by Cass Morris
“Are you looking forward to it?” Aula asked. Her voice was low, subdued, far from its usual strident confidence.
Latona paused, regarding the barren stone before them. “Yes,” she said, shuttering her mind against unwelcome memories. “Yes, I rather am.”
“Good,” Aula said. “Me too.”
* * *
The journey from Tarentum to Aven took eight days, even as swiftly as Sempronius could ride, and as such, he arrived in the city only the night before Ocella’s funeral. Sending his trunk with his chief attendant Corvinus on to his domus on the Aventine Hill, he took himself directly to the Palatine Hill, where tapers burned bright in the windows of Lucius Galerius Orator.
“Sempronius, my friend!” Galerius wrapped Sempronius in a warm embrace, and Sempronius thumped his back lightly in return. Galerius was several years older and had been a model to Sempronius in his youth, first on the training grounds of the Campus Martius, then in the law courts of Aven and on the battlefields of Numidia. If Sempronius thought him sometimes too traditional and a touch hesitant in his scope, still he admired Galerius’s valor and intellect. They had kept up their secret, magically assisted correspondence in exile, but scantly worded messages passed every few months did little to make up for three years’ absence. “I am glad to see you well.”
“As well as a man can be after eight days on horseback.”
“Sit, sit,” Galerius said, showing him to a couch. “Helion, fetch some bread and fruit up from the kitchens. And wine.” He smiled, sitting across from Sempronius. “Your return to the city warrants a toast.”
“And yours no less.” Sempronius glanced around the domus. “Marcia and Young Lucius?”
“Well, but still in the country. I hadn’t thought to find you as near as Tarentum,” Galerius said. “Why did you leave Abydosia? And when?”
“Just before the Nones of Quintilis. I had heard—well, the same rumors that brought you back from Pannonia, I suppose, and I wanted to make sure I crossed before the seas turned too dangerous.”
Galerius nodded. “Well, Fortune smiled on you. We’ll need everyone we can back in the Curia as soon as may be. The Optimates are already trying to manipulate the change in circumstances to their favor.”
“Rabirus?” Sempronius asked.
“And Buteo. Rumor has it he wants to block attempts to revoke Ocella’s proscriptions.”
Sempronius’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “He’d like nothing better than to see us and our friends in permanent exile.”
Sighing, Galerius gestured to Helion as he came back in, indicating that he should serve Sempronius first. “Our ranks are too thin as it is. So many didn’t survive Ocella’s reign.”
Sempronius accepted a glass of wine, and they both drank to absent friends by the uncertain light of a single, low-burning lamp. Sempronius thought of men he had served with in Numidia, legates and quaestors and tribunes, cut down by Ocella for the promise they had shown; or the mages, patrician and plebeian, who took their own lives rather than submit their powers to a Dictator’s use. Sempronius lifted his eyes to Galerius over the rim of his cup. “You realize you’ll have to be consul next year. I don’t mean you have to run. You have to win.”
A wry smile touched Galerius’s lips. “You show a lot of faith in me, friend. You know I don’t share your enthusiasm for measures that are more . . .”
“Radical?” Sempronius supplied.
“I was going to say innovative.”
“Be fair to yourself, Galerius. You’re practical, not conservative, and your moderation is a boon,” Sempronius said, leaning forward a bit. “It makes you an attractive alternative to the Optimates.” Sempronius used their self-assumed title with a touch of bitterness on his tongue. The arch-traditionalists could be intractable and impossible to wrangle even in the best of times, so firm were they in their belief that ancient patrician blood made them the best equipped men to make decisions on behalf of all Aven. Sempronius shared that illustrious ancestry but considered their rigid adherence to custom both obtuse and impractical. Galerius Orator was a true moderate, respecting custom whenever possible, ceding to innovation where beneficial. “You will do what needs to be done,” Sempronius began, “to get Aven’s governing body back to full strength and operations. And if you oppose the stronger Popularist measures—”
“As I fear I may have to.”
