by Cass Morris
“Yes, sir. His father.”
Aulus shook his head sadly. At least the elder Tarpeius had another son—but he was only eight, no replacement for a young man in his prime, with such a bright future ahead of him. “I will have to visit him as well. Forgive me. Will you take bread and water?”
“I thank you, sir, but no.” His was brusque but polite. “I must be on my way.”
“Other duties to fulfill, I suppose, of a similar nature.” There was no rancor or malice in Aulus’s tone, though some pity. The legate gave another salute and departed. “Sabino.” Aulus gestured for one of the house slaves. “Please go find Alhena. Tell her I need to speak with her. And—And make sure Mus is with her.”
While waiting for his daughter to arrive, Aulus paced the peristyle garden. Alhena’s birds chirped merrily all around him, oblivious to the ill wind that had just gusseted through the house. He wasn’t wondering how to break the news to her; nothing would do but the truth, as plainly as he could manage. Sugarcoating the matter would not make Tarpeius any less dead.
No, Aulus’s primary concern was for what happened next. Alhena was, he knew full well, not like his other daughters. Aula had borne Quinctilius’s death with proper Aventan endurance. She mourned, in private, for as long as was appropriate, and had then moved on to the rest of her life, assuming normalcy as well as she could during the Dictatorship. As for Latona—well, Aulus’s worry was more that Latona might display a rather unseemly lack of regret if anything tragic befell Numerius Herennius. But for Alhena, Aulus had significant concerns over how she might handle the shock.
Alhena was his baby, the last of his brood. Vipsania had lost two children following Alhena’s birth, and the last of those had taken Vipsania away as well. Aulus had arranged her marriage to Tarpeius not with more care than Aula’s or Latona’s—he had, of course, tailored the decision to what he thought best for each in her turn. But for Alhena, he had made the decision with rather more tenderness. Alhena could not be given to a political husband. She needed someone solid and dependable, someone who would cherish her—someone who would never think to make ill use of her Proserpina-given gifts.
Tarpeius had been ideal: from a good family of backbenchers, high status enough to be important, but lacking the ambition that would put too much pressure on Alhena. Even better, they had been childhood friends, and mutual liking had grown over the years into genuine affection, even in Tarpeius’s absence. Alhena treasured the letters she had received too infrequently from Albina.
Aulus was still pacing when his daughter came to him. She wore a dove gray stola over a crimson tunic, which Aulus thought had once belonged to Latona. It clashed, he thought, with her too-bright hair, but that sort of consideration never occurred to Alhena. She looked pale and a touch brittle, as she had ever since word had come that General Aufidius was back in the city. Alhena’s Cantabrian shadow trailed in behind her.
“You sent for me, father?”
“I wish I had had no need.” Aulus swallowed. “I have had word from General Aufidius.”
Alhena’s azure eyes lit up with interest, but it was a brief flash of lightning that quickly clouded over. Alhena was clever enough to know that her father’s tone did not presage good news, or perhaps her gifts spoke to her in that instant. “And . . . what word would that be, father?”
“I am sorry, daughter.” The blood started to drain from her face even before he continued. “There was an accident crossing from Nedhena. Tarpeius died at sea.”
Alhena blinked several times, as though uncomprehending. “He . . .” She swayed slightly, and Mus moved to catch her, but she held up a hand to ward her off, determined to remain upright on her own. “How?”
“Some rigging tore loose during a storm. He was struck and died from his injuries.” Alhena nodded almost unconsciously, as though his words had confirmed a suspicion—or a premonition. She kept so much close, held so many things private. In times like this, it left Aulus feeling at a loss, unequal to the task of guiding the daughter who so rarely expressed her feelings, much less her needs.
“I . . . am sorry to hear of it,” Alhena said at length, her voice sounding as though it came from very far away. “I will need to tender my regards to his family.”
“I will be pleased to do so on your behalf, daughter,” Aulus said. “You need not visit yourself, if it is too—too troubling.”
