow them.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to peacefully do the same. You could change things if given the chance. With your skills, you could forge an unstoppable force,” Medb said, stepping close, running a hand down his chest. “But they will never simply give you the chance to do it on your own.”

Medb watched carefully as Cormac turned from the mirror, frustrated.

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know this is not the purpose you hoped for when we came here. You should be on the battlefield, not locked away listening to old men.”

“You keep pointing that out, but what can I do? I’ve tried to argue my case, but the Empress refuses to hear me. Llassar just keeps telling me to be patient. Until my father or Llassar give the order, my hands are tied,” Cormac said bitterly.

“I know it’s frustrating, but you can’t be the only one who feels the empire’s resources are being squandered. Surely you’ve met others who share your ... frustrations? Men who understand the art of war as you do and chafe at inaction?” Medb asked, her other arm snaking around him, pressing herself against him. “I understand your reluctance. Your duty to your father comes first. But you must also think of the future ... your future.”

Pulling her arms back, she walked slowly around him, trailing a hand lightly across his shoulders. “Even a king needs allies. People whose loyalty is assured. That starts early, by making connections. By building relationships.”

Cormac shifted uncomfortably, “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting nothing improper. Merely that it would be prudent to ally yourself with those who share your ... vision. Your goals for Ériu and the empire. Look around you! The empire squanders its resources, restrained by timid old men and former slaves in the Senate. The military command wastes your talents. Does this seem right to you?”

Corman walked away from her touch to stand next to the window, gazing thoughtfully down at the orderly streets of Devnum below. After a moment, he turned back to her.

“No. No, it doesn’t,” he admitted. “But I’m not sure what I can do about it. Not yet, anyway.”

“Right now, you can have patience. Your time will come,” she said, coming back to him and squeezing his arm reassuringly. “And when it does, it would be prudent to know exactly who your allies are. Both here and at home. Friends in the right places, who want what’s best for you ... for Ériu.”

Cormac nodded slowly, “You may be right. I have heard some complaints, but nothing concrete.”

“Talk to these men. Listen to their concerns, find common ground. Share some of your own frustrations. Let them know you hear them and understand their complaints. Use these men to start building bridges. Making connections. The loyal men who will stand with you when change comes.”

“I’ll try,” he said, his expression pensive. “You may be right. Perhaps I’ve been too passive.”

“That’s all I ask,” Medb replied gently, touching his cheek. “You should be going. The day awaits.”

Cormac nodded and headed for the door before pausing to look back at her, “Thank you, Medb. For the advice ... and the confidence in me.”

She smiled warmly in return. “Of course, my love.”

After he left, Medb let her composure slip. Her smile faded into a scowl. Finally, some progress, she thought. But still so tentative. She would need to keep pushing him along.

Medb sighed, sinking into a chair. Patience was required, despite her frustration. Cormac was still too deferential, too naive. She needed him hungry for command, not dutifully awaiting it.

Still, she had finally gotten some of the seeds planted. She just needed to continue nurturing his ambition, his resentment. Then maybe, she could find a way back to where she belonged.

“How are we faring?” Valdar asked Haakon, his ship’s purser, as he approached the man watching crates of supplies being loaded onto the Bellona.

Winter was coming to an end, and the snows had already begun to melt, but a cold breeze still blew off the ocean, cutting through his thick furs. The new ships were about to roll off the docks, and he would finally be able to begin the trip south to what the Romans called the Middle Sea, finally taking the fight to them instead of endless patrolling.

“All of the supplies, aside from food, for the new ships are ready. We’re just waiting for the ships to be in the water, and I’ll get them loaded. I’ve managed to set aside enough dried foods, and I’ve arranged with several plantations to get some of their last winter harvests, so we’ll have some fresh food, at least for the start of the journey.”

“Any problems?” Valdar asked, hearing an undertone in Haakon’s voice despite the encouraging words.

“Yes. We’re short on gunpowder. The imperial treasury has provided just a fraction of what was requested.”

Valdar’s expression darkened, “How little did they allocate?”

“Barely a fifth of the amount needed,” Haakon said grimly. “I’ve managed to cut corners to amass a little more, but even with that, we won’t even have half of what we projected we would need.”

Cursing under his breath, Valdar paced in frustration.

“Damned bureaucrats. Don’t they realize how critical those supplies are? Have we put in a request to the Empress directly?”

Haakon shook his head, “Not yet. I planned to once the tally was complete, and I knew exactly how much I was going to be able to pull together from other sources. But it’s not looking promising.”

“Remind the treasurer that control of the sea is critical to winning this war,” Valdar said, gesturing out at the row of moored ships. “Without enough gunpowder, how can they expect us to sail into the heart of Carthaginian waters and interdict their shipping? They want us to slow the reinforcements to their armies on the continent, force them to march all the way around through Persia and Greece. We can’t do that if we can’t shoot at them.”

Haakon just shrugged. He was, in his own way, a bureaucrat. Valdar knew it wasn’t his job to make strategic decisions and was mostly venting his frustrations on the man.

“They keep telling me the legions take priority,” Haakon said.

Valdar sighed and kicked a rough spot on the wooden planking.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this,” Valdar told Haakon firmly, leaving the man to carry on with his work.

The busy docks, with its cacophony of gulls crying overhead mingled with the shouts of foremen and laborers, fell behind as he passed through the massive sea gate and into the city proper. In spite of the cold wind and the last snow still clinging to the recently improved gutters, part of the Consul’s health and public cleanliness decree, the streets were packed with merchants, citizens, and praetorians.

Valdar was used to the cramped space on the ship, where it was impossible to get more than a few steps from another man, but the shoulder-to-shoulder pushing in some sections of the thoroughfare was a bit much even for him. It was a relief when he got to the cordon that surrounded the palace, forming a protective ring around it. People were still allowed in, but after the insurrection, the praetorians were not letting crowds push too close to the buildings, controlling access to the empire’s leaders.

Valdar, a frequent visitor and, supposedly, one of those leaders, was waved through without issue, left to find his own way to the treasurer’s offices. For as important as Lurio was to the empire, keeping track of all the gold that moved through the capital and all the supplies the empire paid for, Valdar was always surprised by how empty his offices always were. Of course, the Empress didn’t call on him and made the treasurer go to her whenever she needed something, still, Valdar had assumed there would be more people waiting to talk to the man.

Instead, a clerk waved him through, past rows of men tallying, to a small office in the back.

“Enter,” came Lurio’s brusque reply when Valdar knocked on the closed door.

Light filtered through the narrow windows overlooking the palace courtyard, the spartan furnishings and lack of decoration reflected the stoic treasurer’s utilitarian nature.

Lurio sat scrutinizing pages at his heavy wooden desk, only briefly glancing up at Valdar.

“Admiral Valdar. To what do I owe the honor?” he said, his tone almost disinterested as he continued reading.