“—it only shows the strength of your character. And,” Sempronius added, tearing a hunk of bread into small pieces, “I’d rather spend my energy tangling with you over things that matter than fighting with the Optimates on their general principle of stubbornness.” Lack of worthy opposition could undo a man. Sempronius anticipated, even relished, the opportunity to showcase his plans in open debate, and he knew his own wits would only be sharpened against the bedrock stability of Galerius’s pragmatism. Dealing with the conservative Optimate faction, on the other hand, was more like attempting to hone a blade by stabbing a sack of wet seaweed. “Aufidius Strato is likely to win one of the seats on sheer popularity, but his interests are military, not civil. He won’t have enough of a care for setting things to rights. The city needs you, Galerius.”
Galerius was quite still for a moment, then he sighed, running a hand through his sandy-colored hair. “Then I will serve.” Some men would have said such words pompously, but Sempronius knew that Galerius’s humility was genuine all the way down to marrow and bone. Such selfless lack of personal ambition was foreign to Sempronius, but he could appreciate its worth in others. “If, of course, we can get me elected.”
“You’ll do best to steer the middle course. I expect much of the electorate will be timid this year, fearful of leaning too far to either side. Fortunately, the opposing field is nearly as sparse as ours.” The Optimates had fared little better than the Popularists under Ocella. Ambitious men with the strength of their faction behind them, and principled conservatives who opposed the very idea of a dictator as an affront to the Republic, had both fallen victim to Ocella’s paranoia. Others simply had the wealth that Ocella needed for bribes or to appease his troops. Only those who had toed the line and toed it well had survived with position and power intact. “It’s a mercy that Rabirus isn’t eligible yet—”
“He’ll be your problem.”
“Too true.” That Rabirus, the Dictator’s former right hand, would likely never answer for his part in Ocella’s crimes was bad enough. Having to compete with him electorally was a twist of the knife. “But I do think you’ll have Buteo to worry about.”
“You think he’ll run again?” Galerius asked.
Privately, Sempronius thought that ancient, entrenched Arrius Buteo would be a thorn in his side until nothing more than a desiccated husk kept alive by pure spite, but, suspecting Galerius would little appreciate such a colorful assessment, he said simply, “No—he was last consul only eight years ago, so he’s not eligible again yet. But his opinion will carry a lot of weight. We should try to figure out who he’ll be supporting.”
“Perhaps we can glean some idea of his intentions from how he behaves at the funeral.” Galerius took a drink, then added, “I’m giving a laudatio.”
Sempronius looked up sharply, but the surprise soon faded. Whatever else Ocella had been, he had been a Dictator of Aven, a consul and a senator before that. No doubt the coming weeks would be a flood of denunciations and repeals, but on the day he journeyed to the underworld, Ocella would be remembered with respect. It was not only piety, of course; it was political as well. Men like Galerius Orator had no desire to fan the flames of vengeance which might plunge the city into total chaos. Sempronius might have been willing to chance it, if he thought he could control the flow.
He stayed with Galerius until late in the night, and before he took himself home, the talk turned from political strategy to tales from exile. The next morning, Sempronius rose early, donning the toga pulla of mourning, littl
e sorrow though he felt, and walked to the Forum with only Corvinus to accompany him.
* * *
The curbs of the broad Via Sacra, the widest and straightest street in the city, were packed shoulder-to-shoulder with citizens watching the funeral procession. There were soldiers enough in attendance to keep anyone from attempting to dishonor the corpse, but the faces it passed were stony, marking but not mourning the dead man. The procession began at what had been Ocella’s last home in the city, on the Esquiline Hill, when the sun was high on the last day of Sextilis. Before the body came floats bearing the spoils and honors of his career: the military honors, the gifts from foreign leaders, the captured works of art and statuary. Though the day was cloudy, threatening rain, a stiff wind took the odor from hundreds of pots of cinnamon and frankincense and wafted it through the streets.
