Give Way to Night

by Cass Morris

  Felix could enjoy the girl’s charms—and would, Sempronius had no doubt. Sometimes Sempronius envied the younger man his ability to enjoy pleasure wherever it could be found. Felix never lacked for willing, sportive partners, when he wanted them.

  Sempronius, in the meantime, would content himself with memory—memory, and hope for the future.

  XXXVII

  City of Aven

  On a damp afternoon a few days after the Ides of September, Latona received a summons at her husband’s home—not from her sister, as she often expected, nor from Vibia or Rubellia with news about the Discordians, but from her father.

  The note was terse, and it informed Latona that she would be attending her father before dinner that evening, rather than asking her to do so. ‘Juno preserve me . . .’ A constricting pressure settled around Latona’s chest, heavy with dread. She was not sure who to be afraid for. The last time she had received such an abrupt summons, it was with news that her brother had nearly been shipwrecked. ‘If there have been letters from Iberia . . .’ Latona’s imagination roiled with possible disasters.

  When she arrived at the Vitellian domus, there was no sign of Aula, so Latona could get no early warning as to the reason for her summons. She was directed to her father’s tablinum and found him pacing behind his desk. “Sit.” As she tentatively obeyed the order, Aulus dismissed the servants, including Merula, and closed both the doors to the room. A creeping suspicion itched on Latona’s skin. Few aspects of patrician life ever took place out of earshot of some slave or servant.

  At length, Aulus sat down. Latona could feel turmoil in him: anger, confusion, a hint of despair, the frustration of a loss of words. Aula would, perhaps, have been peppering him with questions. Latona sat quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as silent as the heavy air.

  “I went to the Forum today.” That, of course, was no surprise; he did so most days when he was in Aven. “I try to make myself available, in case anyone who might not otherwise have access to me needs to speak with me about the electoral rolls. But today I was approached, not with a question about income requirements or property rights, but a strange tale about my daughter.”

  Relief and dismay warred for dominion of her spirit. ‘He has not received news from Iberia. He is not going to tell me Gaius is dead. He is not going to tell me Sempronius is dead.’

  But her own secret, it seemed, was out.

  Latona kept her eyes downcast, watching her fingers, her thumb rubbing over the nails of the opposite hand. ‘I suppose I could not count on his ignorance forever.’ She had been lucky for quite a long time, really. As their circle of trust expanded, as they were more active in the city where there were so many more eyes and ears, discovery had become inevitable.

  “I was all astonishment, of course,” Aulus said. “Oh, I’ve heard what Buteo and Gratianus are saying from the pulpit, but I had dismissed it as hyperbole. Now I find they have underplayed the reality. Fiends and foul spirits, the stuff of nightmares and torments. All true! Stalking the streets! Haunting good people and—” Aulus broke off, rubbing at his forehead. “But, fear not, this fellow tells me. The problem has been taken care of. By my daughter.” Still Latona did not move nor speak nor even raise her eyes. “Is it true?”

  All the Vitelliae had tempers, or so familial legend went. Some of their ancestors had been famous for it. It was said to be why they turned out at least one Fire mage in almost every generation, and why there were so many famed warriors and generals in their line. Aulus’s had never been bright-burning, though. His older brother, Latona had heard, had been the one who had burned hot—so hot that he came to an early end during the Albine Wars, and perhaps that was why Aulus had learned moderation. In this moment, though, she could feel the fury in him, barely banked, ready to explode with the full force of Vulcan’s flames.

  And she felt her own, rising to meet it.

  “You already know it must be,” she replied, biting off each consonant, as though that might choke down the swiftly kindling fire, “or else we would not be having this conversation.”

  His fist came down hard on his desk, a heavy thump that rattled the lamps and the inkpots. “Jupiter’s thunder, Latona! I cannot—After all the care we have shown, after all the—the effort we have gone to, to keep you out of trouble!”

