Give Way to Night

by Cass Morris

  This day, he had gone upriver to inspect the local dye factory. They were doing remarkable work with the materials available to them. ‘A more secure trade network would enable them to apply their processes to finer products. Saffron and indigo, kermes instead of red madder—they could have the beginnings of a flourishing industry here, if Aven would support the necessary infrastructure.’

  Sempronius had wanted to learn from the dyers themselves what about the trade routes needed improvement. The conservative Optimates in the Senate sneered at tradesmen’s matters, but they were the lifeblood of any nation. ‘I would see these veins pumping vigor into every extremity of the Middle Sea, and Aven the beating heart.’

  The river Atax flowed flat and slow through this part of Maritima, impressing itself between low hills. It was not a clean-flowing channel, and that troubled Sempronius. Practically, it cut down on the channel’s navigability, making it a less reliable trade route—one of the complaints of the upriver dyers. That alone would be reason to see it cleared, but Sempronius had another, though one he wouldn’t admit to even if he could. How ridiculous would it be, to try and explain that the river was unhappy?

  Yet that was his sense of it. With the strain of Water magic flowing through him, he could feel the Atax’s choked flow, too clogged with duckweed and silt to move with any speed. ‘Stagnant water is not healthy.’ The slower it moved, the more prone it was to fostering disease and decay.

  Sempronius’s other element was Shadow, and that side of his nature argued that even disease and decay had their place. Rot was an essential component of the world’s life cycle. For the Atax, though, Water won out. It yearned for a freer flow, a course that could roll through Maritima, strong and true and clear. Sempronius could feel the goddess Lympha, lady of springs and rivers, calling to him, directing his attention.

  ‘If it is in my power to help, Lady, I shall,’ he vowed. ‘If I can find the way to set this river free, I will.’ He could rely on the trade-related reasons for doing so, since he could not reveal his magical insights. His whole life, Sempronius had kept his blessings a secret. Mages were prohibited by the lex cantatia Augiae from holding any political office higher than that of a senator, and the Augian Commission, responsible for keeping Aven’s mages in adherence to all magic-governing laws, would ruthlessly punish any offender, if he were caught.

  Such restraint had never been in Sempronius’s plans, and he believed the gods were behind him. They wanted him to build Aven into the city of his dreams, that heart of a vibrant and thriving world. He could not do so if stymied by prohibitions of men who feared the misuse of such power.

  In any case, he would not have the time to free the Atax now. That would have to wait until after the Iberian venture was finished. ‘So much needs fixing. One problem at a time.’

  As he approached the rows upon rows of tents, pitched outside Nedhena’s low earthenwork walls, he thought over the months of his praetorship thus far, and what would need doing in the future. It had taken months to bring the legion this far. The road from Aven to Iberia went through four provinces. First, the high plains of Liguria, where Sempronius had drilled the Tenth Legion until the spring thaw allowed them to get through the mountain passes of Albina. Sempronius had started in March, as early as he could deem reasonable, grateful for the predecessors who had seen to it that an unbroken road crossed the continent from Aven to Nedhena. The passage through the Albine Mountains had been one of the grandest achievements of the previous century. Now, instead of having to wait for the snows and ice to thaw the upper elevations, the army could march at lower altitudes, closer to the coast. The campaign season could start earlier in the year, with a shorter route and fewer accidents and casualties on the road.

  On the other side of the white mountains, they had found respite in an easy march to Nedhena. Decades of serving as a reliable western outpost had grown Nedhena from a soldiers’ camp to a thriving city in its own right, though it was yet nothing to rival the ancient majesty of Massilia, Maritima’s largest city, founded a thousand years earlier by refugees fleeing the sack of Ilion.