Six trumpeters preceded the ivory litter bearing the corpse. The body, well-preserved by both Abydosian and Aventan magic, looked fresher than it had in his last moments, all marks of disease gone. He was dressed in a purple-trimmed toga, and a chaplet of oak leaves sat across his brow. The family walked behind the bier—what was left of it, anyway. Of his father’s generation and his own, no blood relations remained. Both his wives had preceded him to the Underworld, but they had left sons. The elder was but four years old, more bewildered than solemn as he did his duty, walking first behind the corpse. His uncle Maloricus followed close at hand, carrying the younger child, not yet a year old.
Many attendant at the funeral had to do their best not to look too pleased, though the professional mourners, no doubt well-paid for their efforts, were certainly making a good show of it—dresses torn, red welts raised on their arms and breasts, ashes rubbed in their hair. The actors wearing the masks of Ocella’s ancestors were doing a fine job of imitation. Ocella must have left considerable funds for his funeral. ‘He certainly had enough to spare, after what he confiscated during his proscriptions,’ Latona thought. She stood between her sisters, all three draped in somber colors, with their father and Latona’s husband, Herennius, behind them, both in dark mourning togas. As it was an official civic occasion, Latona and Alhena both wore tunics and mantles with the black mage’s stripes on the borders.
Aulus Vitellius had insisted the family be prominent during the proceedings: Aula was far from the only patrician woman widowed by Ocella, but Aulus wanted onlookers to remember her sacrifice. ‘And she does make a nice picture,’ Latona thought, watching as Aula bounced little Lucia in her arms. Lucia was growing too tall to be comfortably held for long, but today, Aula was willing to endure her wiggling in exchange for the comfort of having her close. Aula’s coppery hair shone even beneath her charcoal-gray mantle. ‘Young and beautiful and holding the proof of her fertility, no less. Perhaps Father’s hoping to remind any eligible returning exiles of that, too.’
Suddenly self-conscious, Latona pulled her mantle a bit farther around her face. ‘If everyone’s meant to be thinking of Aula’s noble sacrifice and eminent eligibility, what in the name of Juno might they be thinking about me?’ Plenty of those in the crowd had been at Ocella’s court at the same time she had, others might have heard rumors from slaves and servants, and not all would be generous with their assessment of her bargain, if they could ever confirm the gossip. In that regard, Herennius’s presence was good for something. So long as he stood by her, it would be harder for anyone to believe the worst. ‘But the thought that anyone might think me mourning in truth, the Dictator’s woestruck mistress . . .’ Shuddering, Latona pushed her mantle back from her cheeks again. Let them look; let them see the truth of her hatred for Ocella written upon her face.
Lucretius Rabirus stepped up to the platform to give his laudatio, sparking a low murmur in the crowd. Not of surprise—everyone knew Rabirus had been as good as Ocella’s right hand for the past year, so it was natural that he would give one of the sending-off speeches. Latona found it difficult to pay strict attention as she listened to what started out as a fairly uninspired recitation of Ocella’s rise through the ranks of the cursus honorum. Her eyes were fixed, hardly blinking, not on Lucretius Rabirus, but on the purple-draped litter and the corpse atop it. Her rapt attention had nothing to do with piety or social concern. Like many in the city, Latona had come to the funeral just to assure herself that Ocella was really dead.
Latona knew her sister well enough to intuit that Aula’s fidgety attentions to her daughter stemmed from the same sour memories as Latona’s coldly transfixed stare. They never spoke of it, after all. Aula had treated Lucius Quinctilius’s funeral as though he had died by accident, and when they had traveled to Capraia under Ocella’s command, everyone had pretended it was their own idea, a simple holiday. After that, Aula had rushed to her father’s house, hurriedly re-arranging her life. She responded to sorrow with forced merriment and a feigned sense of normalcy; Latona, by burying the shame as deeply as she could manage.
