by Cass Morris
The rest of the women gathered in the garden, shoulder to shoulder, to bear witness. Their presence was no less crucial than that of the officiants. The gods had to know that the devotions were communal, the work of the whole city, supported by all the blessed mages in Aven.
As hostess, Marcia Tullia began the ritual with an invocation. “Blessed Fortuna, Supreme Jupiter Cantatius and Juno Cantatia and all the gods of Aven, watch over us this day and stand by our sides as we enact this sacred ritual. Look here, you gods; look here, you who have blessed us with these abilities; look here, you who have entrusted us with these responsibilities. We stand in the sight of all gods to offer renewals of our ancient compact with you. