From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  Sempronius had never found out what had brought her into the streets that night; she had not volunteered an explanation, and he did not ask. He had simply been grateful to encounter a friend—one of the last he would encounter for many months.

  Now, seeing her in such incongruous circumstances, his curiosity pricked up. ‘Not only wandering the streets during a riot, but using her talents to help calm it . . . What other woman would dare such a thing?’ Most Aventan patricians would have been scandalized by such boldness, but while Sempronius did feel some concern for her safety, he was far more impressed by her bravery. He could no more have abandoned the Esquiline to the present danger than have severed his own arm. ‘Perhaps she feels the same.’

  Between Galerius’s skill and whatever edge Latona’s magic gave him, the mood of the mob was changing, swiftly and significantly—at least on this street. The brawls had ceased, the roar had dulled to murmurs, and some few that Sempronius could see even had tears in their eyes. He guessed them to be of terror and shame more than of genuine sorrow, but he was willing to accept whatever advantage he could get.

  “May I count on you?” Galerius asked. “May I count on you to help us see to it that we can hold proper elections—a right that you have been denied for so long?” A few men hollered back in the affirmative. “May I count on you to restore the order for which Aven is famed? The order which has made us respected throughout the world?” There were more supportive cheers this time, when Galerius paused for a reply. “And may I count on you, good men that you are, to guide your fellow citizens?” Yet more cheers, allowing Galerius to smile. “I thank you, friends. And to show my gratitude, I volunteer my service. I see some leaders of the crossroads collegia here tonight. You come from the Subura, from the Esquiline, from the Quirinal and the Viminal. If the rest of you agree to go peaceably back to your homes, and to tell your friends and neighbors to return in peace as well, I will stay, and speak with these men, that I may know your troubles and bring them to the Senate at the earliest opportunity.” That won him genuine applause—and likely, Sempronius thought, more than a few votes, when the time would come for elections.

  * * *

  As the crowd began to break up, the leaders of the Suburan crossroads colleges who had started the unrest moved towards the tavern. Galerius and Sempronius came down the stairs to speak with them—though Latona noticed they were careful to keep their particular friends from the collegium close at hand. Some men they dispatched to neighboring streets, to call off their fellows from inciting any further violence. Others gathered near the senators, eager to have their concerns heard by those who promised to see action taken. As the tension bled out of the atmosphere, Latona swayed into Merula, who moved quickly to shore her up. “Domina?”

  “I’m fine, Merula, I am. I just . . . I may have over-exerted myself.” The defensive outbursts had taken reserves enough; channeling so much power into Galerius had drained her entirely. “Let’s just . . . get me home before Father realizes I’m here.”

  VIII

  Merula spirited Latona in through the back entrance of the domus, and they found Helva waiting there. “They are still inside, most of them,” she explained. “Most seemed to have deemed it prudent to remain here and safe rather than risk traveling across an uneasy city.” Her eyes flickered critically over Latona, smoke-smudged, disheveled, and fatigued. “Come into the kitchen. We need to wash your face and repair your hair before you can go back in. Merula, what did you let happen to her?”

  Exhausted though she was, Latona had to return to the dinner party. It seemed incredible, after what she had just gone through, that their guests could still be eating and chatting away unconcernedly. After a few cosmetic repairs, Latona could resume her seat without provoking comment. As Helva had reported, some few guests had drifted away, but many remained until Aulus himself returned, reporting that the “slight disturbance” had been dispelled. If anyone else noticed that Sempronius and Galerius had not returned, no one commented on it, and not even Aula seemed to have realized that Latona had slipped out during the uproar too. It was well past the middle of the night when the last of the guests departed, and Latona elected to stay in her old cubicle in her father’s house rather than make the trip back to Herennius’s domus.

