by Ilana Waters
“You flatter me.” She turned slightly, looking over the ocean of guests. Now, I could not see quite as much of her body as before. “I hear your campaign in Volubilis was successful.”
“Yes, the natives there make fine workers . . . with a little convincing. Soon, we may even be able to push into Mauretania.” So what if she’s a little older than most of my other lovers? There’s something to be said for experience. Perhaps I’ll even learn a few new tricks . . .
“No doubt my husband was as indispensable as ever.” Sabine sniffed. “You know how he enjoys working diligently for the glory of Rome.” There was a guffaw from the other corner of the room. We turned in time to see Egnatius nearly trip over his toga onto a senator. It ended with Egnatius spraying wine from his mouth in laughter, a sound somewhere between a choked belch and a wheeze. Sabine sighed and angled her body back to me.
Perhaps you think I harbored vague notions of danger or guilt by taking Egnatius’s wife. Rest assured, dear reader, I was troubled by neither fear of being caught, nor scruples. Egnatius would never find out. He was an imbecile. And I was hungry.
“But enough about the provinces.” Without taking my eyes off her, I placed my wine cup on a stand. A servant whisked it away. “Where does a goddess like yourself hail from?” She had an accent that didn’t sound like it was entirely from Pompeii. The Roman Empire was on its way to being the largest in the world at this point. She could have come from almost any continent, been the child of dozens of lands.
“From the bosom of the earth, same as you,” she said coyly. Next to us, oil lamps dangled from hooks on a man-sized bronze stand. I watched as the light played off her gleaming skin.
“Yes, but where in Rome?” I purred. Again, I tried to read her thoughts, but they were impenetrable. Still, the night was young. I had time for a game of cat and mouse.
“Does it matter?” She lifted her wine cup, and all but caressed her throat with it.
“One merely wants to know where to make the appropriate offerings to the gods for their generosity.” I brushed a finger along her upper arm, on the side nearest the wall, so no one else would see. “Though I’m surprised you don’t live at the capital. You are, after all, the greatest beauty in this room. And Rome is the greatest city in the world. You two belong together.”
“Rome, the greatest city?” She shrugged and glanced away again. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” I dropped my hand and stood back. Beside us, a riot-hued exotic bird squawked in its cage. I winced. I owed everything I was to being Roman, to becoming Roman. I hardly knew who I’d have been without it. I don’t think I need to impress upon the reader what Rome gifted us. A way of marking time with calendars, arteries of highways, veins of roads. Thick, muscular stone bridges. Life-giving aqueducts. All of this was heretofore unknown on such an epic scale. And yet . . .
“You speak as though we are a common, conquered nation,” I said. “Why, the teeming Forum Romanum alone—with its enormous statues and monuments, its temples and shrines—is the most splendid public place ever created.”
“Then what is such a great general doing so far from Rome, if that is where his heart lies?” She faced me again and tilted her head to one side. The quick movement of her pearl drop earring seemed like a wink at me.
“Oh, I never said that,” I replied quickly. I see . . . it’s all part of the game. Goading me, to enhance the thrill of the chase. Very well. I didn’t mind, if the outcome was certain. “Besides, a general’s true home is wherever Rome sees fit to send him. Don’t you want a great, strong army protecting you from the barbarians?” And a great, strong general in your bed? My smile implied the second question.
“Some might say we are the barbarians.”
My smile froze, then flickered. Strange game. This was not what I expected to hear. “Yes, the uncouth, unwashed, uneducated. Those who are not Roman say that.” Is she, in fact, making a demure attempt to resist my charms? Or is my offer being denied outright? It was a warm night; a slave came by and tried to fan us. An irritated wave of my hand sent him away.
“Indeed,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. Is it modesty? Modesty did not seem something that would sit in this woman’s breast. Yet, the denial was not definitive either. Maddening.
“Are you sure you are pure Roman yourself, General Aurelius?” she asked. My face went stone-hard.