  ‘It could be, though,’ Sempronius thought, riding along the riverbank towards the settlement. ‘It could be every bit as grand.’ He felt again that familiar twinge that was not quite ambition so much as an innate desire to see the most made of everything. Wherever Sempronius looked, he tended to see potential, and where he saw it, he could not avoid wishing it achieved. ‘Proper walls, real streets laid out along the camp’s grid system. Better sanitation, to be sure. Build some Aventan-style baths, a promenade like they have in Massilia, and this could be a resort to rival any on Crater Bay.’

  “Praetor Sempronius!” Sempronius lifted his eyes to see Autronius Felix hailing him from the eastward-facing praetorian gate. Sempronius waved him down, not yet ready to abandon the relative quiet of the grassy bank for the tightly controlled chaos of the camp itself.

  As the highest-ranking of the military tribunes under Sempronius’s command, Felix had been put through his paces over the past four months. Sempronius had made a promise to Felix’s older brother Marcus that he would keep the high-spirited young man out of trouble. It was, in some ways, much like training a horse. Felix would snort and shake his head and chuff, but he didn’t grumble too much and generally settled to his work quickly and capably.

  While they were on the road, if there was nothing more complex to be getting on with, Sempronius had Felix run orders up and down the long column of cohorts, and the effort generally left him too tired to find much mischief at the end of the day. ‘All he really needs is discipline, and the weight of a little responsibility on his shoulders.’ Autronius Felix was headstrong and passionate, but a stallion in need of curbing, not breaking.

  Keeping Felix out of trouble had been more of a challenge in Nedhena than on the road. The town was as famed for its vibrant population of camp followers and women of negotiable affection as for its merchants and Fire-forgers. Between the brothels, the taverns, and the gaming dens, Felix might have been as dizzy with carnal indulgence and moral depravity as he ever was in Aven, had Sempronius not found plenty of ways to keep him busy. He could commit only so much debauchery in the few hours that Sempronius left him.

  Oddly—or perhaps not—Felix did not seem to mind. Sempronius wondered if he got into mischief out of boredom, idleness his true undoing. He was not half the fool he sometimes played. Felix had a mind in his head, and though it was not a particularly imaginative one, it was a mind constructed with a talent for finding the simplest solution to a given problem. When put to the test, Felix was efficient and focused, and Sempronius had hopes of shaping the young man’s loyalty into reliability as his second. ‘The fact that doing so will put Optimate noses out of joint is an amenable side benefit.’ Not everyone in the Senate had approved of Sempronius’s decision to make Felix, with his up-and-coming plebeian family, his senior tribune instead of a well-pedigreed patrician.

  Sempronius swung down off of his horse as Felix drew near. “We’ve had word from a messenger,” Felix said, jogging closer. “General Sallust should arrive by evening.”

  “Excellent!” With the Fourteenth under General Calpurnius already encamped, that would make for three legions at nearly full strength—minus the two cohorts already in Iberia. That vexillation, under the direction of Young Gaius Vitellius, had been the first Aventan force to engage the Lusetani in battle. The Lusetani had begun their attacks over a year earlier, first targeting the merchants traveling through central Iberia. They claimed their purpose was to drive out Aventan influence from their territory, but they had swiftly progressed to assaulting not only Aventans and Tyrian traders, but also any of the other Iberian tribes who did not accept their dominion.

  ‘Over fourteen thousand fighting men.’ Sempronius prayed they would be enough, and that he would not need to rely on the Second and Fourth coming up from Gades. Those legions were under the command of Lucretius R
abirus, Sempronius’s enemy in the Senate. Taking praetorial command of Baelonia and its legions was far from the worst of Rabirus’s crimes, but he had done so with the explicit goal of being a thorn in Sempronius’s side. ‘So much the better if I need never give him the opportunity of thwarting me. We need a swift, strong strike, not a lingering campaign.’ Sempronius wanted to prove to Aven’s allies that Aven could be depended on to defend their interests.

  “Should I give direction to be ready to break camp in the morning?”