She nodded again, a blank, emotionless bob. Then she turned, neatly, and walked away. Aulus did not stop her, but trailed behind. With even footsteps, hands folded neatly in front of her, Alhena walked calmly to her sleeping chamber. Mus followed her in and shut the door behind her.
A long moment of silence passed, and then a wail that would have harrowed the Furies went up from inside Alhena’s room. Aulus nearly sighed with relief. With a crook of his finger, he summoned his steward. “Where is my eldest daughter?”
“With Lady Latona,” answered the Athaecan freedman, who was well-bred and well-trained enough not to glance at the doorway from behind which such a woeful keen resounded. “I believe they meant to visit the baths.”
“Send to the house of Numerius Herennius,” Aulus instructed. “Tell them both to return here, as soon as may be. Say that Tarpeius is dead, and that Alhena has need of them.” The steward nodded, bowed, and departed. Aulus rubbed at his temples. All he had ever wanted was a placid, well-organized life—and for a brief time, he thought he would get it. Ocella’s reign had upturned so much, brought his eldest daughter back under his roof, along with his only grandchild, and now, if indirectly, it had robbed his youngest of her husband before they had even managed to exchange vows. As for Latona, lately he could not escape the feeling that he had erred, failed her in some critical way. She never reproached him, not with words, at least, but sometimes he caught sight of a deadened gloss in her eyes.
At least there was Gaius, properly on track. Ocella’s reign had not kept him from his duties, and Aulus had heard nothing but positive reports of his action on the Vendelician border. It was a comfort, for a man to have such confidence in his son’s career. There would be more to worry on later—Aulus was already tucking money away to assist Gaius up the cursus honorum, as every responsible father did—but for the time being, all was well.
He knew what to do with his son. That was easy. ‘One daughter widowed . . . now a second, before she could even be a bride . . . and Latona . . .’ Aulus sighed. Not for the first time in the past few years, Aulus regretted not remarrying after Vipsania’s death. Girls, it seemed, didn’t stop needing a mother just because they themselves were grown.
XI
Twenty feet of white wool. Beaten, fulled, bleached, and finally chalked until it shone startling white. Twice as tall as a man, fully stretched out. Formal and precise, its every fold and tuck carefully prescribed. Most importantly, a signal. A challenge, to some. A rallying cry, to others. An Aventan man donned the toga candida when standing for political office, that all and sundry knew to watch his public words and actions and judge him accordingly.
Sempronius rotated his shoulders in anticipation of bearing its weight. Tradition could be hell on a man’s musculature. “Very well, Corvinus. Let’s begin.”
As Corvinus wound him into the garment, Sempronius thought out his day. First, a formal greeting of his clients, some of whom he had not seen since his exile. Then a procession to the Forum. An analysis of who else was there. Conversations with important allies, at least one of which ought to yield an invitation to dinner. In the afternoon, when the crowds were thick, a speech. Back home to change into more comfortable attire, then, with luck, a long and profitable meal with a friend. It would be a long day, out early and back late.
He smiled at the thought. Life in Abydosia had been idyllic—far too much so. Life in Aven, Sempronius found far more stimulating.
As early as Sempronius had risen, his clients were already waiting in his atrium or outside his
house when he emerged from his chamber: a collection of distant but well-born relations, a selection of equestrians and plebs of the First and Second Classes with whom he had served in Phrygia and Numidia, and a sizable herd of lesser plebs whose loyalty he had earned through various favors, big and small. Rarely did he call them all in to attend him in public, but today the show would matter. He needed to arrive at the Forum with as massive a horde as he could manage to assemble. ‘Maybe,’ he thought with a wry smile, ‘I can convince the former centurions among them to get everyone to march in formation.’