Who is she to allude to my slave past? And why bring it up now? It was no secret where I came from, how humble my origins were. But it was certainly not something I enjoyed being reminded of. Have I not done enough for my country, fought for her as much as any natural-born citizen?
My voice was black ice. “I hardly see why that’s relev—”
“Have you ever wondered how you know your opponent’s next move before he makes it?” she interrupted in a whisper. Her piercing gaze held me in place. “Or how the weather is clear and perfect over your army, while your enemies are shrouded in fog?”
My brow furrowed in confusion. She’s not referring to my low birth. But then, what . . .?
“Why you are able to heal many of your men’s injuries, as if given an elixir by the gods?” Her tone was still hushed, but more demanding now.
“How do you—”
She held up her hand. “Please don’t deny it. I am the one person you cannot lie to.”
“How do you know these things?” Though finally able to finish my question, Sabine’s answer opened a floodgate. A thousand new questions burst forth. She gave a little smile, then stood in front of me, her body blocking the room’s view of us. She lifted her fingers from around the wine cup. It hovered in midair between us. My eyes widened, then darted to the other guests. No one but me had seen it. Sabine’s next words came not from her lips. I heard them only in my mind.
Because, Titus . . . I am exactly like you.
Chapter 3
Another hour or so passes after the fountains stop flowing. I check on Egnatius’s usual whorehouse; he is still passed out drunk there from the night before. It will be several hours until he awakens. I walk the streets, on my way to see Sabine.
There is more rumbling from the mountain—deeper this time. Babies cry and wail. Pieces of slate tumble from rooftops and shatter when they hit the ground.
I am a fire witch, and so I feel the explosion before I see it. If I could describe the way the earth feels, it would be angry. Anger so hot, it is not red, but white. It is foolish to think that rock and soil can have emotions, so I don’t know why I sense this. Only that I do. Like fury that begins deep in the belly, a growl that rises in the throat and becomes an unintelligible, raging scream. It is like that. Except this is the belly of the whole world.
There is a cross between a roar and a deafening boom. People gasp and shriek in surprise. Fingers point north, toward the volcano. A thick, black column is rising from the center.
Vesuvius has awoken.
***
I couldn’t read Sabine’s thoughts at first, of course, because she blocked them. It was a bit off-putting to realize she’d been able to read mine the entire time, until she taught me to block unwanted intrusions as well. Eventually, she let me read some of her thoughts—our secret, convenient way of communicating. Though I’m sure there were deeper, darker ones she hid from me. She must have. Otherwise, I’d have known what was coming.
After some momentary shock, the rest of the evening passed in a haze of revelation. How could it be? I thought I was the only one. We managed to slip out to the courtyard and talk until dawn, when the party ended, and I was forced to tear myself away. I wandered the streets in a daze, mind reeling, going over and over my conversation with Sabine. I couldn’t even tell you which route I took to get back home.
She did not refer to herself as malefica or incantatrix, those terms I trust you are familiar with now. She would always say vaguely “our kind,” or “people like us.” As I mentioned earlier, witch was a word I would not hear for centuries, and even then, i
t was the Christians using it, and not in a tender way. I only employ it here as a kind of shorthand for the reader, so as not to confuse you fragile-minded mortals.
Thankfully, Sabine’s teasing game did not last long. Although we didn’t become lovers that first night, very little time passed before the inevitable.
I confess, I did learn a few new tricks. Far more than a few, actually.
Sabine taught me other things, too. Many of them were less carnal, but no less intriguing. For instance, she described how each witch is born to one of four elements. This was not a political affiliation or nomen gentilicium—the family name handed down from father to son. It was magic: in the blood, the bones. My element was fire. She knew it as soon as she met me.
“How could you tell?” I propped a pillow roll under my head. The other pillows had gotten strewn haphazardly around the floor, along with most of the bedclothes. The room was dark, except for a few candles. In those days, windows were rarely seen in bedrooms, to deter thieves breaking in from outside. If there were windows, they were usually small. It was a rare day, with Egnatius in court. He would not be back for hours.