  “Yes—for the Fourteenth. We’ll send Calpurnius on ahead first.” They had arranged passage from Nedhena to Tarraco, the capital of the Cantabrian province and the seat of Sempronius’s praetorship, but the fleet was not enough to carry all three legions at once. With the winter storms passed, the trip to Tarraco and back should only take four or five days. Even with the boats making a few trips to ferry them all, it would still be faster than trekking over the mountains. “That’ll give the Eighth a chance to rest—and adjust to Onidius’s command.” Sallust was giving up his command of the Eighth to his subordinate, Onidius Praectus, who had ridden ahead of the main forces to meet Sempronius in Nedhena. Sempronius was glad he had, for it had given him time to consult and plan with both of his sub-commanders.

  “He seems solid enough. Quieter than Sallust, though! Their ears might need more adjustment than anything else.” Felix drew a deep breath, looking appraisingly at the countryside. “Did you have a good ride?”

  “I did. Would that we had the time to explore farther. Even with as long as we’ve held Maritima, we haven’t made full use of it.”

  “Personally,” Felix said, “I don’t think Nedhena will ever be quite the city of culture and grace that Massilia is, but the farmland is good. It’d be an excellent place to settle legionaries upon retirement.” Felix’s voice was casual, but his dark eyes had a knowing spark in them.

  “You read my mind,” Sempronius said.

  “I read your intent, sir.”

  Sempronius handed the horse’s reins over to Felix. “It would be a different kind of colony. The waterways need improvement.”

  “Fortunately, old soldiers are good at digging trenches.”

  “True enough. It’s no Truscum, but the land does have its charms.”

  Felix snorted. “Well, if you convince the Senate to approve such a measure, you’ll have achieved something extraordinary. Speaking of Nedhena’s charms, have you sampled the locals’ honey?”

  Sempronius arched an eyebrow. “Rather a personal question, I think.”

  Felix blinked a moment, then barked a loud laugh, nearly doubling over in mirth. “Oh, sweet Bellona, I did ask for that, didn’t I? No, no—though that’s as sweet as anything, too, if you do want to know, and I can highly recommend a few delectable sources.” Though not a paragon of male beauty by typical Aventan standards, Felix had rough charm to go along with dark curly hair, merry brown eyes, and a grin that had, no doubt, coaxed much flowing honey from the local ladies. “But no, I meant the real honey. The bees here make a nectar like you wouldn’t believe. Something about the lavender. I’ll bring some to dinner tonight, if you invite me.”

  Even Sempronius was not immune to Felix’s charm. “Very well, tribune. I could have worse company.”

  “Too true you could.” He jerked his head toward the stables. “I’ll see to the horse, speak to the centurions about our schedule, and then see you at dinner.”

  “My thanks, Felix.”

  “Oh!” Felix said, rounding back about, again with a too-casual air. “Letters came for you as well. I had Corvinus take them to your tent. The usual Senate dispatches, for the most part, but I do believe there was something of a more personal nature from . . . let’s see . . .” He tapped his chin mock-thoughtfully. “From the Lady Vitellia Latona.”

  Felix was not grinning, but Sempronius could feel the amusement coming from him nonetheless. ‘And how much more amused he’d be if he knew the full extent of it . . .’ Felix teased Sempronius in private because he had seen the emerald-eyed beauty saying farewell to Sempronius on the Field of Mars—he had no notion of the intimate interlude that had occurred at his own house during the Saturnalia, the one night of passion that Sempronius Tarren and the Lady Latona had shared.

  ‘One night?’ Sempronius thought, striding toward his tent. ‘One hour. One sweet, stolen hour . . .’

  The stack of messages on his desk was high. His fingers itched to sift through it for Latona’s letter. But duty’s demand was ever heavy upon him, and he selected the first of the Senate dispatches instead.

  * * *

  City of Aven, Truscum

  Latona of the Vitelliae sat on a bench, basking in warm spring sunlight. The leaves were still coming in on the sycamore trees that lined the walk, and at this hour, the nearby Temple of Tellus did not cast a long shadow. All around Latona, the oleander bushes were half-flowered, spots of pink dotting the deep green shrubs. A nipping breeze had many of those strolling through the garden tugging their mantles close around their shoulders, but Latona hardly noticed it. She was practicing, and it kept her warm within and without.