When Rabirus’s words began to take on a more overtly political bent, it called Latona’s attention away from the unpleasant past and back to the uncertain present. “Though we may disagree with his methods—even recognize them as brutal—he was a man seeking to save his city from the brink of collapse, the very edge of disaster. A man who did what was necessary.” Murmurs rose up, far back in the crowd. Rabirus’s words did not strike a favorable chord with all present. Too many had seen their families and friends fall, crushed lifeless beneath Ocella’s idea of what was necessary. “Horatius Ocella picked up the rubble left by a generation’s worth of feckless consuls, more devoted to their own feuding than to tending our noble city. If he was ruthless, perhaps the gods decreed that he be so, to stand up for our traditions in difficult times. The steps he took to bring Aven back to its days of moral integrity and pious devotion are incomplete.”
Latona’s blood felt near to boiling at the falsity of such platitudes. ‘Morality and piety hardly figured in his plans for me.’
No one applauded when Rabirus finished, for that was not the way of a laudatio, and then Lucius Galerius Orator ascended the platform with grace and somber regard. ‘A rare man,’ Latona thought, ‘who can find it in his heart to honor the tyrant who drove him from the city, threatened his wife and son, and murdered his friends and colleagues.’ Latona would not have been able to summon up the charity.
Galerius Orator was a good speaker, worthy of the cognomen inherited from his ancestors. Tonight, he spoke of the man, not the Dictator, telling stories that glorified Ocella as he had once been, and as he should have been, had he lived up to the promise of his youth. The city had loved Ocella in early days, and Galerius sought to remind them of why. He had been a hero of the Republic, saving his legion from ruin and disgrace in Phrygia. He had been kind to his wives and doted on his children. He had been charming. He had thrown excellent parties.
‘And from that,’ Latona thought, ‘to such a demon as he became. Why would the gods create such a man and then let evil consume him?’ Blood splashing across mosaic tiles, the sharpness of cinnamon, Capraia’s rocky outcroppings and the price of the gifts of Venus: thus, Ocella’s legacy to Latona.
Dark clouds were gathering overhead, blocking the sun and bringing the cool, mineral scent of impending rain. Galerius finished his oration, and the priests stepped up to sacrifice the customary sow. It went down easily, a good omen. Latona could only assume the gods were as glad as the people of Aven that Ocella’s rule had ended. The entire city seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the attendants loaded the Dictator’s body, sewn into its gray shroud, onto the pallet that would bear him outside the city limits for cremation. Latona felt a tingling in her hands, a hot prickle, as though her skin anticipated the flames that would consume Ocella’s flesh. ‘Would that I could cast the spark myself.’
♦ SEPTEMBER ♦
IV
Life in Aven entered a strange stillness following the funeral. Not serenity—too much remained uncertain for that. It was more like doldrums
settled over the city, an unnatural calm waiting to erupt into a storm. The Senate was waiting a market interval to reconvene, ostensibly out of respect for the Dictator’s journey to the Underworld. The decision frustrated the Optimates, who had hoped to assert control before any more exiles could return from abroad; another eight days might bring in a larger quorum than would benefit the conservative party’s intentions.
Each day, too, ships docking in Ostia or moving upriver to the Aventine ports bore more than wayward Senators as their cargo. Rumors had begun to bob their way across the Middle Sea, slow and uncertain but compelling nonetheless, of trouble in Iberia.
Helva always seemed to hear and know everything well ahead of anyone in either the Vitellian or the Herennian household, and so it was with rare pleasure that Merula was able to stride up to her one day in the bathhouse dressing room. All three Vitellian daughters were enjoying the steamy comfort of the baths, and it was the duty of the attendants to watch their clothes and other belongings until the ladies returned. While Helva glared at the bathhouse slaves, whom she considered unworthy to be trusted with her mistress’s garments, Merula sidled up beside her. “I am hearing something this morning.”
“You heard something this morning,” Helva said, indulging in her perpetual quest to improve Merula’s grammar, which still bore the marks of her Phrygian origins—not so much for the girl’s own good as because Helva felt any slave or servant who spoke for the family ought to be able to do so with grace. And Merula would speak, invited or not.
Merula, who felt she made herself understood just fine, rolled her eyes. “I heard something, then. From the boy who brings the honey in from the country house. He is hearing—heard—it from a trader who landed in Ostia last week.”
“And what did he hear?” Helva said.