  “I was not in trouble. I was rescuing others from it.”

  “Rescuing!” Aulus barked incredulously. “Of all the absurd—”

  Latona almost bit her tongue. Hearing her work, all that she had taught herself and all that she had fought for, called “absurd” rankled her. “I will not apologize, not to you nor anyone, for I am not sorry. I was in a position to offer aid and assistance, and so I did.”

  “You are dabbling in affairs with a depth you cannot—”

  “I was tutored at the knee of the High Priestess of Juno,” Latona said. “And since I lost that advantage too early in life, I have been patching the holes in my education.” A flash of her eyes dared Aulus to deny that her tuition had been foreshortened. “I have read books I’m sure no one else has touched in decades. I have sought counsel from learned mages.”

  “Matters such as these are the province of the Augian Commiss—”

  “I went to the Augian Commission,” Latona protested. “Salonius Decur as good as called me hysterical, utterly dismissed my concerns.”

  Aulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am sure you have the best of intentions, Latona,” he said, exasperated, “but this is beyond your purview. It is for the best that your education never extended to such dire matters. Whatever your natural power—and I do credit that you have quite a bit—these things you’ve been facing are still too dangerous.” An incredulous laugh burst out of him. “Fiends and hauntings! Latona, I cannot express—These things require the attention of someone with not just power but experience, and I cannot believe that you were fool enough to take them on anyway.”

  Tight pressure mounted in Latona’s cheeks and in the back of her throat. Angry tears welled behind her eyes. Rather than letting them flow, she instead gave vent to words that felt like they had been blocked up inside her for years, her voice a low and furious growl. “And I cannot believe you would continue to deny me my birthright. My whole life, you have barred me from answering Juno’s call. The best education and experience I have is here.” She pounded a fist against her chest. “This magic is mine. It is in every beat of my heart. It speaks to me in ways that defy words.” She drew a shaking breath. “I have no way to make you understand what that feels like. I wish that you would trust me and my estimation of my skills—as once, I think, you must have trusted my mother.”

  The astonishment on Aulus’s face crumpled into something else, a muddle of remembrance and grief and, perhaps, shock that his middle daughter would choose that thread to pull on. But that passed swiftly into indignation. “You do me a discredit, daughter. Your mother never flung herself headlong into such situations. And you shall proceed no further.”

  “It would be blasphemous to forbid me to exercise the gifts that are mine,” Latona countered. If calling upon her mother wouldn’t work, perhaps piety would.

  “Exercise them however you like within the safety of this house or a temple, but there will be no more tramping about the city, no more confronting unknown powers out in the open!”

  Or perhaps not.

  Latona propelled herself out of her seat. “I do not consent to this restriction. I am not a child!” Every flame in the room flared slightly, eager and hungry. ‘If I could do it now, if I could call them to me, then he would see, there would be no denying then that I was born to do more than sit at dinner tables looking lovely and calm.’ Despite her silent begging, the lamps flared white in sympathy with her rage, but the flames stayed in place.

  “Must I inform your husband, then?” Aulus snapped. “Must I tell him of all this and remind him of his duty to protect yo
u, even from yourself?”

  “Would you?” Latona challenged. She realized she was baring her teeth as she spoke. “Be honest with yourself, Father, and then ask if you really think Numerius Herennius is a man worthy of setting bounds on my behavior. If it is right and just that he govern me.”

  It was a gamble. Aulus had made the match, after all, with her safety in mind. But he was not so ruled by pride as other men. He could admit when he had made a mistake, and he had long been aware of how unsuitable the situation was. Untenable, in Latona’s opinion, and perhaps, if she could persuade her father of that, there might be a respectable way out of it. And the hint was there, in that he was only threatening to tell Herennius, not declaring he would do so. In that he had not done so already.

  After a moment, Aulus’s shoulders sagged, and he passed a hand over his brow. In that moment, Latona realized what she never had before: that she had a stronger will than her father.