“How could you tell what I was right away?” Sabine poured a cup of wine without using her hands, and sipped it.
“I knew you were . . . different. But I still don’t know what element you are.”
“I am earth,” she replied. A second cup of wine floated over to me. I took it from Sabine and smiled.
“Does that mean you can command mountains?” I took a large swig of wine. Being with Sabine always made me thirsty. “Speak to stones?”
Sabine laughed. “In a way. Earth magic comes to me most easily, the way fire does with you. I can mend things quickly, make crops flourish.” She traced her finger around the silver rim of the cup, and, for a moment, the metal glowed. “You could toss around bonfires as if they were marbles, if you wished, Titus.”
“But I could not move mountains, as you might?” I finished my wine, sending the cup back next to the bottle on its low table beside the bed.
“With a little more study and practice, indeed you might.” The cup’s rim stopped glowing and returned to its usual silver. Sabine took another sip. “Just because an element is not your master does not mean you cannot master it. It just takes a little more effort, that’s all. Besides, I can hardly move mountains.”
“You’ve certainly moved this one.” I turned and pressed my hips against hers, so there could be no mistaking my words.
Sabine’s wine was jostled in its cup by my movements. She released the cup from her hand so as not to spill anything, letting it float above us. “Are you disappointed in your element, enough that you wish to change it?” she asked me.
“Not at all.” I leaned over and kissed her neck. “Unless it displeases you, of course.”
“Never.” She rose, the wine cup following her to the table. “Fire is a very powerful thing. So is light.” I watched her hips sway gently as she walked behind the candles, the flames’ shadows slinking into the folds of her stola. “In fact, when I first saw you, I thought to myself, ‘Ah! He must be Vulcan.’ ”
Vulcan. The god of fire. As if such things could be.
I learned there were other beings like us . . . and yet, not like us. Mages, for instance. Less powerful than witches, but even lack of natural ability can be compensated for. You’ve seen as much with my son, I’m sure.
“They are often the offspring of a mortal and a witch, these half-breeds,” Sabine explained, after another assignation.
“And how did you know I was not one such creature?” Not waiting for a reply, I pressed my lips to hers.
She laughed through our kissing. “You are a full-blooded witch, Titus Aurelius. I could feel it the moment I met you. Such untapped power . . .” She ran a smooth hand over my bare chest. “No, both your parents were witches. I’m sure of it.”
“If you say so.” I shrugged. I had no way of knowing, either way. Even if it were true, it was not the kind of thing my mother and father would have broadcast to the public. Laws forbidding magic were enacted at varying intervals in ancient Rome, with punishments for practitioners meted out accordingly. Magical books were periodically rounded up and burned. The trouble was, you never knew when you were entering a stricter interval, or a more lax one. One day, you might be executed for causing a neighbor’s wife to go barren, then desperately consulted for a breastfeeding charm the next. But the unknown—and therefore, the magical—was always feared, if only vaguely.
“It is absurd that we are capable of so much, and yet denied the right to use those gifts. Like a simmering volcano.” I gestured north, toward Vesuvius. “It’s enough to make one explode.”
“Let’s hope neither of you does,” she chided. “Besides, if citizens knew the kinds of things we are truly capable of, they might grow jealous, or even more terrified of our powers. There would be nothing but pain and death for us then. No, let them think those with our blood are only capable of a few protective charms and hexing amulets. It’s safer that way.”
I laughed. “You, one of those wretched, childless old women, hawking your tablets and amulets in the crowded market? I can hardly think of a less fitting place for my Sabine than that. Though perhaps I should ask for a charm or incantation for my armies. To lend them strength, or luck.”
