by Cass Morris
* * *
“Blessed Jupiter, that man can talk,” Gnaeus Autronius said to his son when they left the stuffy chamber a short while later. “Oh, good gods, Helios is in full force again today, I see, and still no damned breeze.”
“It seems we can’t blame Buteo for all the hot air,” Marcus said, squinting in the blazing light. They stood in a narrow block of shade beside a column. The sun beyond was so bright that it seemed to wash out all the color of the Forum, leeching saturation from the gorgeous reds, blues, and greens of statues and walls.
“What a fool that man is,” Quintus Terentius grumbled, coming up beside them. “Intransigence for the sake of intransigence.”
Gnaeus blinked a few times, startled by Terentius’s sudden company. The Terentiae, for all their eccentricities, weren’t often associated with plebeian backbenchers like the Autroniae. Certainly Gnaeus would never have approached the father of a Vestal Virgin of his own volition. Marcus had a stronger measure of Terentius, however, having encountered him at several dinner parties thrown by Popularist friends, and he was very fond of Terentius’s younger daughter Terentilla. Her Earth was more wild-spirited than his, but he still felt a certain elemental kinship with the girl. As such, he had less trouble than Gnaeus in finding his tongue. “He thinks he’s doing battle for the sake of the Republic, I take it. In his head, Sempronius Tarren represents the dissolution of order and law and the mos maiorum and probably the gods themselves. So anything which opposes Sempronius must, therefore, be right and good.”
“I think you’ve the right of it, irrational though it is.” Terentius scratched at his shoulder and shrugged the weight of his toga into a different position, looking quite like he’d like to tear the cumbersome fabric off right there in the Forum. “Marcus, Gnaeus, I assume you must correspond with young Felix, yes?”
“Yes, as frequently as we can,” Marcus replied, since his father was still gaping at Terentius’s informality with them. “Though he’s not much of a correspondent. Sempronius’s letters have been much more, ah, thorough.”
Terentius arched an eyebrow. “Have you had some from Sempronius that we haven’t heard in the Senate?”
“A few. He’s had ideas for my tribunate, though I’ve only been able to introduce a few of the less ambitious measures.”
“Ah!” Terentius snapped his fingers. “Some of those urban renewal projects, I suspect, have his mark upon them? Not to cast aspersions on your own legal mind, of course.”
Marcus took no offense. “He’s been a great help, especially when it comes to framing things in a suitable way. My legal mind isn’t as creative as Sempronius’s.”
Terentius laughed. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. Nimble as an Abydosian dancing-girl, that man’s wits.” He flapped a hand. “Anyway—I wanted to ask, because I’m thinking of standing for consul.”
Marcus’s chest expanded with what he belatedly realized was relief. “Forgive my saying so, Terentius, but thank Jupiter. I was wondering who the Popularists would be able to scrape up this year.”
“Consider me sufficiently raked, then,” Terentius said. “I’d like as much information as I can get about what’s going on in Iberia—and not only from Sempronius, thorough though his reports are. Not everyone’s willing to take them at face value, and if I’m to take the consulship, I’ll need to win over a great many men who aren’t already on his side. I’ve got Rufilius Albinicus passing along what his son has to say about it, but you know what Publius is like. I’m sure he’s far more focused on those Iberian warrior-maids in the auxiliaries than he is on battle plans.”
Marcus suppressed a grin. Publius Rufilius, often called Young Apollo, was too handsome for his own good and an incorrigible flirt. “I’m not sure Felix is much better in that regard,” he confessed. Felix’s most loquacious letters so far had been in praise of the girls he’d met in Nedhena—just as, during his Numidian campaign, they had been about girls in Cirte and Volubilis.
“Now, be fair,” Gnaeus said, coming to the defense of his younger son, “I don’t want Quintus Terentius thinking my son a frivol. Felix has a good head on his shoulders, for all that he does like a good revel. And he’s as military-minded as you could ask for.”
“So I’ve heard,” Terentius said. “And it’s his perspective I’d like. I think it might win over quite a few of the equestrians—enough to overcome whatever senators are won over by Buteo and any news that comes in from Praetor Rabirus.”
