//------------------------------//
// Signs and Portents, Part One (New) 
// Story: SAPR 
// by Scipio Smith 
//------------------------------//


Signs and Portents, Part One


“Welcome to Mistral, sir; how was Vale?”
“A little unseasonably cold,” Doctor Watts replied to the steward as he disembarked from the airship. “The Atlesians have brought the weather with them from the north.”
The steward laughed. “Well, that won’t be a problem here in Mistral, sir. Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“Strictly business, I’m afraid,” Doctor Watts said. “I shall be rushing from one meeting to another.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your visit here, regardless.”
Doctor Watts’ smile gleamed like a knife beneath his moustache. “Oh, believe me, I plan to.”



Juturna lay on the sofa, her head resting on a green velvet cushion, her legs resting on the arm on the other side of the settee, kicking slightly up and down. A pair of headphones, wirelessly connected to her scroll, was playing a song from the latest Weiss Schnee album. 
“‘But that’s alright,’” Juturna sang along softly, her voice filling the otherwise empty lounge. “‘I’ll be just fine. I’m not concerned with sands of tiiiiiiime. If forever comes and goes I won’t pay it no mind. 'Cause the treasure in my life is being by your side.’”
The great thing about Weiss Schnee’s music, in Juturna’s opinion, was how whoever was writing the songs — she’d never been bothered to check who that was, although she had a vague idea from somewhere that it was her father; or perhaps that was a different artist she was thinking of — wrote them so that they could be applicable to a lot of different people and their experiences. Like the general social media consensus was that this was a romantic ballad, and maybe that was what everyone involved had in mind, but as far as Juturna was concerned, it was also totally about her. 
It was about her and Turnus and Camilla. 
They are the we of me. That was what she’d said to Ruby as they were having their little tiff, and she’d meant it. She meant it more than she’d meant … maybe anything else. They were … she couldn’t imagine life without them. 
She didn’t want to imagine life without them. 
She didn’t like it when they weren’t around. It wasn’t that she was bored, by the way, because she wasn’t bored; there was plenty of stuff that she could do to amuse herself. 
It was just … she liked having them around. She preferred having them in the house, rather than … somewhere else. Somewhere less safe. 
Turnus sometimes — very gently, and without really pushing, which was even in the top twenty reasons why she loved him but was something for which she was grateful regardless — urged her to do something. As far as Juturna was concerned, the question wasn’t why Juturna didn’t do something but why Turnus and Camilla couldn’t take a leaf out of her book and sit around the house a little more. It wasn’t as though they needed to work; they were rich! Juturna wasn’t even sure if Rutulian Security made or lost money half the time — okay, if she actually paid attention, she’d probably find that it made money, but the fact remained that it wasn’t as if they’d been in need of money before Turnus started the business. 
After Dad had died, before Turnus got back from Atlas, Camilla had gone out, and she’d slaughtered her way through the Mistral underworld. The Mistral overworld underworld, the ones who lived in big houses and called themselves dumb names like Bullseye and Kingpin … or was it Berserko and Big Boss? Anyway, the point was that Camilla had killed them all and avenged Dad, and everyone thought that she was great, and Camilla was great, and the fact that she was so great — and the fact that Turnus was great too — was a big part of the reason why Juturna didn’t worry too much when they went away like this, but at the same time… 
At the same time…
All of that killing hadn’t brought Dad back. He was still as dead as he had been before, and while Camilla was out there taking on the crooked cops and the gangsters, all that Juturna could think about was … all that Juturna could worry about was that, by the time that Turnus got home, they’d be burying their best friend alongside their father. 
Treasure had stopped. Juturna wasn’t very keen on The Sky is Falling, so she picked up her scroll and flicked back to the previous track to start the song again. She sat up, briefly, and plucked a chocolate from the expensive box sitting open on the little wooden table beside her, without checking what kind of chocolate it was first. 
She regretted that carelessness when it turned out to be blancmange flavoured. Juturna swallowed it anyway, but her face twisted in distaste while she did so. Why did the expensive chocolates come with so many weird flavours? Did anyone actually like them?
And now, Turnus and Camilla were both away, defending this village from bandits — from bandits who had already destroyed one village — and while Juturna was sure that they’d be fine because they were awesome and they were always fine and they had all the guys with them to keep them safe, but at the same time … what if they weren’t fine? What if their luck ran out, like Dad’s luck had run out? What then?
She didn’t want to lose them, and while it was hard to imagine why Rutulian Security would stay together if they weren’t actually doing security, Juturna didn’t want any of them to lose their lives defending random no mark villages in the middle of nowhere. 
Lausus had given Juturna her first kiss on her seventeenth birthday; it had been a fumbling, uncertain, messy thing, but she had liked it anyway; they would have gone further except that Camilla had opened the closet door and given him such a look that he had thrown up on the floor at her feet. Turnus had been a little more understanding the next morning, telling her that if she wanted to marry Lausus, he wouldn’t object — the irony that she was allowed to marry a nice, cute boy if she wanted to, but he was determined to try and marry a girl who couldn’t stand him was apparently lost on her big brother — but if not, he’d rather she didn’t fool around too much for the sake of her reputation. 
For the sake of her reputation. Yeah, like that was something to worry about. It’s the twenty-third century, bro; nobody cares about that stuff any more. 
Silvia had helped her raise a baby deer that she’d found abandoned by its mom on one of the country estates of the Rutulus family; okay, it was more like Silvia had done most of the work, but Juturna had helped a bit. They’d kept the stag — Juturna had named it Ascanius — in the house until it got too big and they had to release it back into the country estate from whence it came, for its own good if nothing else. According to Silvia — and her father, Tyrrheus — the stag still had no fear of people, none at all. You could draw a bow on it, and it wouldn’t run away; it would just look at you, because it had no fear that people would hurt it. And no one would, because it was a Rutulian deer on Rutulian land. 
Which meant that it was thoroughly protected. 
Opis had a dark past, and she told some of the funniest stories about it, like the time when she’d joined a grimm cult and then had to make her escape when it turned out she was that evening’s sacrifice; they weren’t necessarily all true stories, but that didn’t make them any less fun to listen to. Nisus liked all the same music that she did, and they could spend hours talking about a new album, getting into what all the lyrics might mean and all the nuances that each contained — although he loved The Sky is Falling, so, you know, his taste wasn’t impeccable. Penthesilea exchanged make-up tips with her. 
She didn’t know all of them very well, particularly the older guys like Ufens or Euryalus or Murranus, and some of them, she mostly just knew for their loyalty to Turnus, but they were all really great guys, and they all treated her like a little princess in the best way, and even though she wasn’t part of Rutulian Security, she still felt as though they were all kind of part of her family. And although they weren’t as important to her as Turnus and Camilla, that didn’t change the fact that she didn’t want them to die. 
