“Then I will stay here with you.” Sigrun shrugged. “We can take turns being awake to answer the phone.”
Adam nodded, and looked grateful to have someone there. However, halfway through the night, he left the room, and came back with an institutional gray cardboard box. “All right. I keep forgetting to give you one of these. Start carrying it, please.”
Sigrun studied the box, cautiously, and opened it. Inside was something that looked like a either an oversized and clunky calculator, or one half of a phone. Earpiece, mouthpiece, and a keypad. “What is it?” she asked, cautiously. It was always wise to be cautious with devices. Magical or electronic.
“Satellite phone. We’ve had telecommunications satellites in orbit for decades. They finally opened them up for more than military use and emergency communication. You’ll need to keep it charged—it’s electronic. There’s a cord in there for it. When you’re running around the world, you’ll never be out of touch again . . . so long as you carry it.” There was a ghost of pleasure in his eyes, but mostly, he was still grim as he poured out another cup of coffee from the machine in his office.
“It’s electronic,” she repeated, dubiously, not touching it at all. “Adam . . .” She lifted her hand and tapped the watch he’d given her, years ago, after every electronics-based watch he’d given her had died within days. This one still required her to wind it, daily. “The idea is a good one, but this device of yours will be an expensive brick inside of a week, I think.”
“It’s shielded. So long as you don’t deliberately run lightning through it—which I wouldn’t put it past you to do when you don’t want to deal with something—it should be fine.”
He was angry at the world, and at the moment, some of it washed over her, too. Sigrun stiffened and tried not to fight back. “I would never willfully destroy anything that you gave me, Adam.”
Adam sighed, and ran a hand over his hair, turning back to set both freshened cups down on the desk beside her. “I know. I’m sorry. Here . . . let me show you how to use it, so you stop looking at it like . . . .”
“Like someone’s grandmother, confronted by new technology?” Sigrun said, quietly.
“Like there’s a snake in that box, and you’re about to be bitten.” He tugged gently on her braid. “It’ll give us something to do while we’re waiting for more phone calls, right? And . . . I don’t see either of us sleeping tonight.”
So they sat on the edge of his desk, and Adam showed her, several times, how to use the damnable contraption.
Martius 18, 1980 AC
The business of a funeral for a Roman patrician was involved at the best of times. All of his former lictors who were still alive were invited to the funeral by Mariana, his widow, and his son, Marcus, but because the body was the subject of a criminal investigation, it threw the entirety of the usual pomp and pageantry into chaos. Livorus’ body was displayed at the center of the Senate for three days, at the direction of Emperor Caesarion IX, who had considered Livorus to be one of his foremost advisors, even in retirement. This necessitated certain formalities with the body, including heavy preservation spells, since the corpse would be burned once the nine days of ritual mourning were done.
Sigrun, Adam, and the others all arrived on dies Solis, in time to pay their respects in the center of the Senate. They’d all been in this building before, watching the propraetor’s back as he negotiated this law or that, in his role as a member of the senatorial class. Sigrun stood just behind Adam in line, and stared down at her old friend’s unmoving body, and at the closed eyes. Mariana had apparently insisted that the branded arm be displayed free of the folds of his toga, and Sigrun was grateful for that. Hundreds of legionnaires filed past, saluting the body, faces set, with their own brand-marks on prominent display.
Livorus’ voice spoke in her memory, as he’d addressed Maor ben Emmet, now dead these past two years, himself. The memory itself was twenty-five years old. My men asked me to accept it shortly after the Gazaca debacle. The rank and file wanted to give me a crown of grass, but that would have required that I save the entire legion by my own hands, and all I had really done was prevent the loss of civilian lives . . . . For the saving of civilian lives, Livorus should have been given a wreath, Sigrun thought, with a twinge of bitterness. The Crown of the Preserver was given to those who saved the lives of allies or civilians. Of course, the Gazaca Incident, back in the late twenties, early thirties, had been a part of the omnipresent Shadow War. And honors for sparing the lives of your own civilians were apparently hard to justify, when you didn’t want to admit to putting those lives in danger in the first place.