  She stepped closer to him, letting some of the fury bleed out of her tone in favor of somber certainty. “I regret that the power I was born with frightens you, Father, and I hope never to bring you shame. Nor do I have any desire to conduct myself in a way that would jeopardize your career, or Gaius’s. But I will no longer duck my head and turn aside when the gods are seeking someone to stand as their champion.”

  “Their champion.” This time, Aulus’s echo held less disdain, but was still soaked with disbelief.

  “You have always told us—all of your children, not just Gaius—that we have obligations. That we must serve Aven and the gods to the best of our abilities.” She spread her hands wide. “The gods have given me these gifts. I can use them to help Aven. And I will.” No more hedging, no more hiding, not from her family. “Father, how could I do anything less? It would be shirking my duties. Then I could not hold my head up in the temple or among our friends. Inaction, not action, would be the shame.”

  Aulus was still rubbing at his forehead, staring off blankly. “It is not the shame, beloved daughter, that concerns me,” Aulus said at last, his voice thin. “It is the danger.”

  Through her Spirit magic, Latona felt a surge of emotion from her father: a woe and a hopelessness, a helplessness. She knew that feeling, had suffered it so often in the days of Ocella’s Dictatorship. In sympathy, she took her father’s hand and squeezed it.

  With an uncertain smile, he patted her with his other hand. “I worry for Gaius’s safety, you know, but I expected that. Every man of our station expects to send his sons to war.” His eyes, so like her own, crinkled sadly. “I never expected to fear for a daughter in the same way.”

  “My fate is the will of the gods, no less than Gaius’s,” Latona said. “Juno has called me to this. And I promise you, I do not act with disregard for my safety. I always have Merula with me, and usually Vibia, and when circumstances require it, we have fierce and honorable guards.”

  Aulus’s brow creased. “Who—?”

  “Men who are clients to your friend Sempronius Tarren. The fiends struck in their neighborhood, and since we dispatched them, they have continued to aid us out of both gratitude and duty.”

  His eyes briefly closed, and his lips worked in a soundless prayer. Then he took her face between his hands. “Promise me,” he said, “that you will be discreet. As discreet as you can. That you will not needlessly endanger yourself.”

  She heard what he was asking: that she continue to make herself small, as she had always done. That she not draw any more attention than could be helped. That she do no more than was necessary.

  But he would not stand in her way. That was a victory, in and of itself, and she would take it. So she nodded, and kissed his cheek, and made a promise she had little intention of keeping. “Of course, Father.”

  XXXVIII

  Central Iberia

  The Lusetani moved higher into the mountains to the south, away from the Tagus River, returning to the campsite they had occupied during the winter. Ekialde’s persuasion had kept the Vettoni loyal for the time being, but it was a grim procession away from the river. Those few who spoke did so in low voices, and the Lusetani and Vettoni eyed each other uncertainly.

  Neitin, riding in a wagon with her swaddled son, watched those around her, disliking the signs of suspicion and fear that she read on their faces. ‘We should turn this whole procession westward and go home. The Aventans will pursue us if we stay here, a threat to them and their allies. If we retreated further, back downriver, surely they would not follow.’ Ill luck for the Vettoni and Counei, whose lands were closer to the Aventan and Tyrian towns, but then, they had known that when they signed on to Ekialde’s mad dream. The Lusetani could fade back into the forests and perhaps escape further notice.

  Even as she thought it, though, a pain in her heart reminded her that the time for such a passive end to the conflict was long gone. The Aventans would neither forget nor forgive what Bailar had done to them. They would neither forget nor forgive their curse-hounded brethren, the magical plague, the thousands left dead on the fields outside Toletum. They would remember, and they would come for retribution.