Except … well, it wasn’t as though they were going to stop if she asked them to. Why would they stop? They wanted to do something. 
And they wanted Juturna to do something as well. 
Maybe if I did something that made it so that they didn’t have to do anything, that would be cool. 
A cool idea, undermined a little bit by the fact that she had no idea of what it would take to make Turnus and Camilla stay home, and no idea of how to accomplish that task that was only an ambition in her mind. 
It was kind of funny, that they treated her like she was aimless and drifting and didn’t have any direction in her life, but Juturna knew exactly what she wanted out of her life; it was the two of them who didn’t. Juturna wanted them to be happy. She wanted them to be together. She wanted to be cool, kooky Aunt Juturna to their kids, the kind of aunt who the children could talk to without being judged and who related to them in ways that their parents couldn’t. She wanted to bring happiness into the lives of the people she cared about, and what was wrong with that? 
Turnus and Camilla, on the other hand, what did they want? Okay, it wasn’t exactly that they didn’t know what they wanted, but they either wanted the wrong things, or they had no idea of how to get the things they wanted or intention of trying to get them. Camilla just sat and waited without doing anything that would bring the wait to an end or make it worthwhile, and Turnus … what did Turnus even want? Pyrrha Nikos? A girl seven years younger than him and dating somebody else? Seriously? No, that wasn’t what he wanted; he wanted…
Power. That was what Turnus wanted, although he might not admit it. He looked at the way that Mistral was being run and the people who were running it, and he thought that he could do a better job himself. 
And maybe he could. Juturna didn’t know much about that. What she did know was that if he were in charge, he probably wouldn’t need to marry Pyrrha anymore. 
And he certainly wouldn’t be going out into the field to fight bandits or whatever. 
The more Juturna thought about it, the more it sounded like a very good idea to her: King Turnus, Emperor Turnus, Dictator for Life Turnus, Big Guy in Charge Turnus, Hail to the Chief Turnus. Turnus sat on his throne, with Lord Mezentius in his court and his loyal guards around him. 
And a fair queen by his side. 
Wouldn’t that be something? It would be like one of those stories where love and courage triumph. 
Only Juturna had no idea, absolutely no idea at all, how she could begin to make that particular idea happen. 
The door to the lounge was open, and as Juturna was kind of sat up and looking that way, she could see Opis walk by. 
“Opis?” Juturna called out to her.
Opis had passed the door, but she stuck her head back around it. “Afternoon, m’lady.”
“What are you doing here?” Juturna asked. “I thought you were on a job for Coloratura?”
Opis walked into the room. Her lips were painted black to match the colour of her top. She had a beowolf tattooed on her right shoulder and a tiger tattooed on the inside of her left arm, above the studded bracelets that encircled her wrists. She made to thrust her hands into the pockets of her leather pants, but thought better of it as she walked quickly over to where Juturna half-sat, half-lay upon the sofa. 
“I was on a job,” she explained. “But it’s done now.”
“Already?” Juturna asked.
“Falco did most of the work,” Opis explained. “Turns out, the guy wasn’t very hard to track down. The cops could have taken care of it, except that it turns out it actually was a cop, so that makes sense.”
“'A cop'?” Juturna repeated. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Opis muttered darkly. “And if his whole station didn’t know exactly what kind of guy he was, I’d be very surprised. Still, Falco tracked him down — not hard, like I said; apparently, he wasn’t even masking his CC address — but I got to be the one to bust down the door and grab him.”
“Is he still alive?” Juturna asked.
“Yeah,” Opis said. She grinned. “But let’s just say that he’ll have to learn to use his left hand for a lot of stuff. We delivered him to a couple of detectives Falco used to work with; he says they’re trustworthy, so hopefully, they’ll take care of it from here. And if they don’t, well, we know where he lives.” She cracked her knuckles. “Rutulian Security, getting it done since … since a few years ago, when m’lord set it up, I guess.”
“Congratulations,” Juturna said. “I’m glad that Coloratura’s out of the woods. Did you find out anything about her new album while you were there?”
“We were there to protect her, m’lady, not get the latest,” Opis said.
“You could have done both,” Juturna muttered. She picked up the chocolate box from the table in front of her. “You want one?”
“I’m not sure I should.”
“Why? Are you on a diet or something?”
“No, but those look expensive.”
“They are, so?”
“So, I’m not sure that—”
“Oh, come on; I’m offering them to you. Just take one!” Juturna cried.
“Okay, thanks, m’lady,” Opis said. She reached out towards one of the caramel ones.
“Not that one,” said Juturna, who was fond of the soft centres.
Opis grinned. Her fingers waggled a little bit as they hovered over the chocolates. She picked up a round one, with lots of little lumps poking out of the chocolate. “Do you know what this one is?”
“Uh…” Juturna glanced at the chart that had come with the box. “Hazelnut praline.”
“Oh,” Opis said. “Okay.” She popped the sweet into her mouth and chewed on it quickly, swallowing. “Thanks, that was nice.”
“Sit down,” Juturna said.
Opis frowned. “M’lady.”
“Please,” Juturna said. “Sit down. You don’t have anywhere to be, right?”
Opis shook her head.
“Then humour me and take a seat.”
“Sure thing, m’lady, as you wish,” Opis murmured. She grabbed a chair and moved it across the room until she was sitting diagonally across from Juturna on the sofa. “Is something wrong, m’lady?”
Juturna clasped her hands together. “You know that everyone — nearly everyone — is on a job, right?”
Opis nodded. “Achates told me when I got back. I’m sorry I’m going to miss it.”
“They’re going to be okay, right?” Juturna asked.
Opis snorted. “Are you worried, m’lady, is that what this is all about?”
“No!” Juturna squawked. “Maybe. A little.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Opis assured her. “They’re a tough bunch; they’ll be fine.”
“You really believe that?” Juturna asked. “You’re not just saying it to make me feel better?”
Opis leaned forward in her chair. “M’lady … I’m proud to be a member of this group. I’m proud to call myself a Rutulian. I’m proud to serve my lord. And I’m proud of all those things because it means something: we’re a bunch of hard cases; don’t mess with us.” She grinned. “Have some faith, m’lady; no bandit tribe is going to get the best of them, I guarantee it.”
Juturna smiled. “I suppose I should have more faith in my brother and Camilla, right? Believe me, I know that they are … I mean, everyone tells me that they’re great; I don’t get the chance to see it much for myself—”
“They’re the real deal,” Opis said. “We don’t exaggerate that, even if we might have reason to.”
