Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (6 page)

Two outriding Michaeline priests scouted the road ahead, so far in advance that they could barely be seen, while two more brought up the distant rear lest they be overtaken unaware.

Both Marcus and Marcipor wore their swords, as well. Marcus’s was a fine blade, though never tested in battle. And Marcipor’s was a gaudily decorated thing more suitable for the theater than the battlefield.

Lodi wore two thick butcher’s axes from his belt. No battle-axe, as the training master had indicated. And there was a very large crossbow strapped to the back of his mule as well. It looked like a siege bow, a weapon designed to be mounted on a wall. Marcus wondered if this had been pulled from secret armory of his uncle’s or if he’d had ordered it for Lodi especially for this embassy. No human could use the cumbersome thing afoot, but after glancing at Lodi’s scarred, tree-like arms, Marcus decided that the dwarf might very well be able to.

Marcus rode near the end of the column. Only the three supply wagons and the rearmost pair of Michaelines were behind them. A fourth wagon, in which the archbishop, Father Aestus, and the two other Churchmen rode, was positioned ahead of them, in the middle of the line. Marcus had been worried about Lodi’s mule being too slow, but fortunately, all four wagons were drawn by teams of four mules that kept their pace to a relative crawl.

They rode for two hours through flat coastal plain on a road flanked by hills that gradually rose toward the horizon on either side. The land had been burned dry by the merciless summer sun. The hilltops were brown and treeless, and what vegetation managed to survive was mostly scrub brush. Every now and then in the distance they would see a gnarled tree standing alone, stubbornly digging its exposed roots into the soil, like an old, leather-skinned farmer refusing to abandon a family farm long gone fallow.

That pitiless sun was now rising toward its peak, and it was apparent to Marcus that he was not the only one getting bored with their slow progress over the roads. Even the dwellings they passed seemed lifeless—tall, narrow, stuccoed-stone structures painted in various shades of yellow that had long ago faded into a cheerless goldenrod.

He was eager to speak again with Father Aestus. Perhaps the friendly priest could help him know how he was supposed to behave as the Sanctiff’s personal proxy. But Aestus was riding with the bishop, Cassius Claudo, near the front of the column. And Marcus wouldn’t dream of approaching the bishop without an invitation.

It occurred to him then that the Sanctiff hadn’t offered him any servants for the trip, or even a letter of introduction that identified Marcus as his representative. When he’d been summoned to the palace, he’d thought his position had risen high indeed. But now, riding behind a long line of horse’s rumps, he felt again like no more than a young priest yet to prove his value.

How to do so? That was the challenge he faced, and with some dismay he began to realize how large the gap between potential and accomplishment appeared to be once one seriously contemplated that gap with an eye toward leaping it.

Even as a boy Marcus had dreamed of writing a text that would astonish the world with its brilliance. Heroes of the Coliseum were lauded one year and disregarded the next. Few could remember who been seated at on the consular thrones more than two or three years ago. Even generals accorded the signal honor of a Triumph were usually forgotten within a decade. Only the scholars—great scholars such as Augustinus, Oxonus, Depotapolis, and the Castrate—were granted the immortal gift of burning their memory into the minds of men.

A text, it must be. But where to begin? One day Cassius Claudo had stared at a blank parchment and then written that first word from which had sprung the magnificent
Summa Spiritus
. Presumably Aestus had also done the same with his
Ordo Selenus Sapiens
. It was like planting a seed, only he did not know from whence the seed would come. Did one simply wait for inspiration to strike? That seemed insensible. After all, a man might wait all his life for inspiration to arrive of its own accord.

And why should he wait? There were few men who knew the elves well, and not since his grandfather’s grandfather’s day had man been permitted to enter the HighCity. Claudo’s masterpiece was based entirely on human sources. If on this journey Marcus might somehow be granted access to the works of great elven philosophers whose very existence was yet unknown to the scholars of the Empire, he might well hope to write something of interest, if not of note.

The elves must be his subject, then, and the elves alone. He would focus solely on them, a subject deemed well worthy of contemplation by the mere fact of the Sanctiff’s particular interest, in the place of the wider scope of the
Summa Spiritus
. It would be a second
Summa
, an
Elvic Summa
. A
Summa Elvetica
!