Marcus nodded. “It’s a solid strategy. I’d be happy to pass word along.”
“Good, good!” Terentius stuck out his hand to shake first with Gnaeus, then Marcus. “Do stop by my domus anytime. North slope of the Palatine, blue door with the bronze sun emblem over it. In fact, come to dinner—no, not tonight, I’m promised to Appius Crispinius tonight—tomorrow, then.”
“You’re most generous,” Gnaeus said, eyes wide.
“Bring your wives, of course. Caecilia would love to chat with them, and Tilla will be around. We’ll have a fine little party.” Terentius mopped sweat from his face with his forearm, then peered off across the Forum. “And speaking of Caecilia, she’ll have my head if I don’t bathe before dinner—not that it makes much of a difference in this damned heat. I’ll be sweat-soaked again before I make it home.” He clapped Marcus’s arm, then sauntered off. “See you tomorrow!”
Gnaeus stared after him. “Juno’s tits.”
Marcus gave his father a wry smile. “Better not use that sort of language in front of our new friend’s Vestal daughter.”
XXVII
Latona’s twenty-third birthday fell shortly after the Ides of Sextilis, and she marked the occasion with a small family dinner at her home with Herennius on the Caelian Hill. Aulus presented her with a new strand of pearls, and Aula gave her earrings to match. From Alhena, there was a book of Athaecan poetry, meticulously copied out in Alhena’s own neat script. “And Lucia says she’s going to make honey cakes for you the next time you come over,” Aula said. “She’s obsessed with the kitchens lately, of all things!”
“You went through that phase, too,” Aulus reminded her.
“I only wanted to steal snacks,” Aula said. “Lucia actually seems to care how they’re made.”
Even Herennius had done well, gifting her with a wooden box of polished cedar, carved with images of Juno presiding over Aventan rituals as women beseeched her favor. Within were several skeins of soft red wool. The brilliant color could only have come from kermes dye, not the cheaper madder that produced less saturated hues.
“From my sheep—our sheep—in Liguria,” Herennius explained. “Your father said you were doing a lot of weaving lately. For your brother, I expect?”
Latona declined to contradict him, particularly within earshot of her father. Some of this wool would doubtless be put to that purpose, though she had no idea when such a package might be able to reach her brother. The rest . . . ‘I could make a full mantle for myself, at least. Maybe one for Vibia . . . I wonder if the Fire magic would work as well on her, or if her own magic would interfere with its protective power . . .’
Latona found herself thinking more about that than about the conversation at supper. No Discordian magic had surfaced in the city yet, at least not that the Vitelliae had been made aware of, but Latona felt ever more certain that something was coming. She’d had a kind note from Vibia that morning, offering birthday felicitations, but also conveying Vibia’s similar sense of concern. ‘The thunderclouds are gathering, even if the storm hasn’t broken. I only wish I knew where the lightning will strike first.’
The sense of swelling pressure made idleness intolerable, and so Latona had spent part of nearly every day since returning to Aven with Rubellia, practicing Fire and Spirit magic alike, or coming up with plans for approaching the other mages in the city who might be able to help when the Discordians did strike. ‘I should have invited Rubellia to
night. And Vibia.’ But looking outside of the family would have encouraged Aula to make a full party of it. ‘Perhaps soon we should do just that . . . some night when Father’s out of town, or at dinner with a client . . . We could invite Terentilla, too. Maybe even sound out Marcia Tullia . . .’
“Latona?”
It was Aula’s sharp nudge, more than her father’s voice, that brought Latona back to her senses.
Aulus frowned at her from the couch he was sharing with Herennius as he reached for a helping of turbot. “My dear, are you quite well? You seemed far away.”
Latona affected a smile. “I’m sorry, Father, I don’t mean to be poor company, particularly on my birthday. I’m afraid I stayed out too long in the sun with Ama Rubellia, and it gave me a bit of a headache.”
“Ah. And have you taken something for it?” Aulus wagged a finger at her. “Always too proud for remedies, you.” He gestured to Merula, waiting at the edge of the room. “Have someone brew up a tincture of yarrow and vervain for the Lady Latona, please. As swiftly as possible.” He smiled indulgently. “I cherish the witty voices of all my daughters, so I shall selfishly require her to recover her health as quick as can be.”