“I just … I don’t want to lose them,” Juturna said softly.
Opis nodded. “I can understand that, m’lady,” she said, her own voice becoming a little quieter. She paused for a moment. “M’lady … I don’t know if this is my place, but … did I ever tell you that I met your father once?”
“No,” Juturna said, sitting up a little. “You met Dad, when? Was it during your dark past?”
“I did not have a dark past,” Opis insisted. “I had a wild and misspent youth; there’s a difference.”
“What is the difference?”
“Dark past makes me sound evil,” Opis said. “Misspent youth makes me sound like a teenager, which I was when I met your father.”
“Was he arresting you?” Juturna asked.
“Something like that,” Opis replied. “He could have thrown the book at me for what I’d done but … he didn’t. He … he talked to me. He listened to me. And when he was done listening to me, he said, ‘I think you’re the kind of person who needs help more than you need punishment. But you’re going to have to want to help yourself in order to make it happen.’ And then he pointed me towards some people who could help me get clean.”
Juturna smiled. “Yeah, that … that sounds a lot like Dad. And did you?”
“Get cleaned up? Yeah,” Opis said. “I mean, I still did a few more dumb things with my life before I found my way here, but I never fell back down that hole again, thanks to your father. I guess … that’s one of the reasons why I decided to join the Rutulians; I wanted to show the old lord that he was right to believe in me.” She cleared her throat. “That sounds kind of dumb now I say it out loud.”
“No,” Juturna said. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds … it sounds really cool.”
“Thanks, m’lady, but I should—”
“Wait,” Juturna said, before Opis could get up. “Come on, you can’t really have to do anything else right now.”
“My lord doesn’t pay me to talk to you, m’lady.”
“What else are you going to do?” Juturna demanded. “Weapon maintenance? Watch TV in the rec room? Spar with Achates or Ilioneus? You can do all of that some other time.”
Opis hesitated for a moment, before she said, “What do you want to talk about?”
Juturna sighed. “Do you think that I ought to do something?”
Opis blinked. “What do you mean, m’lady?”
“I don’t know, get a job or something,” Juturna explained. “Turnus would like me to do something, but he doesn’t say what he’d like me to do.”
“Perhaps m’lord would like you to decide that for myself.”
“Yeah, but I’ve decided to do this, and he doesn’t seem too happy about it,” Juturna exclaimed. “I mean, he’s not unhappy — not in the way that he’s unhappy about other stuff — but … you know what I mean, right?”
Opis shrugged. “If you’re looking for me to tell you that my lord is wrong, m’lady … I’m afraid I don’t have that kind of courage. It isn’t my place, anyway.”
Juturna chuckled. “Fine, I wasn’t trying to get you into any trouble. I just… I don’t know. I’m happy, you know. There’s nothing that I want, except…”
“Except, m’lady?”
“Do you think Turnus would be a good leader?” Juturna asked.
If Opis was fazed by the change of subject, she didn’t show it, only saying, “I think my lord is a good leader, m’lady; we wouldn’t follow him if he weren’t. You can’t pay someone enough to risk their lives for someone they don’t respect.”
“Okay, right, that’s on me; I chose the wrong words,” Juturna said, holding up one hand. “What I mean is…” She paused for a moment, picking a chocolate — the caramel that Opis hadn’t eaten earlier — out of the box and sticking it into her mouth. She chewed on it, and only resumed speaking after she’d swallowed. “Do you want to have another one of these? I’ll let you have a soft centre this time.”
“You’re very kind, m’lady,” Opis said. “Um, do you know which one—?”
“That one’s strawberry, and that one’s orange, if you like either of those,” Juturna said, pointing to two of the sweets. “Or you could have both.”
“One will be enough, thank you, m’lady,” Opis said, taking the orange crème. “But m’lady was saying about a leader.”
“Right, a leader,” Juturna said. “Do you think that Turnus would make a good leader, not just for the Rutulians, but for, like, the whole kingdom?”
“You mean on the Council?”
“Or more than that,” Juturna said.
Opis frowned. “You mean … like—”
“You know,” Juturna said. “In the old days.”
Opis’ eyebrows rose. “You…” She laughed. “Are you serious, m’lady?”
“Come on, it’s just a question,” Juturna said. “Do you think that he’d be any good at it?”
Opis didn’t reply straight away. After a moment, she said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think he would. He’s a fair man; he treats his followers as a lord should, treats his enemies as they deserve, fights well, listens to those worth listening to … most of the time. What more can you ask for?”
“That’s what I thought,” Juturna murmured. That was kind of a lie, but it sounded better than saying ‘I don’t care whether he’d be good at it; I want it because it would make him happy.’ 
“But it’ll never happen,” Opis said.
“No?” Juturna asked.
Opis stared at her silently for a moment. “M’lady … you’re not joking, are you?”
“Is it really that impossible?” demanded Juturna. “Is there really no way?”
Opis spread out her hands on either side of her. “I … m’lady, this is all way over my head, but … I don’t see how. Short of the Dark Mother stepping in to help you out, I don’t see how.”
Now it was Juturna’s turn to furrow her brow. “'The Dark Mother'?”
“Nothing,” Opis said. “It’s just something from when I was in a grimm cult.”
“Was that before or after Dad helped you get clean?”
“After,” Opis admitted. “But while I may have joined an evil religion, I did so without being under the influence of any substances. In my defence, I didn’t think that people actually worshipped grimm; I thought they were all just poseurs being edgy.”
“Then why did you want to join their club?”
“'Cause it was a club; I wanted to belong to something,” Opis said. “But, when I was there, before they decided that the clueless kid who’d just wandered in would make a pretty good sacrifice, I learned a little bit about the Dark Mother. She’s … I didn’t find out what she is, exactly, but she must be kind of like a grimm … something. Anyway, the point is that, according to the stories, she once helped a common bandit to overthrow the Empress herself, and take control of the whole of Mistral.”
“Really?” Juturna asked, unable to keep the interest out of her voice. “Wait, are you talking about Pyrrha the Second?”
“Maybe,” Opis replied. “I don’t have a lot of schooling, m’lady; I’m not sure who that is.”
“Do you remember anything else about this Dark Mother?” asked Juturna. “Like where she is, or how—?”
“It’s a myth, m’lady; it’s a fairy tale told by deluded morons,” Opis said.
“But what if it isn’t?” Juturna said. “I mean, a bandit really did overthrow the Empire, for a little bit anyway; she killed the Empress and took over the city and ruled Mistral for the rest of her life, so maybe she really did have help from someone, from this Dark Mother, whoever she is.” Her blue eyes lit up as she had a great idea. “Could you take me to a grimm—?”