The Castrate’s method would not suffice. Marcus had no authority. His words bore no intellectual weight. He could not just proclaim a thing and expect men to hold it to be true. Perhaps his
Summa
could be in the form of a dialogue. No, too pretentious by far. Only an arrogant and supercilious soul like Depotapolis with his bent for mendacious manipulation would think that his carefully orchestrated playing of the two sides toward an inevitable, if not necessarily logical, end was a conclusive form of argument.

Marcus could rely upon neither reputation nor authority. Therefore he required a more systemic and methodical approach to the matter. Yes, that was the way. A systematic consideration of the issue would force him to begin at the most natural place to begin, namely, the beginning.

Does an elf have a soul? No, that was taking it too far at the start. In the beginning was God, who made man in His image. God also made the animals, albeit not in His image. God also made the elves, but were they then more properly akin to man or to the animals? He already inclined toward the former, but upon reflection, there were significant points to be made on either side. What really was needed was a—

“You have an interesting servant there.”

Marcus jumped in his saddle, coming only reluctantly out of his contemplations. He turned to see who had spoken to him. It was one of the younger Michaeline priests. He rode up alongside Marcus and indicated the dwarf.

“Hmm? Oh, yes.”

Marcus searched his memory for the Michaeline’s name. He’d been introduced to them all but it was hard to remember which of the twenty names belonged to this particular priest.Nehemin? No. Zephanus, that was it. He blinked, realizing that the priest was still talking.

“You don’t think the elves will object?”

“About what?”

“Why, about your dwarf, of course.” Zephanus flushed as the sorcerer-elf, seemingly far enough ahead of them in the train to be out of earshot, suddenly turned around and glanced at him. Then the sorcerer shrugged and turned back to his conversation with his elven companion.

“Apparently not,” Marcus said, stifling a smile. Marcipor was riding ahead, engaged in an animated conversation with three of the Michaelines and gesturing in a lordly manner.

“Well, what do you know?” Zephanus said. “Those long ears really do serve a purpose after all!”

“All things serve a purpose, brother,” Marcus said. “Our inability to discern that purpose does not indicate its absence, only our shortcomings.”

Zephanus eyed him speculatively. “Ah, a philosopher. So, I assume you’re the Valerian. The Valerian who does not prefer war. Do forgive me. I thought it was the other lad up there.”

“You’re not the first to make that mistake. My man Marcipor hasn’t quite mastered the art of servility.”

“I suspect your dwarf hasn’t either,” the priest commented dryly, glancing at the taciturn Lodi, who had yet to utter more than a grunt to Marcus or anyone else throughout the morning. “I should have known you’d be less grandiose. Your father isn’t one to throw his weight around, either. It’s probably just as well. I imagine one Magnus in the family is enough.”

“You know my father?”

“Yes,” Zephanus said. “I served under General Valerius last fall in the GarmaghalRiver campaign. He brought two of his legions across the river—Seventh and Ninth, I believe—and the Abbott-General sent him three squads of Michaelines as reinforcements. I remember he wasn’t very pleased to see us when we arrived. He’d asked for four. But happily, as it turned out, we didn’t have to do much more than suppress their shamans and so forth. Their infantry didn’t show much stomach for a fight once we crossed and smashed their center. I doubt we lost more than fifty or sixty men, all told.”

Marcus nodded, remembering his father’s letter that had, he’d said, been dictated as the first legion crossed the river, supposedly while under fire from goblin archers and artillery.

For all that he was an undemonstrative man, his father did seem to have somewhat of a flair for the dramatic when it came to writing letters. Nearly half of the letters Marcus had received from Lucius Valerius were allegedly written during the course of battle. Marcus wasn’t sure if it was because the proximity of danger caused his father to think of his family or if he merely sought an easily impressed audience to appreciate his casual heroics.

“They had an illusionist, did they not?”