. . . They had heard that I’d been asked to retire. They came to the command tent . . . about twenty representatives, led by my primus pilus centurion. And told me that they knew I’d never really quit fighting, even if the damned politicians at home took my command from me. And they asked me to take the symbol of a lifer. Just like they wore. How could I possibly say no?
They filed past, saluting themselves now, and Sigrun accepted a restrained embrace from Mariana, and then Marcus, Aquila, and Amantius, in turn; Adam had received wrist-clasps from the men. Romans, particularly of the patrician class, were supposed to show stoic restraint, even in times of grief. No wailing, little weeping. “Have they caught the man yet?” Sigrun asked Marcus, the eldest.
He shook his head. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired, but his face, so hauntingly like his father’s, was set in resolute lines. “Not yet, but he can only hide for so long. I understand that ben Maor and Matrugena are the primary reasons we actually have a name for the assailant. Once they had the name, they were able to find his lodgings. DNA samples for spirits were in short supply, however. The man was a combat-sorcerer. He knew enough to burn almost all of his belongings.” Marcus’ lips thinned. “Can’t hide forever, though.”
She couldn’t hold up the line, and moved on. Exchanged wrist-clasps with Ptah-ases, summoned from Alexandria, where he was a professor emeritus in the technomancy department, his dark eyes still lively and inquisitive, but set in a face that seemed made of parchment, and the bones in his fingers felt as fragile as bird wings as they brushed her forearm. The former lictor was himself seventy now. “You don’t look well, Ptah,” Sigrun told her old friend, her heart aching. Remembering when he’d been young and strong enough to go chasing after the people who’d killed Cunomorinus Villu, her old partner. The clever-mouthed Gaul had been the one to dub her cloak her ‘chicken-suit,’ and had brayed with laughter every Tiwesdæg. Ehecatl, Mazatl’s father, beside Ptah, looked hale and hearty compared to the sorcerer. “No one looks good when they’re seventy, Sigrun, my old friend,” Ptah told her, and smiled, showing ivory replacement teeth set in a bridge made of gold. “Well, perhaps you do. How old are you, valkyrie?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sigrun said out loud, but her mind whispered, Seventy. Your age, Ptah. Livorus was five years our elder.
There was a full day of oration. Full dress uniforms for the Praetorians, which meant armor. Sigrun didn’t mind hers, but she knew that Trennus and Adam were more than slightly uncomfortable in theirs. Kanmi and Minori were able to get away with a white kaftan and an incredibly formal kimono, respectively. And since all of the children were at home, being looked after by Fritti and Abigayil, they at least didn’t need to worry about the younglings’ ability not to fidget through hour-long speeches.
Marcus Valerius Livorus was expected to give the primary eulogy, and did, but it was Caesarion IX himself who brought the Senate and most of the Empire to silence, as his speech was captured on far-viewer. “This was a man, who, without any trace of god-born blood, any trace of sorcery, moved mountains. He did it with the power of his will, the force of his personal beliefs and integrity. And we are all lessened by his loss. I have depended on him for advice and counsel and perspective since the death of my father. He was as a father to me, and to many others.” Caesarion’s gaze touched the whole audience, but Sigrun felt Adam shift
beside her, and her fingers crept through the crook of his elbow, in spite of the armor there.
They watched from a balcony as Livorus’ body was loaded into a horse-drawn hearse, and the mummers—professional actors, hired for precisely these kinds of occasions—put on the imagines, the bronze masks cast from wax impressions of Livorus’ ancestors, as they, too, had lain in state . . . and walked behind the hearse. “That is . . . slightly morbid,” Adam admitted, quietly.
“Explains why actors are considered one step above a slave or a prostitute. The dead are unclean in most cultures.” Kanmi’s voice was distant. “And the actors here deal with the dead. They’re intercessors for the spirits of the departed. They allow the dead to return, through them. In a way, it’s symbolic possession.”
Lassair’s expression was dubious as she leaned against the marble window-frame. I do not sense any spirits in them, beyond their own.
“No one ever said it was real,” Kanmi told her, calmly. “It’s just religion, after all.”