“No,” Opis said flatly.
“You didn’t even let me finish!”
“You were going to ask me to take you to a grimm cult, weren’t you, m’lady?”
“Yes, so—”
“No.”
Juturna pouted. “Why not?”
“Because they’re a bunch of freaks, and they murder people, and m’lord would skin me alive if I took you within a mile of a place like that,” Opis declared. “And that’s only if Camilla didn’t get her hands on me first.” 
She got to her feet. “Grimm cults are full of losers who couldn’t get laid when they were young dreaming about how they’re going to totally rise up and show everyone. That’s why their story is about a mommy who gives them everything they ever wanted. It’s not real, and it’s no place for a girl like you. I’m sorry, m’lady, but I can’t — won’t — help you do something like that.”
Juturna sighed. “Fine,” she muttered. “I guess you’re right; Turnus and Camilla would kill us both if they found out about it. And you’re right; it probably isn’t real. Just a fairytale, like you said.” She folded her arms. “Poor bro. You know, I think the way things are is really starting to get to him. You know, on the night of the Breech, he sat outside my room all night? I could hear him breathing on the other side of the door.”
Opis clenched her hands. “He wasn’t the only one who lost sleep that night. Were you worried, m’lady?”
“No,” Juturna said. “No, I wasn’t worried at all, because my brother and Camilla and all of you were here.”
Opis smiled quickly. “As for politics … what m’lord needs is a really nice girl to take his mind off things.”
Juturna laughed. “A really nice girl, huh?” she repeated. “I wonder what they’re up to right now?”



Turnus climbed the steps, turning in circles as the staircase wound around the central column of stone. It was dark and gloomy, lit only by a few dying fire dust crystals set in sconces on the walls, but with the staircase being as narrow as it was and without anywhere else to go, he didn’t have to worry about losing his way or not being able to see where was going. 
In any case, he soon reached the top of the stairs, emerging out of the gloom and into the mid-morning sunshine as he climbed out onto the roof of the old temple. 
The village of Ardea was spread out all around and beneath him, the rustic houses with their low silhouettes, the stalls set out for market with their coloured awnings, the stables with their piles of straw, the carts resting empty and unused, or else filled up and with asses or oxen in harness. And beyond that, the fields that kept the village fed: to the north and west, wheat and corn blossoming from the earth in expectation of the harvest; to the east, vegetables of various sorts, they were all sticking their greenery out of the ground, but Turnus could not have said what was lying undisturbed beneath; and to the south, sheep and lambs grazing in fields where only grass grew, moving slowly from one place to another, paying no mind to anything. 
Of the various directions, it was the north and west that concerned him the most; the corn had grown so long that a man could easily move through it without being seen. 
That was why he had posted a lookout here, on the roof of the tallest building in the village, so that they could see out beyond the crops and see anyone who might approach before they got that far. 
Religion might be dying in Remnant, but this temple still saw a great deal of use as a communal space, as the mayor had taken great pains to explain to Turnus as he showed him around. For that reason, it had been kept in better repair than its religion, and as Turnus stepped out onto the roof, he felt none of the roof tiles move beneath his feet and had no need to take any especial care when walking. 
Camilla was sitting on the roof, her bow, Diana’s Devotion, propped up on the roof tiles beside her, the top pressed against her cheek. She was sitting on the very top of the roof, perched upon the central line, able to look both ways unimpaired with her keen eyes, but at the moment, she was looking north, where the corn would obstruct the view of Turnus’ other sentries. 
As Turnus approached, she began to rise. “My lord—”
“Keep your seat,” Turnus urged her, choosing to sit down beside her. He paused for a moment, taking in the view of this rustic locale. “There are times when I envy you your semblance,” he murmured. “To be able to see so far and so clearly, it must be … quite something.”
“There are times when it is … when I appreciate it,” Camilla murmured. “When you look up and see a bird in the sky, it can appear to be nothing more than a dark shape, a pair of flapping wings perhaps, but with my semblance…” She smiled. “I can see every spot upon its beak, see every feather on its wing—”
“Now you’re trying to make me jealous,” Turnus muttered.
Camilla chuckled, covering her mouth with one hand. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said softly. “That was not my intent.”
“Even if it were your intent, there would be nothing to forgive,” Turnus replied. “What you describe sounds very impressive, but I suppose it must get awkward when you suddenly have to look at something close by.”
“I turn it off in those cases.”
“Does it get all blocky, like a picture magnified too much upon a screen?”
“No, my lord, men are not computer files,” Camilla said dryly. “Rather … the lines on Ufens’ face become like canyons to my eyes, the hairs of Euryalus’ beard become like black oaks.”
“You make it almost sound appealing,” Turnus said dryly.
“There is some beauty to be found in details, don’t you think?” Camilla asked.

Turnus glanced at her and found his eye drawn momentarily to the beauty spot beneath her eye. He looked away, a frown creasing his face. “I … suppose so.”
“Not that I have had much opportunity to observe such things today, my lord,” Camilla said immediately. “I would be remiss in my duty if I had.”
“Of course,” Turnus replied. “Have you seen anything?”
“No,” Camilla said.
“No sign of Nisus and Euryalus, or Silvia?”
Camilla shook her head. “No. Nothing from the north or the west. I would have signalled if I had,” she added in a tone of modest reproach.
“I do not doubt it,” Turnus assured her. “But…”
“Impatient, my lord?” Camilla asked. “Or nervous?”
Once more, Turnus glanced at her. “You need not call me lord up here, in private, where only the gods can hear us.”
“We are in the field,” Camilla reminded him. “It is as well to observe discipline everywhere. And besides, you are my lord.”
“And your friend, no?”
Camilla was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she said softly, although she matched it with a gentle smile. “Yes, you are my friend.”
Turnus himself took pause before he answered. “It is both impatience and nervousness. I do not regret taking this job for free, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t want it to be done so that we can go home. And nervousness … sending scouts out always makes me nervous. Our strength is in our numbers—“
“We are not some unskilled mob that can only prevail by swamping the enemy with bodies and drowning them in our own blood,” Camilla said mildly.
“Indeed not, but … some of my men, I would match against a huntsman: you, myself, a few others; some are not quite at that level, although they are not far off either. But the reason why I deem us more capable than a huntsman, more suited to defend a place like this than a huntsman, is that we are forty men who fight as one. But Silvia is out by herself, and Nisus and Euryalus … if Silvia were to be caught—”
“That she is not caught is why Silvia went out by herself,” Camilla reminded him. “So that no more leaden-footed comrade could slow her down or reveal her to the enemy. Have faith, my lord.”
“I have faith,” Turnus clarified. “But if I did not also have concern, that would make me a poor lord, no? And a poor commander, what is worse.” He paused. “If you want to come down from here, I can have Palinurus relieve you.”
Camilla shook her head. “I’m fine. Palinurus has good eyes, but he does not have my semblance. My semblance with which I can see Silvia approaching.”
“Where?” Turnus demanded.
Camilla pointed to the west. “She’s just emerged from the tree line.”
Said tree line, the point at which an old and tangled Mistralian forest, full of wild trees with thick trunks and long branches, began to disappear off into the distance, was some way off. Turnus looked that way, squinting, and yet, he could not see Silvia approaching as Camilla proclaimed. 
“Where?” he asked. “I don’t see her.”
“I see her plain as day,” Camilla said. A little amusement entered her voice. “And she must know that I can see her, because she’s waving at me.”
By this point, Turnus thought that he could see something, a shape just beyond the forest, someone moving in the direction of the village. It must be Silvia, not only because Camilla wouldn’t lie to him but also because Silvia was the one he had sent to scout the west for signs of the bandits that had destroyed Evanteum. 
“I’ll go down and see what she’s found,” Turnus said as he got up. “Are you sure that you’re alright to remain up here?”
“Quite alright,” Camilla said. “Go. With good fortune, she will have found our prey.”
“Indeed,” Turnus agreed, before he retraced his steps over the temple roof back to the hatch from which he had emerged. He climbed down. To descend in darkness was theoretically trickier than to ascend, but Turnus took the steps two or three at a time regardless, bounding down the circular staircase until he emerged into the main temple. The frescoes on the walls were faded, the colours muted by exposure to too much light and not enough repair; he could barely make out what was being depicted: wild beasts, or a hunt, maybe; not grimm, but leopards and lions and men with … something in their hands. Spears, perhaps. It mattered very little, at this point, but Turnus could not help feel it was a little disappointing that this place where once the gods of old Mistral had been worshipped had become a site for village meetings and jumble sales. 
He started for the door, but turned back instead towards the altar, where a statue of Seraphis, the Lord of the Sky, stared down at him.
The dignity of the god was somewhat deflated by the fact that his nose was gone. 
Nevertheless, Turnus bowed his head. “Gods of my fathers,” he whispered, “I thank you for sending to me unharmed my servant Silvia; if she has returned not only well but with news, I will sacrifice to you, to Seraphis and Re who watch us from the air, six pigeons. Upon my name as a Rutulus, I vow it shall be so.”
And with that, he did turn away, striding out of the temple and into the village itself. The roads of Ardea were not paved, merely dirt tracks that formed a rough cross with a few minor streets jutting off them, but it was down that dirt road to the north that Turnus strode. His men lined the road, sitting on overturned crates or simply on the ground, leaning against the walls of the buildings that fronted onto the main road. Some were checking their weapons or sharpening their blades; others were eating; others were otherwise occupying themselves, or simply waiting. Waiting for him to give the orders, waiting for the action, waiting. 
They recognised from his pace that he was in a hurry, and so, aside from a few hasty acknowledgements, a few ‘my lord’s, nobody tried to stay him. 
And so he reached the northern edge of the village, by which point, he could see Silvia reasonably clearly enough as she jogged down the road towards. 
She did not look as though she was in flight, which suggested that at least she hadn’t been observed; it might also mean that she hadn’t found anything, judging by the way that she was not in an immense hurry to deliver the news. 
On the other hand, she could also be pacing herself. 
Silvia was a deer faunus, with doe ears sprouting out from either side of her head; her eyes were a chestnut brown like a deer’s fur. Her hair was black and hung loose down behind her about halfway to her waist; as she ran, it streamed behind her slightly like the banner of an army. Her skin was browned by a life lived in the outdoors, and she was dressed in various shades of dark green and dull brown, although her chestnut cloak was dappled with white spots. She had a bow, which could also turn into a quarterstaff at need, slung across her back, and a plethora of knives thrust into her belt.
Murranus was standing sentinel just beyond the edge of the village, and Silvia reached out a hand, enclosed in a black fingerless glove, to high-five him as she ran past, stopping in front of Turnus. She bowed her head, her black hair falling all around her. “My lord.”
“Silvia,” Turnus said. “Glad to see you make it back in one piece.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Silvia said, raising her head. “I wish that I had better news to bring back.”
“You didn’t find anything?” Turnus asked.
Silvia shook her head. “No, my lord. Not a trail, not a trace. If they’re still around, they’re nowhere to the north of us.”
“What about grimm?” demanded Turnus. It would, after all, be a fine thing if the grimm fell upon them while they were engaged with the bandits, wherever they might be.
“I didn’t see any of them either, my lord, and if the grimm see you, they let you know it,” Silvia replied.
Turnus nodded. “Well, it’s a pity, but don’t take it too hard; if they weren’t there, then they weren’t there.” 
He did not even entertain the possibility that they were there but Silvia had missed them; Silvia’s father was the chief ranger of the Rutulus’ estates, and had been since his father’s day, and he had taught his daughter everything he knew about woodcraft, tracking, trails, and the like. While old Tyrrheus himself had not been interested in exchanging his old job for a new one with Rutulian Security, his daughter had been more interested in a new life of intermittent adventure and excitement. 
If she hadn’t found anything, it was because there was nothing to be found. Turnus might be concerned for his people, but his faith in them was absolute. 
He patted her on the shoulder. “Get some rest. If Euryalus and Nisus find anything, then we’ll still need you for the fight ahead.”
Silvia grinned. “Don’t worry, my lord, I’ve got plenty left to give.”
Turnus smiled. “Get some rest anyway. Nothing will happen until Euryalus and Nisus return.”
“Yes, my lord,” Silvia said, and the grin remained on her face as she walked down the street, following Turnus’ footsteps in reverse. 
Turnus remained where he was, standing with his hands on his hips as he looked out across the land spread out around Ardea, the farming fields giving way to the woods and the wild, uncultivated meadow. 
It was … a lovely place. Not unique, by any means, it was very representative of rural Anima, but all that proved was that Anima itself was a very lovely place. 
Atlas, where he had gone to school and spent a little while in his first job, was an impressive sight to look upon, a technological marvel that induced admiration; the icy plains of Solitas had a cold beauty about them. But Anima, these villages, their fields and farms, the woods and the streams, the life that filled this vast and ancient land, it had a charm that nowhere else on Remnant possessed. 