Vatinius Obir and Nisso were there, admiring the stylishly-painted interior of the domus with gregarious smiles. Sempronius could not neglect his higher-ranked clients today, of all days, but the brothers’ frank lack of ceremonial pomposity did tempt him. They were certainly better company than some of his cousins. And so, holding in a sigh, he nodded his greeting to all, then took a seat behind the lacquered desk in his study, arranged his toga at the proper angle over his shoulder, and said, “Send them in according to rank, Corvinus.”
* * *
Late in the morning, Sempronius Tarren left his house on the Aventine and proceeded downhill, trailing a few dozen togate men of varying station in his wake. He was far from the only man taking the opportunity of the first clear day since the Senate’s reconvention to publicly announce his candidacy, and as such, the Forum was even more of a crush than usual. The noise of so many men shouting at or over each other rose to a thunder before Sempronius was even off the Aventine, a dull roar of ego rising over terracotta rooftops.
Sempronius stood at the edge of the Forum for a moment, taking in the scene before him. The valley between Aven’s hills teemed with life: white-togaed politicians, like himself, and scores upon scores of businessmen and traders, sealing their contracts in this sacred space, surrounded by the watchful eyes of so many gods.
For a man who could see the blurring haze of deceit and obfuscation, the day seemed cloudy, not fair. He closed his eyes for a moment, deliberately dampening Shadow’s awareness, since he knew from past experience that remaining alert to every shady misdirection, disingenuous promise, and dubious quibble flung about the Forum would result in a particularly nasty headache. Then he opened his eyes and began scanning for friends and enemies alike.
Galerius and General Strato were at the Rostra, both announcing their candidacies for consul. Sempronius watched them strike up a conversation and thought that they made unlikely, though not necessarily incompatible, allies. One of the few ex-consuls present, Aulus Vitellius, declaring that he would stand for the office of censor, completed the triad of venerable dignitaries.
Buteo, who had also decided to run for censor, was nearby, chewing his tongue. For consul, he seemed to be throwing his support behind Gratianus, a portly man who had hidden out Ocella’s dictatorship in the comfort of an eastern court, but Sempronius could not imagine that such an uncharismatic lump of conservatism would stand much of a chance against Strato’s military popularity or the appealingly moderate Galerius.
The field of praetors was more concerning. The Optimates were out in force and standing together, vowing to restore the honor and dignity of the Republic after Ocella’s transgressions. Sempronius overheard one echoing the benefits of Buteo’s plans for a hundred-man Senate. “These new men, these merchants and immigrants, they are motivated by short term gain, not civic duty! They care for their own coffers, not those of Saturn!” Whatever sins they cloaked in such words, Sempronius had to admit it was compelling rhetoric—and they had chosen a powerful place to declaim it, clustered at the base of the Temple of Saturn, home to Aven’s treasury.
Despite his former status as Dictator Ocella’s right hand man, Rabirus still had political traction. In his speeches, he re-framed himself as a defender of the Republic. ‘A neat trick,’ Sempronius thought, ‘to tell the populace you were holding Ocella back from his worst atrocities, rather than co-authoring them.’ Rabirus stood with several other prominent Optimates around him, including Licinius Cornicen. A man of uncertain allegiance, Cornicen concerned and frustrated Sempronius. He generally stood with the Optimates, but Sempronius had always harbored hopes that his pragmatic streak might move him toward the center.
Making matters worse, the Popularists standing for praetor were not all that Sempronius might have hoped for. He would need strong allies beside him, particularly in the provinces that would field legions for an Iberian campaign or field the money to fund those legions. One prospect was an affable round-cheeked gentleman of low birth, whose wealth could easily buy him an office; another came from one of Aven’s Founding Families, but hardly had a sestertius to his name these days, clinging to the bottom rung of the senatorial rank; a third was so timid that he could barely string two sentences together in public.