Sacrifices to Ceres and the Manes were made, while Livorus’ body was housed at the city mortuary, and his family put on, at their own expense, three days of gladiatorial games in the very Colosseum that had had its glass and metal roof replaced four years ago. The irony made Sigrun twitch, but there was nothing to be done for it. And on the last day, in a private ceremony, attended only by the family, the body was cremated.
Marcus Livorus, currently a highly-decorated legate in the Legion, would be forced to retire, come home, and pick up work in the Senate. Before they all left to return to their homes, he stopped and asked them, “One small point. My father’s sword.” He looked at the four lictors who’d been with Livorus until his retirement. “He always carried it with him. It’s not . . . I’m sorry to ask this, but it’s not in his effects.” He sighed. “I thought I might carry it, to remember him.”
“It’s in Fennmark,” Adam told him, simply. “Pushed into the ground to mark the spot where a god died.”
Marcus’ blue eyes widened, and then he nodded to Adam, who’d been his father’s chief body-guard for most of his life. “Good enough,” he admitted. “Thank you for telling me.”
Aprilis 2, 1980 AC
“Dr. Eshmunazar?” A very familiar badge flashed in front of Kanmi’s eyes. The eagle and the fasces. He’d carried one just like it for over fifteen years. The agent behind it, however, was young—couldn’t be older than thirty. He wore gray twill slacks and a matching cloak, with slits in the seams so he could put his arms through, if he so chose. The very latest fashion, complete with a matching gray twill hat. All the innocuous gray, however, couldn’t disguise the look of hunger in the young man’s eyes.
Oh, you’re an ambitious one, are you? Kanmi thought, and leaned back in his chair at his desk. “Professor,” he corrected, mildly.
That earned him a blink. “Excuse me?”
“My wife is the doctor. She earned her Ph.D. Me? I’m just a professor these days. Retirement’s a wonderful thing.” Let’s see what self-deprecating humor does. Hmm. You just sharpened. You don’t like the old man being relaxed, do you?
“All right, professor. I have a few questions for you.” The young agent hesitated for a moment, clearly deciding between attempting to loom over the shorter, seated sorcerer, for intimidation effect, and taking a seat, to establish rapport.
Kanmi’s mild amusement intensified, and he went so far as to put a foot on the edge of his own desk. “Agent, in case you haven’t read my dossier, I was a Praetorian for close to seventeen years. My wife was a Praetorian intelligence analyst for over ten. We still consult on various investigations for the Judean branch. I’m always happy to talk to a fellow Guard.” Kanmi’s eyes narrowed, and he reached for his cup of tea—Minori’s favorite oolong, actually—and added, just as mildly, “So why don’t you set the tone right, introduce yourself, and treat me like a friendly asset and not a suspect, and we’ll get along just fine.”
The younger man stiffened, and finally took the chair at the other side of the desk. “I’m Agent Avitus Duilus. As you know, we located Appius Flavian a week ago. Already dead, more’s the pity. The formal inquest and autopsy results are still pending, but while we’re waiting to see if forensics can determine if it was a suicide or not, we’re conducting a more extensive inquiry into his background.”
Kanmi sipped at his tea, and just watched the younger agent. Prickly. Conscious of his status, introducing himself with the title after having just been reminded that Kanmi had been an agent, too, and for longer than the young man in front of him had been. And still, that look of eager hunger in his eyes. Everyone’s hungry these days. It’s something in the air. “Taking forensics a while to come back with the results. Toxicology screening, usual canvassing of spirits to see if any of them can detect any bindings?”
The young agent’s lips twitched into a grimace. “I cannot comment on a pending investigation.”
“Yes, yes.” Kanmi set his tea down. “Ask your questions. I have a class in twenty minutes, and it’s a practical exam, so if you wouldn’t mind wrapping this up in short order . . . ?”
“The spell Flavian used. It’s exotic, to say the least.” There was a delicate pause there. “Have you ever seen it used before?”
“Boiling the blood inside of someone’s veins? Yes. I’ve seen it. About twenty years ago, in Gaul. A Tawantinsuyan sorcerer named Huallpa used that particular style of invocation on Dr. Belator Camulorix.” Kanmi paused. “But then, you knew that already, didn’t you.”