Anima was a land; Mistral was a kingdom, possessed of a rich history longer than any other kingdom enjoyed. Other lands might possess the ruins of ancient kingdoms fallen and forgotten, but in Mistral, the ruins were as like to belong to some earlier age of Mistral itself as they were to any musty, long-forgotten realm of interest only to archaeologists. The ghosts of Mistral’s past haunted not only the houses of the great, but the fallen ruins in which they had dwelled, the rivers by which they had stopped to drink, the fields in which they had fought for the glory of their names and the honour of their families. Mistral had a grand old past. Mistral had a teeming present too; it was a land filled with life, spotted with villages just like Ardea where simple, honest folk reaped and sowed and reared and lived. Mistral had a rich past and an equally rich present, but … but he could not see that it had a future. 
And it was a disgrace. A disgrace which filled him with anger. Look at this place, a charming place to be sure, but one which lived from day to day under the threat of annihilation from grimm or bandits — bandits! In this day and age! To think that a kingdom, a modern kingdom, should be infested with brigands as though hundreds of years of progress and development had never taken place. Yes, it was a large kingdom, and wild, with many open spaces, but so what? With all the ways that mankind had developed, with all the technology at their disposal, it should not have been beyond the wit of man to find some way to suppress them all and their activities. And yet, they were treated as an issue as endemic as the common cold, a problem with no beginning and no ending. 
That was what was so frustrating, not just that there were problems, but that nobody was interested in finding solutions. Nobody had any answers because they weren’t even looking. Mistral was running to stand still and didn’t even manage that with any consistency. 
Not that he had any easy, obvious answers, but … but at least he recognised the need to look for them! 
A sigh escaped him. Camilla was right, ultimately; he would never … standing here and brooding on it wasn’t going to make any changes, was it? 
But what else could he do? Go into politics? No, he was not … even if he could unbend enough to gladhand for votes amongst the populace, certain aspects of his reputations — all the deaths — would almost certainly count against him. He had broken no laws, and he had done nothing dishonourable, but some would say that duelling was a tradition that had outstayed its welcome. Not to mention the hypocrisy of someone who wished to bring Mistral into the future and yet at the same time invoke the bloodiest of the old ways. 
No, he would not be voted onto the Council, and even if he did, he would only be one voice amongst five. So what then? What could he do? What could anyone do to halt this decline?
Turnus was distracted from these thoughts by a cough from behind him. He turned around to find himself looking down upon the Mayor of Ardea, one Drances by name, a small, lean man dressed in black, with a silver chain of office dangling from his neck. Turnus had to admit that he didn’t much care for the fellow, possibly because he had a face that reminded Turnus of a rat. 
Or perhaps it was the fact that he had sniffed at Camilla when they had first arrived, and seemed to be struggling to restrain himself from sneering every time he came near her. 
Nevertheless, Turnus endeavoured to maintain a courteous tone as he asked, “Can I help you?”
Drances rubbed his hands together, as though he were washing them. “My lord,” he said, in a simpering tone, “as grateful as we are that you have not only come to defend us from these vile brigands, but also to do so free of charge … nevertheless…”
“Some might say that complaining about a service you are getting for nothing is rather churlish,” Turnus remarked. “Nevertheless, if there is anything unsatisfactory about our work, then by all means, let me hear it.”
Drances glanced away. “Thank you, my lord, you are truly the most generous lord in all of Mistral. However, ahem … when you agreed to come and defend our village from these vile brigands I thought, we thought, that, perhaps, you might, ahem, defend the village.”
“I do not see anyone to defend it from, do you?” Turnus asked.
“No,” Drances admitted. “But, forgive me, my lord, I am not a warlike man, but is not now the time to be establishing defences for when the enemy does come?”
“Perhaps,” Turnus said. “If you could afford to keep us here for weeks on end. But these bandits are cowards, they prey on targets which they can easily overcome; the moment they saw that this village was garrisoned and defended, they would leave it alone. Perhaps they would leave you alone for good, or for a year, or even a season. Or perhaps they would watch and wait until my men and I returned to Mistral and then fall upon your once-more defenceless village. I do not mean to take that chance. That is why I have sent out scouts to locate the bandit camp, and once they return, we shall fall upon them with all our strength, and either destroy them or at least do so much damage that they will flee this region never to return. That is why my men are not wasting time digging trenches or putting up barricades: because if they must make a march of some distance and fight a battle at the end of it, I would have them rested beforehand. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Drances murmured. He bowed his head. “Forgive me—”
“Your concern for your village is natural,” Turnus told him. “But I know what I’m doing, and my men are brave and loyal and true, especially the faunus amongst them.”
Drances’ eyes widened, and he looked away for a moment, muttering something underneath his breath. 
“You came to us because of our reputation,” Turnus said. “And that reputation is not undeserved. Trust us. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Drances bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.”
Turnus nodded to him, and then walked past him, retracing his steps back down the dirt road. His steps were slower now, making it clear that he was open to anything that any of his men might wish to raise with him. He stopped beside Pallas, who was not quite the youngest of the Rutulians — that would be Nisus, who had just turned sixteen — but at seventeen, he was one of the cubs of the outfit, and one who had yet to see any combat. He had failed his initiation into Haven  Academy, failing to find a token or a partner, but he was a brave young man, and Turnus had seen no reason why he should be forced to give up on all his dreams so easily. 
He was a short, slender youth with tangled hair of dark brown, partially restrained by a thin golden circlet bound around his brow, although that didn’t stop his hair from curling up beneath it. He was dressed in a long blue tunic, trimmed with gold, which hung down to about his knees, with a gilded cuirass worn over it and a pair of greaves upon his legs. In his hands, he held a rifle, which could transform into a spear when the situation required it, and he was looking down at it when Turnus approached. 
Turnus reached out and placed a hand upon his shoulder. “Everything alright?”
Pallas looked up at him. “My lord? Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I don’t blame you for being distracted,” Turnus said. “It’s a fine weapon you have.”
“Yes,” Pallas agreed, a smile appearing on his face, although it faded as quickly as it had come. “My father got it for me, when … when he thought that I was going to become a huntsman.”
“You had bad luck,” Turnus assured him. “It says nothing of your courage or your quality.”
“Does it not?” Pallas asked. “I mean … I couldn’t complete the trial that the other students could; what does that say but that I’m not worthy?”
“Bad luck, as I said,” Turnus replied. “You know that I dropped out of Atlas  Academy.” That was not quite true, but … well, it was one thing to admit that he hadn’t graduated and another thing to admit that he’d been expelled. “Does that make me less of a warrior, less of a man, than someone who graduated? Does knowing that change your mind about wanting to be here and fight at my side?”
“No, my lord,” Pallas said at once. “You’re still—”
“I am still myself,” Turnus said. “Still possessed of all the qualities that make me myself. A licence, or the lack of it, cannot change that. What is the name of that weapon you bear?”
Pallas’ cheeks reddened. “A… A Father’s Blessing, my lord.”