  Her attendant, Merula, sat next to her on the bench, alert as ever for any potential menace, and a copper dish with a few glowing embers in it rested at Latona’s feet. Latona drew energy from the nearly-banked flames, drawing in the Fire magic and breathing it out again as Spirit.

  It was delicate work, transmuting the elements within herself. The first time she had done it, it had been an act of desperation, during the fires on the Aventine that had disrupted the previous year’s elections. Now, she was learning to control the process. As people passed by her, she flicked out her Spirit magic, testing how quickly she could get a read on their emotions. Bolstered by the Fire magic, she found that the empathy of Spirit came swiftly—but less accurately. Emotions came in sharp bursts: a flare of desire, a twinge of worry, frenetic sparks of distraction, the gray haze of listlessness, but if a pair or a group passed her, she wasn’t always certain which of them was experiencing the particular feeling her magic had picked up on.

  ‘Less than ideal,’ she thought, mentally giving the embers a prod to keep them from guttering out. ‘But something I can build on. Perhaps the influence of Fire makes Spirit less predictable, or scatters the focus? I should ask Rubellia.’ The High Priestess of Venus was Latona’s close friend and had become something of a thaumaturgical mentor, even though she controlled Fire alone. There were other mages in the city who controlled two elements, as Latona did, but no one else with her strength in Spirit, and so in that, she often had to forge her own path. The gods bestowed some gifts more frequently than others, and Spirit was a rarer talent. Latona’s early education had been foreshortened, and for years, she had suppressed her talents, fearful to draw too much attention to herself.

  No longer.

  The past year had taught Latona that since she had the ability to do good with her magic, she had the moral imperative to act.

  Merula’s callused fingers touched Latona’s wrist. “Domina,” she said, her voice tight, “that woman is approaching, that priestess, from the Capitoline—”

  Latona snapped her focus out of metaphysical contemplations and the wounds of the past. She followed Merula’s dark gaze and saw the slight figure of Aemilia Fullia, High Priestess at the Temple of Juno Maxima, moving purposefully in her direction.

  With effort, Latona managed not to frown. Her bad blood with Aemilia went back years, to Latona’s childhood, when Aemilia had been a pitiless woman sending a grieving girl away after the death of her mentor. Fresher was their dispute over Latona’s “unwomanly ambitions”—precisely the end goal of the practices Latona was in the middle of trying to perfect. ‘Juno’s mercy, what does she want now?’

  “Vitellia Herenniae,” Aemilia said, looking down her thin nose at Latona. She always used the marital form of Latona’s name, and Latona wondered i
f it was genuinely strict adherence to form or done deliberately to aggravate her.

  Custom dictated that Latona rise to greet Aemilia. To remain seated at the onset of a conversation was a mark of superiority, and Aemilia was a High Priestess, whatever Latona thought of her occupation of the office. So Latona rose—but she took her time in doing so, nudging the bowl of embers to the side with her foot first, so that her skirts wouldn’t risk blowing into it. At her side, Merula was even more grudging, not bothering to disguise that she was glaring daggers at the older woman.

  It mattered little. Aemilia didn’t spare Merula so much as a glance.

  “Aemilia,” Latona said, in as warm a tone as she could manage. “Pleasant day.”

  “Still a bit cool for my liking,” Aemilia said, her eyes flicking significantly over Latona’s shoulders, their golden skin bared to the sunlight. Aemilia was, of course, dressed with exacting and modest perfection: a pale pink gown pinned over a long-sleeved white tunic, her hair caught up underneath a purple band. She pressed her lips thin, clearly on the verge of saying something—and yet no words were forthcoming.

  She knew it was unlovely of her, but Latona almost enjoyed Aemilia’s obvious discomfiture. “Is there something I can help you with?”