Duilus attempted to stare him down. “Let me ask the questions here.”
“Oh, by all means. When you get to one that’s interesting, let me know.” Kanmi couldn’t help the goad.
“Do you know where this Huallpa studied?”
“According to the background research we were able to do after his unfortunate demise,” Kanmi bared his teeth, “he’d studied at the University of Cuzco. I believe he initially studied both sorcery and medicine.” As to what else he was involved in, I’m not saying one more word. I’m fairly sure you’re not cleared to hear about it. But speaking those names, packed tightly at the back of his head for twenty years, made Kanmi’s fingers curl. He knew Minori had killed Huallpa, and that the massive stroke that the man had suffered had surely been painful . . . but as far as Kanmi was concerned it had been over with far too quickly, considering the torture Minori had endured at his hands. And since Minori sometimes still suffered from nightmares about it, and snapped awake, pulling up every magical defense she had, ready to fight . . . Kanmi would cheerfully kill Huallpa again, if he could. Several times over, in fact.
“It’s a highly unusual invocation.”
“You’ve said that before. Do you find that you often repeat yourself like this? Short-term memory problems don’t often afflict a man your age.” Kanmi made his voice sympathetic, and plastered a warm, insincere smile across his face.
Duilus glared at him. “It’s Chaldean, Professor. It was devised by the Magi two thousand years ago as a method of extremely painful execution.”
Kanmi squinted at the younger man. “Huallpa was from Tawantinsuyu, and the furthest east he ever got was Quecha. I always figured that as a medical doctor and a notable torturer—one who was capable of visualizing the organs inside a human body and twisting them, unseen—” The words made him taste bile, and the world went a little distant around the edges, though he didn’t change his relaxed posture one iota, “—he re-invented the wheel. People do that periodically. People rediscover penicillin in laboratory environments all the time.”
“And is that to what you’d attribute Appius Flavian’s knowledge of the spell?” Duilus flung it out at him. “Pure, dumb luck? Coincidence?”
Kanmi squinted at the younger agent. The man clearly thought he’d struck a telling blow here. The Carthaginian mage picked up his tea, and took an unruffled sip, before settling it back down again. “First of all, you obviously have very little understanding of magic, Duilus. There are
people who hand down treasured spells like family recipes, yes, but ninety-five percent of current instructors emphasize creating your own spells. Having a knowledge, a library, of previously-used spells on which to draw, is useful but . . . if you use an eighteenth-century, gods help me, generic fireball spell in a fight, you’re really going to have your ass handed to you. The oldest spells were made by people who didn’t understand that fire is an energetic reaction, and that it can get a lot hotter than wood, coal, or even a forge. A treasured antique spell is useful for studying, but very often it’s a case-study in what not to do. That fireball spell I mentioned? Eighteenth-century casters were notoriously vague in their dimensions. It could wind up being anywhere from ten inches to twenty-five feet in diameter. I like a little more precision.” Kanmi paused, and smiled, faintly. “So, saying that someone had knowledge of ‘a spell’ or ‘the spell’ pretty much marks you as a layman. As to the rest? Anyone with knowledge of the principles of thermodynamics—heat, for example—and the properties of liquid—can boil water.”
He pointed down into his tea cup, where, without so much as a word from him, the tea inside was now boiling vigorously, causing the cup itself to jitter slightly on the desk’s surface. “Note, please, that the cup itself is cool to the touch. That is because I am efficiently redirecting all of the heat radiating out from the tea back into the tea to prolong the energetic reaction. This should also ensure that my cup will not crack. Details are important, as I like to tell my students. Note also, that I did not learn a ‘boil tea’ spell this morning. I could boil a ten thousand gallon vat of water with this precise same effect, or chill this cup of tea down into a cube of ice. That would, however, break my cup, so unless you want to put a new one on your expense report for me, I’ll forgo that demonstration.” Kanmi flicked a finger, and the heat rose up and out of his cup dissipating in a cloud of steam. Then he picked it up, and sipped the now-tepid beverage, calmly.
The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2) Page 65