Turnus smiled. “A fine name, of which you need not feel ashamed. You will do it honour, I am sure.”
“Thank you, my lord. I mean, I will, my lord.”
“It’s natural to be nervous,” Turnus told him. “I will not tell you to know no fear. But I would not send you into battle if I did not think you capable, and I will not lead you into a battle unless I believe it can be won.”
There was a whistling sound, a shrill whistle that cut through the air, coming from above — from the ceiling of the temple. 
“I think the battle may come soon now, with good fortune,” Turnus declared. “Brave heart, Pallas.”
“Yes, my lord. I won’t let you down, my lord.”
“I have no doubt,” Turnus replied, before he turned away from Pallas and strode — with as much purpose as he had made to meet Silvia — towards the temple. “Is it Euryalus?” he called up. “Or the enemy?”
Camilla’s head appeared over the edge of the roof. “Euryalus and Nisus returning, my lord,” she replied.
“Thank you,” he said, before heading to the western edge of Ardea to wait for his remaining scouts. 
As with Silvia, it took him a little time — lacking Camilla’s extraordinary vision — before he could see them in any detail, but sure enough, as he joined Ufens where the houses gave way the crops, he could see the two of them making their way towards him. 
They were an odd pair, Nisus and Euryalus. Euryalus was the older of the two, a man of mature years, his long, dark hair and beard alike streaked with grey, his body concealed beneath a cloak of forest green. He was a countryman by upbringing and profession, a herdsman and gamekeeper upon the Rutulus’ estates. A good shot, a good runner, and a good man for sneaking around, Turnus felt that he had been wasted keeping poachers away or keeping the wolves from the flock. 
Nisus was not the best man in Rutulian Security, but he was by general consensus the prettiest, a fact that might even last once he became old enough to shave. He was only sixteen years old, and next year, Turnus meant to sponsor him through Haven Academy, and had no doubt that he would do very well there — with good fortune. His father had been a police officer, one of the few good ones, and just like Turnus’ father, he had been killed for refusing to become one of the bad ones. Turnus had taken the young man on in order to save his mother from destitution; it had felt like the least he could do in memory of a man who had served his father well, and he too had proven to have some talent as a scout. 
Haven would be glad of him next year, but Turnus was glad of him now. 
Nisus and Euryalus. The two of them were practically inseparable, although Turnus was not sure what the precise nature of their relationship was; so long as they did their jobs — and they did — it was none of his concern. He was simply glad to have them here. 
They halted before him, and bowed. 
“My lord,” Euryalus said.
“My lord,” echoed Nisus, unable to keep the grin off his face. 
Turnus found it slightly infectious, pricking at the corners of his mouth. “I hope that look on your face, Nisus, means that the two of you found something.”
“Oh, we’ve found more than something, my lord,” Nisus said. “We found their camp.”
Turnus clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Excellent work, both of you! Where? How far off?”
“Eight miles, my lord, perhaps nine,” Euryalus said. He got out his scroll, opening it up and bringing up a map. “Here, my lord.”
Turnus’ own scroll pinged. He got it out and opened it; Euryalus had just sent him the very same map that he had brought up on his own device; the bandit camp was marked upon it. They had not chosen a bad location to establish themselves, he had to admit: they had made camp by the side of a river, which would not only provide a water source but also protect their flank from assault, while hills surrounded them on the other three sides, with only a narrow defile to gain entrance to the camp on even ground. However, it was one thing to choose terrain to your advantage, and another thing to make best use of it. 
“Were you seen?” he asked. “Do they know we’re here?”
“If they know we’re here, my lord, then they take us damn lightly,” Euryalus replied.
“Meaning?”
“They’re having a laugh, my lord,” Nisus declared. “They’ve put up a palisade across the defile, but there’s no firestep and just one dozy looking sentry outside.”
“And on the hills overlooking the camp?” Turnus asked.
“No one, my lord,” Euryalus said. “That’s how we found them: we got up on the hill to the east and looked right down on their camp, and they never noticed.”
“Not one sentry, other than the man before the palisade?”
“No, my lord,” answered Euryalus.
Turnus snorted. “Cocky bunch, aren’t they?” 
It occurred to him that perhaps they were a little too cocky, or rather, that the situation that Nisus and Euryalus had laid out for him was just a little too easy. It might be a trap; they might have spotted Nisus and Euryalus coming and made out that their preparations were more lax than was actually the case in order to draw him into an attack. 
But to what end? Bandits did not seek battle, as a rule; they sought easy prey and would rather plunder the weak than fight the strong. A battle against his forces, even if they managed to ambush them, would cost them more than he suspected they were willing to pay. He thought that if they knew that he was in the area, then they would move camp, hope to avoid him and, as he had said to Mayor Drances, wait for him and his to go away. They were no more likely to try and lure him into an assault on their camp than they were to try and assault Ardea while the Rutulians defended it. And how would they know he was here? If their scouts had gotten close enough to the village to see him, then Camilla would have spotted them. 
At most, if they had become aware of Nisus and Euryalus’ presence, they might have thought them huntsmen, but in that case, they would have attacked them there and then, no?
No, he did not think this was a trap. He thought this was a case of bandits who had encountered little resistance to their depredations in this region so far and had become complacent over it, something he would teach them to regret. 
And if it was a trap of some kind, he would teach them to regret that too; a tiger in a pit was still a tiger, after all. 
“Good work, both of you,” he said. “You will be rewarded for it once we get home.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Ufens,” Turnus said, “get the men together in the temple. I’ll join you there shortly.”
Ufens, broad-shouldered and bald-headed, bowed said head as the sunlight danced upon his dome. “At once, my lord.”
Turnus himself went in search of Mayor Drances, finding him returned to his home, which also served as the town hall in so small a place as Ardea. Doubtless, it would seem poor in comparison with the mayors of more prosperous settlements, but the hanging tapestries that descended from the walls looked handsome enough, and more than any other villager here in Ardea could boast, no doubt. 
“My lord?” Drances said, getting up from behind the low table at which he had been kneeling. “Is there some news? Or something I can do for you?”
“My men and I will be moving out soon,” Turnus said. “By morning, I hope that the threat of these brigands will be dealt with.”
“That is excellent news, my lord,” Drances declared. “The hopes of the whole village go with you and your company, I have no doubt.”
“I could do with just a little more than hopes,” Turnus said. “Since I have taken on this task for free, I am sure that the village would not begrudge me the donation of a strong ram; surely you can spare one?” 
He would, if push came to shove, pay for it, but although he could afford it, he resented a little the idea of having to pay his client for something that was, to him at least, a part of his work here; especially since they were not paying him anything.