‘What a challenge.’ There was something simultaneously depressing and invigorating about it. Sempronius had much to do and much to prove. He glanced over his shoulder at his herd of clients. They had all been briefed back at his domus on what he expected of them. A showy entrance, as tradition dictated, but then they would divide and, with luck, conquer. To sentimental audiences, they would play up Sempronius’s status as a banished hero returned to the city, driven out by Ocella’s jealousy for his brilliant mind and popular ideas, who had nonetheless continued to work for the Republic in exile. To the mercantile, they would trumpet Sempronius’s dedication to improving trade routes and the emporiums. To the military-minded, they would drum up support for the Lusetanian campaign and his vision for expanding Aven’s influence around the Middle Sea. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing towards the Forum. “Into the fray.”
* * *
“You’re worried.”
Corvinus stood in the quiet of the recently vacated Sempronian atrium, staring at the front door. He glanced over his shoulder at Djadi, the dominus’s Abydosian household scribe. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you haven’t called half the household in to put the chairs back at right angles, refill the water jugs, and sweep up the dust.”
Corvinus turned, taking in the disarray that several dozen clients had left in their wake: dusty footprints all over the floor, potted plants askew, chairs and cushions out of place. “Ah.”
Djadi strolled forward, smoothing a lock of Corvinus’s pale hair back from his face and tucking it behind his ear. “What’s troubling you, reshweti? Think the dominus can’t manage himself for a few hours without you at his elbow?”
Corvinus moved Djadi’s hand away from his face, but gave it a brief squeeze before going to examine the atrium. “The biggest concern there, is what he might say to one of those cousins of his if they try his patience.”
“That wouldn’t leave you staring at the door so long.”
Corvinus nodded absently, bending to return a footstool to its proper place.
“You can tell me, you know,” Djadi urged.
“I know,” Corvinus said, only regretting the lie a little.
They had picked Djadi up in Tamiat—a necessity, to establish a new household in exile, since they had been able to bring so few slaves with them on their flight from Truscum. Standing in the market with kohl-rimmed eyes and oil in his raven hair, Djadi was hardly what Corvinus had expected from an educated colleague. The placard around Djadi’s neck, however, had proclaimed him fluent in four languages and able to write with a neat hand. As soon as he proved those skills, Sempronius had taken him on as a scribe and an assistant to Corvinus.
They had never spoken of it, but Corvinus felt sure that his dominus had kept Djadi on when they moved back to Truscum not out of appreciation for the young man’s neat handwriting and obsessive attention to detail, but because of Corvinus’s affection for him.
Sempronius Tarren had never given Corvinus reason to regret his loyalty.
And so, even to Djadi, he would not voice his deepest fears. That Sempronius’s ambitions were
blasphemous was of little concern, directly; Corvinus assumed that the dominus could manage his own pietas, his spiritual well-being, without anyone’s assistance. What troubled him was the perception of transgression should anyone else learn of Sempronius’s long-hidden magical gifts, to say nothing of the legal consequences. No one had been executed for violation of the lex cantatia Augiae in nearly a century. But then, no one else was known to have violated it in that long.
Corvinus knew the stories; Sempronius had explained them all when Corvinus’s own weak magic had bought him his freedom. When Dolosus brought the city to ruin, it had been over a century before the populace would even allow a mage to be a senator. To dare more than that remained a capital offense.
Stepping out of doors in his bright toga candida was a clear sign that Sempronius Tarren was reviving his secret violation of the lex cantatia, pursuing high office despite his magical gifts. The Dictator had unwittingly interrupted his earlier attempt, during what should have been a glorious term as aedile, but Sempronius had neither taken that for a discouragement, nor an indication of the gods’ disfavor. What this second attempt might wreak, Corvinus had no idea—but the stress of speculating on it might have been turning his hair white, if it weren’t already so pale.
So instead, as he directed the cleaning of the atrium, he told Djadi of purely mundane concerns: the vitriol of the Optimates, the weakness of certain of Sempronius’s clients, the rough nature of associates like the Vatiniae. All valid concerns in their own right, but none of those had left Corvinus staring at a closed door, vaguely wishing his master had not stepped through it.
* * *
Lucretius Rabirus had a narrow line to walk.