Latona laughed, and it was more genuine than her earlier smile. If she could forget the looming Discordian peril, if she could pretend for a moment that she really did only have a headache, then it all seemed so normal, so typical of her family. ‘My father does love me,’ she thought, tearing off a piece of soft bread and dipping it into a little tray of honey. ‘He may not understand me, but he does love me.’
A too-familiar grumble brought her mood back down, though. “You really shouldn’t spend so much time out in the sun,” Herennius said. “You’re freckled enough as it is.”
Latona’s fingers clenched around the bread; the honey dripped onto her fingers. ‘So swiftly, he can mangle things.’
Aula saved her from a tart response. “Heavens, Herennius!” she chirped. “If you think Latona freckles, you ought to see what happens when Alhena and I venture from beneath the shade. Spots all over, like one of those Cyrenaican creatures they bring over for the games.”
Alhena gave a shy giggle. “I’ve always thought a bit of sun looks charming on Latona, anyway. You and I just look like we’ve turned bright coral.”
“Gaius must be freckles all over out there in Iberia,” Aula said, “though he’s more of Latona’s complexion.”
“Did you know,” Herennius said, spearing a cut of venison sausage on a knife’s point, “that the men of Athaecum keep their women indoors entirely?” He circled the meat in the air. “The proper women, at least, the nobles and mercantile classes. They are protected at all times.”
“Juno’s mercy,” Aula said. She looked to be barely suppressing an eye-roll. “What a lonely life that seems.”
“The Athaecans say,” Herennius went on, “that it preserves dignity, to the detriment of no one and the benefit of all.”
“The Athaecan men say that.” This time, the pushback came from little Alhena, and Herennius’s eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline in surprise. Her bright blue eyes were fixed on the dish of pears in front of her couch, and her jaw was tight. “I don’t suppose you would know what the Athaecan women say about it.”
Latona could have kissed her for the sudden burst of courage. Aulus shifted on his cushions, clearly uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. “Yes, well,” he said, “the folk all over Athaeca did develop some strange ways over the centuries. Comes of not having a proper central government as we’ve had here in Truscum. Each city-state governed itself for so long, you know, in relative isolation, so they had time to grow idiosyncrasies.”
“Yes,” Latona said, wiping her fingers on her napkin with more force than was strictly necessary. “I’ve always rather admired the women of Cynosoura, who govern the city when the men are off at war.”
“Their fashion is certainly quite liberated!” Aula chimed in. “Don’t the citizens of Athaecum call them the ‘thigh-showers,’ because they leave their gowns open and unpinned on the side?”
“They do,” Aulus warily confirmed. His eyes were darting among his daughters, as though he could not decide which one of them needed reining in the fastest.
“What a delight that fashion might be to bring to Aven,” Aula said, beaming. “It would save a bit on the seamstress bills, too, I should think.”
“Not to mention how very pleasant that must feel in hot weather,” Latona added, raising her eyes to her husband and fixing him with a pointed stare, “when a lady goes out walking in strong sunlight.”
Frowning, Herennius edged forward on his couch. “Now—”
“I hear,” Aula’s voice had a dangerously icy thread in it, “that the ladies of Cynosoura are even allowed to divorce their husbands for reasons of sexual dissatisfaction.”
Herennius went florid, crushing his napkin in his fist. Aulus dropped his turbot in shock. “Aula, I’m not sure that’s appropriate conversation for—”
She shot her father a dazzling smile. “I’m sorry, Father. I thought we were sharing curious cultural tidbits from across the sea.” Aula, too, turned to stare at Herennius. “Weren’t we? I’m sure that’s all that Herennius meant by sharing his story about the women of Athaecum.”
Herennius wasn’t even trying to maintain composure any longer; he was outright glaring at Aula and Latona both. Only Aulus, clearing his throat loudly, broke the three of them out of their ocular impasse. “Alhena,” he said, with more than a little desperation in his voice, “tell us about that poem I saw you working on this afternoon.”