“You scarcely need my help to ensure victory, Titus.” Today, we’d managed to keep the bedclothes on the bed, and she pulled them further over her chest. I frowned. “Your magic grows stronger every day. You’ve begun selecting more auspicious days for battle. Enemy generals now manage to fall ill at precisely the right moment. Your own unspoken magic is always at work.”
Indeed, the magic I wrought was valued far above Sabine’s, though Rome did not know about it. Likewise, the danger of being found out was greater for her than for me. That was because a particular threat to the commonwealth was thought to come from magical females—and not just the haggish ones. Whispers of older women ensnaring young men with erotica magic, or nymphomania . . . all these unnatural powers were reputed to wreak havoc on the unlucky victim.
But such rumors did not trouble me. At one point, I did wonder if Sabine was casting a spell, forcing me to fall in love with her. But she did not need mysticism to make her charms felt. I confess, it would take a stronger man than I to resist them. No, if there was magic involved, it came from her being more woman than witch.
“All that I do is to lay the glory of Rome at your feet, my love.” I pulled her sheet down again.
Sabine gave a wry smile. “I do admire your prowess in that, Titus. In all things.” She rested one hand between my legs. “Still, I wonder if it is inevitable, all this conquering and being conquered. Mortals have the tendency to destroy themselves over time. So, too, might our kind. Often, I think men act no better than frightened beasts. Perhaps our aunt Circe had the right idea by matching their form to their hearts.”
Sabine did not mean “aunt” in a literal way. She was referring to the woman’s magical blood, of course. Everyone knew Homer’s Odyssey, in which the seductress, Circe, transforms men into animals. Through her knowledge of herbs and potions, she is able to keep a cache of hapless men at her side with no means of escape. But I never associated such acts with myself or Sabine, or thought that we had anything in common with Circe. This was the first I’d heard mention of my strange abilities in such a manner.
“You cannot mean such things. Not about me. Not about us.” I pulled her to me. “We are on a trajectory that can only go up.”
“You think that way because that is all you have known.” She breathed into my mouth. “I heard tell our kind were gods once—with goddesses especially worshipped. Of course, this was long before my age.”
I pressed my lips against her neck over and over. “You shall always be a goddess by my side. I will make every age your age.”
“Then, I come here, and all talk is of men and war and killing.” She kept speaking a
s though we were guests at a banquet instead of in bed. I didn’t know if Sabine meant “here” to Rome, or to something else. When I pressed her about her origins, her answers were always vague. I admit, in my younger years, it fueled my secret fantasies that she was the goddess Juno, or Venus, come to earth to take me as her lover. But today, she did not seem as enthused by our lovemaking as usual.
“But it is all to bathe you in honor and riches, my pet.” I moved my lips from her throat to her breasts, then her stomach. If I went low enough, I was certain I could tear her mind away from these lonely musings. “Don’t you want to live the” (kiss) “finest life” (kiss) “possible?”
“It would be finer if life were honored more,” she said. “Including those who make it possible.” But her breathing grew shallow, and soon, she ceased speaking.
Sabine wasn’t entirely wrong. By now, it will come as no surprise to the reader that ancient Rome was no friend to women. Unlike the more liberal-minded Aegyptians, our empire considered women tools to serve a man’s purpose. Yet, Sabine spoke of a balance, an equality between us, that wouldn’t come into vogue for thousands of years.
There are times when I curse her for this. She planted a seed in my mind that set me apart from other men. Made me incapable of entirely understanding their use of women, despite centuries practicing their customs. Often, I cannot enjoy debasing them the way I should. Was this part of a moral conscience Sabine sowed in me? Damn her for it, if it was.
But there was no question that I would learn all I could from Sabine. I had no other avenues to find out about my true nature, my heritage. Often, I wondered from whence these powers of ours sprung. However, Sabine seemed about as inclined to divulge this information as that of her own past. Or perhaps she just didn’t know.
“But how are we able to do the things we do? Where do witches come from, Sabine?” I pressed during one of our brief respites. “Where do we come from?”