“A ram?” Drances repeated. “Rams … yes, we have a few; this is a sheep village in part, but … why, my lord?”
“For sacrifice,” Turnus answered. “I am a man of the old ways as much as I am a man of the future.”
“'Sacrifice'? You mean you want to kill it?”
“Did you imagine that I might want it as a mascot?”
“No, my lord, but I…” Drances trailed off. “I suppose I can hardly refuse, can I, my lord?”
“You can,” Turnus allowed. “But I would take it as a kindness if you did not.”
Drances made a wordless murmuring sound. “None of the farmers will wish to give up one of their rams,” he observed. “But they will like being killed by bandits even less, I think. I must confess, my lord, that a part of me thought that sending for help, with the meagre sum that we could raise, was a fool’s errand. Compared with your generosity, a ram seems a very small price to pay. Very well, you shall have your sacrifice. I shall see which farmer can mostly easily part with it, and which I can strong-arm into doing so.”
The ram was procured, by what precise means, Turnus did not care to know; what he cared about was that it was a fine, strong beast, with proud horns that curved down and then back upwards again, with a thick coat and strength enough that it required his might to carry it into the temple and to hold it down. 
Nevertheless, hold it down he did as he laid it upon the altar in the temple. 
He wondered, as the ram bleated and writhed between his unrelenting grip, how long it had been since this altar had last been used for such a purpose?
Too long, perhaps, but no matter; it would serve its intended use today. 
Turnus did not look around, but he could feel the gaze of his men upon him. They did not have to participate in this ritual, if they did not wish to, but he wished for them to be here, to see this, and to hear him once the ritual was done. 
He glanced down, into the eyes of the ram as it struggled futilely to escape from him. He could feel its struggle; it had to be a strong beast, or the sacrifice was nearly worthless. It had to be strong, or else it showed disrespect to the gods. 
Turnus looked up from the ram and into the face of Seraphis, whose graven image stared down at him; in this moment, with the candles lit around him, with their smoke beginning to fill the air, not even the lack of a nose for the statue could take away from the sense of gravity that Turnus felt. 
Properly, of course, this should have been done at a shrine to Eulalia, Loud of the War-Cry, the Lady of Victory, or else to Allecto the hateful God of War, but a small village like this had only one temple, and as Seraphis was the lord of heaven, all sacrifices could upon his altar be laid. 
Turnus held out one hand. Camilla pressed a knife into his palm.
Turnus drew in a deep breath. “Seraphis, Lord of the Sky, Lord of Heaven, author and upholder of order, god of my father, god of my ancestors, hear the prayer of your devoted servant. Eulalia, Loud of the War-Cry, bearer of the aegis, you who inspire warriors to the valour that breaks the battle line, hear the prayer of one who goes to battle in your name. Allecto, God of War, you who delight in death and suffering, hear the prayer of one who goes to shed blood upon the soil.” 
In a single stroke, Turnus slit the throat of the ram that lay upon the altar. Its blood, dark red like wine, began to spill out across the stone, pooling where the altar dipped a little like a shallow bowl. 
“Look with pleasure on this offering and stand with we who dedicate ourselves to victory and battle in common purpose.” He put aside the knife, and even as the ram still struggled with increasing feebleness, he dipped his hand into the lifeblood that flowed from the dying beast and, with his fingers, smeared it across his face. “Hear me, gods, and stand with us upon this day, that we may win great glory and bring great evil to a close.”
He stepped away, descending the steps that led to the altar. Camilla took his place, her vulpine tail raised, twitching slightly as he placed her whole hand into the pool of blood and made a handprint on her face like a child painting the wall. 
“Eulalia, grant me swift feet that I may run across the sheaves of corn and not disturb, and a keen eye that my life-taking shafts shall never miss their mark.”
She, too, stepped away. None of the Rutulians were forced to partake in this ritual, and yet, all did so, all that Turnus had brought to Ardea. Ufens smeared the blood across his bald head. Lausus drew a red line across his neck as though his throat had been cut. Pallas made a clean, straight line down his forehead and over his nose. Silvia smeared the blood around her mouth like badly applied lipstick, or the results of eating raw meat. One by one, every man approached the altar, and touched themselves with the sacrificial blood, and murmured some words to the gods who would aid them in the battle ahead. 
Nisus was the last man to approach the altar, and once he, too, was smeared with blood, Turnus returned to the altar. The ram was now dead, and Turnus placed a fire dust crystal besides its lifeless body and, with a touch of his aura, set it ablaze.
Fire began to consume the carcass, devouring the meat and turning it to smoke which would rise up to heaven and fill the nostrils of the gods. 
As the smoke began to rise, as the temple began to fill with the scent of burning meat, Turnus addressed his men. 
“Rutulians,” he said, his voice echoing off the temple walls, “as I’m sure that you have already guessed, I do not mean to wait here and receive attack from these bandits, if indeed they were minded to give it. No, thanks to the efforts of Nisus and Euryalus — although I am sure that, if the directions I commanded had been reversed, Silvia would have found them also—”
“Thank you kindly, my lord,” Silvia said.
“I object!” Euryalus declared, prompting a round of laughter from the assembled warriors. 
Turnus smiled, but continued on, “Thanks to the efforts of Nisus and Euryalus, the location of the bandit camp is known to us. And we shall fall upon them, and put them to the sword. 
“Be under no illusions. I do not wish any man to become complacent, for complacency will kill as swiftly as any sword. These brigands have slain a huntsman — that we know of; there may be more. There are clearly those amongst them who are not without skill; they will have aura and semblances, and even those who do not will fight ferociously to survive, and they will give no quarter. Our enemy is vicious, cruel, and inhuman, and they will not hesitate to kill, even if you are wounded or disarmed. Expect no mercy, for you will receive none. 
“However, we are not without advantages. Our enemy does not know that we are here. Our enemy does not know that we know where they are. Surprise is on our side, and so is the complacency of our foe. Euryalus and Nisus have observed few sentries, no preparations; when we fall on them, they will stumble out of their tents, astonished at what is happening, startled; they will not know how to respond. We will push hard, and we will keep up the pressure; we will not let them rally. We will set them running, and we will slaughter them as they retreat. 
“Some of you have been with me since I founded this company. Some of you have joined our ranks only recently. But you are all well-trained, you are all well-equipped, and you are all comrades. Trust in your weapons, trust in your armour, but most of all, trust in the men alongside you.
“They are a disparate band of killers; we are a united band of warriors, and with our unity we will prevail.” Turnus drew his sword, Eris, and brandished it above his head. “Rutulians!”
“Rutulians!” his warriors roared.
“Eulalia!” he cried.
“Eulalia!”