  Sleep proved elusive, however. Latona lay flat on her back, staring up at the window-slit as the black of night gave way to the faintly luminous deep blue of pre-dawn. ‘What did I do? What did I think I was doing? If anyone found out . . .’ They would think she had gone mad, at best. A priestess might do as she had done, but only under direction of the Senate or the Pontifical College, and only with substantial protection. That a well-born Aventan woman would take it into her head to place herself in such danger was unheard of.

  For years, she had clamped down so hard on any impulse that she had almost forgotten what magic she could do. As a child, she had feared the danger inherent in her powers; as an adult, she had been terrified that Dictator Ocella might force her to put them to nefarious use. But now, it was as if Ocella’s death had taken away a suffocating pressure, and the air that rushed in was so sweet . . .

  ‘Ridiculous,’ she chided herself. ‘Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean you’re safe.’ As the intoxication of vengeance faded, Latona realized just what danger she had placed herself in. ‘This is why Father thought you need looking after . . . why you’re supposed to stay in the province . . .’ She pounded a hand into her pillow, frustrated at her own foolishness. ‘You could have been killed. You see? This is what happens, just as everyone always said. Too much led by your emotions, too easily moved . . . You leap at an impulse and get yourself into trouble. Haven’t you learned your lesson by now?’

  Still, beneath how shocked she was at herself, pride blossomed. She had helped people—citizens of Aven, her beloved home. Women who had no one to stand between themselves and danger, as she had stood before Aula and Lucia. ‘And surely that’s what Juno would want.’

  When she managed to clear those thoughts from her head, their replacements were nearly as unsettling. She thought, then, of the man who had stepped forward to talk with the discontented plebs and of the happy minutes she had spent in conversation with him earlier that evening. Sempronius Tarren, who had radiated righteous fury yet kept a cool head in the midst of chaos. Sempronius Tarren, nobility etched in every line of his face, so earnest, so intent. Sempronius Tarren, who had been a friend, in those days before Ocella’s clouds blotted out the sun.

  She chided herself for the absurdity of her fixation. She was hardly the only woman at the party who had shared a couch with Sempronius Tarren for a few minutes. So why on earth were thoughts of him keeping her from her rest?

  A faint scratching noise sounded at her door, and Latona grinned in the darkness; it was the old signal that she and Aula used ever since they first had separate bedrooms. She reached over and rapped twice on the wall. Her door slid open, and her sister’s slender form padded in, bare feet slapping against the bricked floor. “Scoot,” Aula said in a whisper, and Latona slid over on the bed to make room. The pallet did not hold two bodies as comfortably as it had when they were younger, but Latona didn’t mind. Her head flooded with memories of so many hushed conversations and muffled giggles. They had clasped hands and sworn vows to each other. They had gossiped about their friends and complained about their tutors. They had huddled together like this the night before Aula’s wedding, gushing over her bridegroom’s merits and how lucky she was to wed such a promising man. They had held each other in silence, the day after Ocella had him murdered, unwilling or simply unable to dare any words.

  “I’ve had an idea!” Aula whispered, pushing an arm up under a pillow to better cradle her head.

  “You always have an idea, Aula.”

  “Thank you,” Aula laughed. “This is a good one, though.” Latona waited, patiently, knowing Aula wanted her to ask, but knowing just as well that her sister wouldn’t
be able to resist spilling for long. Sure enough, after another beat, “I think you should become better acquainted with Sempronius Tarren.”

  Latona was absurdly grateful for the cover of darkness, feeling a hot blush crawl onto her cheeks that Aula would never have let pass without comment. “What in Juno’s name do you mean by that?”

  Aula’s voice was too-innocent in its reply. “Only that . . . well, he seems to be very well placed, making nice with Galerius Orator and all, and with Gaius still coming up through the ranks . . . he could use a mentor. Someone other than Father, I mean. It does look best if you can get someone outside of the family to take an interest.” Aula was talking a little too fast and at a little too high a pitch, always a hallmark of ulterior motives. “And since you seemed to have had a very profitable conversation with him tonight, I thought perhaps you might be the right one of us to cultivate him.”