Zephanus laughed. “They did indeed! The wretched little beast conjured up a vision of a terrible flash flood just as the first Century reached the far bank and scared half the VIIth to death. We probably lost as many fools to drowning as fell to any of their quarrels that day. It could have been real trouble. Had they counterattacked at that moment it would have hit us hard, but fortunately, by the grace of God, they held their ground.”

Marcus frowned. He didn’t like to hear that his father had apparently come so near to failure, especially in such a minor action. The victory at Garmaghal had barely registered in Amorr. Had his father’s legions not been involved, he probably wouldn’t have known about it himself. His displeasure must have been evident, because Zephanus stopped laughing and raised a finger.

“No, lad, it was hardly the general’s fault. He’d warned us to watch for mischief with the waters. But we were looking for elementals and the like. We weren’t expecting goblins to have an illusionist. There’s not so many vauders among the gobbos, you see, it being mostly mortal men who go in for the more abstract sorceries.” He glanced forward at their alien companions, shaking his head. “Or elves. Especially elves.”

“I don’t know that I understand the distinction,” Marcus said. “My tutor, Father Aurelius, isn’t enthusiastic about us learning about magic of any kind, not even the battle magics. I’ve picked a few things up from my father’s tales or from a few historical accounts of the classic engagements, but I’m not even sure what the difference between an illusionist and a shaman is.”

“No, I can’t imagine your tutor would be,” Zephanus said with a smile. “Not if he’s ordained. He’s right about that, with regard to most students. Your average priestling has no need of such information. It would serve no purpose to dangle the evils of a fallen world in front of young minds being honed for the higher purpose. But you, on the other hand, on this journey are going to be surrounded by enchanters, illusionists, sorcerers, and even archmages in a matter of weeks. So before you offend the wrong elf, it might behoove you to have some idea of which ones are capable of turning you into a turnip and which ones aren’t.”

“Don’t concern yourself on my account.” Marcus grinned and pointed at Marcipor. “Now he, on the other hand, could likely use your instruction. Without it, we can safely assume he will be in turnip form before nightfall on the day of our arrival.”

“Is it possible he might be more useful as a turnip?”

“I’d say probable,” Marcus responded.

They both laughed, and for the first time since he had mounted his horse that morning, Marcus began to feel that perhaps the embassy might not end in death and debacle. He found himself rather liking the young Michaeline, whose mien was not at all as holy or as grim as he’d expected of a warrior-priest sworn to celibacy and slaughter.

“What did you think of my father?”

“The general?” Zephanus said. “Well, I can’t say that I saw very much of him. This may surprise you, but generals seldom make a habit of consulting with their fideleists. They tell the Michaeline captain where the enemy magic is and what we’re to do, then the captain tells us. Still, it wasn’t hard to see that your father had a lot of experience and that he was a good commander of men. He’s intelligent, he’s straightforward, he knows how to use what he’s got, and he knows how to fight. The legions seek that in a general above all else. Now, perhaps he’s more respected by his men than he is loved, but I imagine he prefers it that way.”

“Yes, I imagine he does,” murmured Marcus.

The comment drew a raised eyebrow from Zephanus, but the young priest continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “General Valerius doesn’t give a lot of speeches or try to inspire the troops with words, like some generals do. My first campaign, we were serving under Nonius Messius. Now there was a man who was well-enamored with the sound of his own voice. He didn’t talk: he orated! He even had a scribe following him around, writing down all of his interminable speeches for posterity.”

“Were they any good?”

“Certainly, if you wanted your soldiers well rested. I can’t say they weren’t effective, either. Listening to Messius was how I learned to sleep on my feet. If you can find a scroll of his speeches when we return to the city, I do recommend you buy one. You’ll find them more effective than warm milk and honey on a sleepless night. After Messius, your father’s notion of an inspiring pre-battle talk came as a real surprise.”

“And what was that? His style of speech, that is.”

“Succint. And pertinent. At Garmaghal, he rode in front of the Centuries in the vanguard, drew his sword, and pointed at the far bank of the river. ‘You can see that they’re over there,’ he said. ‘Go kill them.’ There were no cheers. The drummers didn’t even start in. No one realized he was done! But as it turned out, that was all he needed to say. We certainly killed enough of them that day.”