  “At least,” Ekialde said, walking alongside Neitin’s wagon, “we left them weakened. So much that they could not follow us immediately. Their numbers have been depleted. They will have to take time to recover and regroup before they can strike out against us. And now . . .” His brow creased in thought. “Now we shall return to fighting the way we know best. Quick strikes out of the woods.” He cut his eyes sideways at Bailar, walking near him. “We were foolish to try and fight in the style of the east, no matter what magic aided us. Now that we have lost so many of our magic-men, we must fall back on our natural strengths.”

  “I do regret that loss,” Bailar said, “but, great erregerra, we are not without magical powers, still. Enough of us survived to be of use, and we can call for reinforcements from the western villages, those who were unwilling to join the war effort when we first passed through.”

  “If they were unwilling before,” Neitin said, “do you think hearing that their comrades have been slain will motivate them to action now?”

  Bailar ignored her as though her words were no more than the rustling of leaves in the wind, but Ekialde grumbled his concurrence. “It is a valid question, wife—and I do not mean to rely upon the hope that they will provide a new safeguard.”

  “The greatest shame,” Bailar said, “is that we could not recover the bodies of the fallen.” Neitin started to nod tightly, for she could at least agree with that need, but then Bailar continued. “Especially if we had gotten to them before their blood cooled. The blood of magic-men has great power in it. We could have done a lot with that.”

  Nausea roiled in Neitin’s gut, and she found herself clutching a fist to her stomach, as though that might help. “Is that all you can think of?”

  He waved a hand. “I think of what is necessary for your husband’s victory. That is my chiefest concern.”

  “Some victory you’ve given me,” Ekialde said. Neitin was glad to hear the heat in his voice. “Most of your magic-men lost, near a thousand of my fighters dead, and who knows how long I can keep the Vettoni loyal.”

  “They acknowledged you as erregerra. They will not turn their backs now. As for the magic-men, there are others we can call upon.”

  “Are you not sorry for their deaths?” Neitin said, brown eyes wide. This dispassion was low, even by the trench-deep standards to which she held Bailar. “They were your friends, your brothers in magic.”

  “They were my friends,” Bailar said, “and they were fools. They should have broken off their work as soon as they realized they were in danger.” He shook his head. “I must ask the stars what went wrong. It’s to do with that Numidian creature, I’m sure of it. She was the one leading the charges that felled our magic-men. Further proof that the Arevaci are our enemies, as though allying with Aven weren’t good enough. They have allo
wed themselves to be polluted by the ways of the people from around the Middle Sea.”

  Neitin blew air out through her nostrils. ‘You speak as though you know all,’ she thought, glaring at Bailar. ‘But you don’t. You have no idea who it is you’re facing, or what powers they might bring to bear.’

  * * *

  Toletum

  “You were right to stay here as long as you did, last winter,” Sempronius told Gaius Vitellius, on the morning they were to depart Toletum at last. “Please don’t think that my deciding to leave now is a criticism of your choice.”

  “It’s your prerogative, sir,” Vitellius replied.

  “Perhaps,” Sempronius said. His blond freedman was helping him don his armor. “But you’ve the makings of an able commander in you.”

  Vitellius’s head wagged. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  A silent moment followed, broken only by the clank of metal and the soft rub of leather against fabric. “If you would like,” Sempronius said, tugging at a strap to help settle the weight of his cuirass, “I could send you all the way back to Aven.” His dark eyes were steady on Vitellius, his expression free of judgment. “You’ve more than done your duty to the Eighth Legion. You’d have been home a year ago, if not for our friend Ekialde and his ambitions.” He paused, rotating his shoulders. “There would be no dishonor. To the contrary, I should think they would welcome you as a hero, who held Iberia out of chaos.”

  Briefly, Vitellius’s heart lurched with longing. To go home, to see his father and sisters again, to meet his niece. To set aside his armor, his duty done. To devote himself instead to law and politics. Not a quiet life, to be sure, and still a purposeful one. But a less bloody life. A life where lives wouldn’t depend on his decision alone, and where, if a friend died, it wouldn’t be his fault.