Alhena chanced looking up at her sisters before speaking. “Well, it’s a translation, really. Of—of Pescion’s tribute to the seasons.”
“Could you recite a little?” Aulus asked. His eyes, the brilliant green that Aula and Latona had both inherited, were wide with anxious desperation. “Please?”
Alhena obliged, launching into a lyrical tribute to summer. Aulus relaxed, mollified by the change in focus, and Aula returned to her dinner in seeming grace. Only someone who knew her well would see the pique still riding high, evidenced by the economy of her gestures and the slight pinch around her lips, and Herennius certainly did not have that nuanced perception.
Latona could not resume eating quite yet. Her own fury was still stoked hot, even if the embers were carefully concealed beneath a polished cover. ‘Make yourself a statue,’ she thought. It had been her habit in Ocella’s court, to keep emotion from betraying her. She was weary of resorting to the tactic, born in terror and bred in soul-shattering desolation. To steady herself, she focused on every lamp in the room in turn, feeling their flicker, wick by wick. They wanted to flare, and Latona wanted to let them, but she turned her mind instead to control. ‘Quiet, my friends, quiet and cool.’
Herennius, too, was still in a temper. She could feel it sparking in him, the acidity of self-importance, the heat of a bruised ego, the nauseating drain of resentment and doubt.
A good, dutiful wife would do everything in her power to soothe and reassure him. Latona was sorely tempted to use her magic to leave him stewing in an inescapable morass of negative emotions.
She found herself thinking of what Sempronius Tarren had said to her, many months ago. ‘The pigeon knows he has no right to love an eagle.’ And what a pigeon of a man her husband was, always pecking at crumbs, not a creature who could ever think to soar to grander heights. ‘A pigeon, but a pigeon whose very inconsequence gives you a shield.’ Glaucanis Lucretiae’s words at the Galerian dinner party had reminded her: Latona had to think of her reputation, too easily painted in lustful scarlet and ambitious purple, and of her father’s and brother’s careers. Staying shackled to Herennius protected her from accusations of imprudence, which would reflect poorly on her family.
‘Someday, though,’ she thought, ‘even that will not be enough to be wor
th it. Someday he will push me too far.’ Behind that, another thought, surprising her as it surfaced. ‘Someday, I will have power and prestige enough that such rumors cannot damage me or mine.’
Heat was building in her palms—a warning sign she had not experienced in a while. Her magic, reacting to her high emotions, ached to leap into action. Again, she could feel the life in every flame in the room, torches and lamps begging her to call them to a more combustible destiny. ‘Stop that,’ she thought, as much at herself as at the flames. ‘We don’t need to incinerate anything tonight.’ She glanced briefly at Herennius. ‘No matter the provocation.’
* * *
The sun had been down for hours, but a hot blanket of air still sat on the city. Sweat crawled down Vatinius Obir’s back and curled around the underside of his knees as he sat in the tavern that served as headquarters for his crossroads collegium, waiting for trouble.
Three nights in a row, it seemed, there had been trouble. Three mornings, now, he had received word of it, up and down the Esquiline. Rumor had it that similar unrest had fomented in the Subura, the valley to the southwest of their hill, but the Suburan collegia and those of the Esquiline were not on good terms. They shared neither confidences nor concerns. Still, Rumor had many tongues, and some of those had whispered in Obir’s ears.
And so he waited.
‘Not so different from guard duty, really.’ He had served such a purpose in the legions, from time to time. Staying awake when one had a job to do was merely a matter of will—and Obir would never let it be said that his will had failed him.
The tavern itself was quiet: a few of his men drinking after their shifts, a few talking in low voices. Ferinna’s girls had already made a pass through and taken two visitors away for entertainment. Ebredus sat beneath the window, his feet kicked up on a bench. His eyes were closed, but Obir knew he was not sleeping; his hands were folded tightly behind his head. A traveler had told him a tale earlier in the evening, and likely he was repeating it to himself, committing it to memory so that he could make a song of it later. Songs were sacred things to the Tennic people Ebredus came from, and potentially magical. Obir knew when to let him alone to his contemplative work.