  “Cultivate?” Latona asked, thinking that that was a new word for it.

  “Yes, precisely.”

  “You know,” Latona said, poking Aula in the ribs, “he mentioned to me how highly he thinks of you.”

  “What?” Aula squeaked, clearly alarmed at having her scheme re-directed.

  “Mm-hmm. He did. He thinks you’re the epitome of charm and grace.”

  “Well, that can’t be right.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  Aula smacked her lightly. “That isn’t what I meant. I just . . . I was certain . . .”

  “Relax,” Latona said, “he didn’t mean anything by it, for all that you’re an eligible and temptingly available widow.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Aula said. Her voice had lost all of its coaxing suggestion. “I mean— Not that I wouldn’t appreciate it. He is a very fine specimen. But . . . well, I just don’t think we would suit.”

  “Strange. That’s precisely what he said.”

  “See? And he has good instincts as well.”

  “So pray tell, dear sister,” Latona went on, “why are you pushing me at him?”

  Aula fidgeted, wriggling a bit under the covers. “I think you . . . would suit,” she offered, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “And has it escaped your memory that I do still have a husband?”

  Aula snorted. “I’m not pushing you into bed with him—not that I would judge you if you should take that particular path. Numerius Herennius is not nearly as attentive to you as he ought to be. All those long journeys to the hinterlands . . .”

  “I don’t mind, Aula,” Latona said, but even as the words were leaving her mouth, she realized that she was speaking in the wrong tense. She’d never minded before; suddenly, though, it occurred to her to be bothered, as much by her own indifference as by his absences.

  “Yes, well, you’re very good and all of that. But that isn’t what I meant, in any case. Not necessarily, at least, though what you do for recreation is really your own business and no one else’s, and you’d hardly be the first woman in Aven to avail herself of opportunity. But what I meant,” she rushed, before Latona could interrupt her, “was just that there might be tremendous potential for an advantageous friendship. He has such experience, and his brother-in-law let slip that he intends to stand for the praetorship. And you certainly seemed to be getting on quite well. I don’t see there’s anything wrong in pursuing that association. All for dear Gaius’s career, of course!”

  “Aula, you have the cunning of a weasel and the subtlety of a falling boulder.”

  Giggling, Aula gave her sister a playful shove. “It’s a shame his sister isn’t as amiable, or I’d suggest we work harder to befriend her as well. And it’s not as though her husband makes much of an impression.”

  “Not everyone can strike a tremendous figure.” Latona stared up at the ceiling. Her eyes had adjusted enough that she could pick out the painted geometric pattern, so familiar from her childhood. “He’s a superlative attorney and was quite a good quaestor, as I recall. They don’t have any children, do they?”

  Aula shook her head, knowing Latona would feel the motion on the pillow beside her. “I asked Helva earlier. Twelve years of marriage, a few miscarriages, no living children.”

  “Poor thing,” Latona murmured, feeling a sudden pang of pity for the woman. She found Vibia Sempronia too aloof and prickly to encourage overtures of friendship, but she could sympathize with that particular woe.

  “Rumor has it,” Aula went on, “that they’re considering adopting out of the Ulpian clan.”

  “That makes sense. Ulpius Turro is a good friend of Taius Mella, I believe.”

  “What I wonder is why they waited so long to start looking. I mean, twelve years?”

  “Sometimes,” Latona said softly, “you don’t want to give up hope.”

  Aula fidgeted, embarrassed. “Sorry.” Latona murmured dismissively. “Well,” Aula said, voice brightening, “that rosy gown she had on might not have done much with her coloring, but I did like the embroidery on the sleeves. And did you see what Crispinilla had in her hair? Is she really trying to bring Bithynian styles into fashion?”

  Latona smiled, grateful for Aula’s change of topic. The sisters chattered on sartorial matters until dawn was streaking the sky, and they fell asleep clasping hands.

  * * *

  Galerius Orator and his wife were both early risers by habit. Galerius liked to spend the dawn hours readying himself for his clients, Marcia Tullia preparing the household for the day. Their son was yet abed—an indulgence they allowed him, for he was at the age where his body was growing so fast that it exhausted him.

  “Well, Lucius,” Marcia said. “You had rather a more exciting evening than you counted upon, I take it.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, smiling as Marcia fussed with the arrangement of dishes on the table between them. Breakfast was a casual meal and on the small side, but still, Marcia liked for things to be just so, and it quite put her out of sorts if the array of bread and fruit was not attractive. “I suppose we ought to have expected it,” he went on. “In some ways, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “Do you think there will be more incidents?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Galerius was too grounded to believe otherwise.

  “When I think about those poor boys—” Marcia shook her head sadly.

  “I know, my dove.” Galerius reached across to squeeze his wife’s hand, as much to quiet his own anger as to soothe her. Then he sighed. “Apart from them, the damage was minimal. The local healers will have their hands full today, but it could have been worse. Much worse.”

  “Thanks to your way with words,” Marcia said, with pride, but Galerius was shaking his head.

  “Thanks to Sempronius Tarren’s quick thinking, my dear. If it hadn’t been for his assessment of the situation last night—to say nothing of his friendship with the collegia men—the Esquiline might be in riot still.”

  “You sell yourself short.”

  “Perhaps. But he was the one who realized the danger to the Maloricae. And he was the one who got the crowd’s attention. His mind works fast, so fast, and he has a way about him . . .”

  “You don’t think it smacks a bit of demagoguery?” Marcia had always had her reservations about Sempronius Tarren, even as she had facilitated his exiled conversations with her husband. It was odd, a patrician with such familiar ties to Aven’s tangled network of enforcers—potentially a dangerous eccentricity.

  Galerius shook his head. “No. I’ve known him long enough not to fear that. But he plays the game well, Marcia, and he is not unwise. He doesn’t mean to stir the people to revolt. He knows their uses—and their limits, as I believe he ably demonstrated last night.”

  “If you say so, I’m sure it must be so.” There was no agitation in Marcia’s voice; she accepted her husband’s word as truthful and accurate. After all, she had not heard Sempronius speak in the Sena
te, or even in the Forum. Some of the more daring ladies might crowd about the rostrum, but Marcia Tullia did not consider so public a sphere appropriate for women. And in any case, she could never abide the jostling. Marcia picked idly at the rind of a citron; she liked it to be well-clear of excess before she ate it. “Do you expect many clients today?”

  “Oh, I should think so, especially after last night. Many of them will want reassuring that the city isn’t going to come down around their ears anytime soon.” Galerius liked some of his clients very well, and many of them were men who genuinely needed his aid and guidance. He could not shirk his duties, as too many patrician patrons did. For Galerius, the patron-client relationship was inviolable. A patron was benefactor and protector to his client, sponsoring his business endeavors or political career and lending his superior clout to legal proceedings. In return, the client would support his patron’s political maneuvers, campaign on his behalf, and stand as part of his public entourage. The system of mutual obligation was one of the fundamental bricks on which the city had been built and grown to prominence. Neglected, it could jeopardize the foundations of their social order.

  And, in any case, Galerius Orator needed his clients as happy as may be, with the elections forthcoming. Many were wealthy or powerful men in their own right, and had clients of their own; the Galeriae stood at the apex of Aventan society, but many strata of interweaving obligations permeated throughout the ranks. In this way, Galerius’s reach extended far past the men who would be in his tablinum today. Those men would return to their clients or to their underlings in a crossroads college or to their guilds, and they would spread whatever message it was Galerius set them to. It was their end of the bargain. In exchange for Galerius’s assistance, advice, and protection, they would faithfully support his endeavors.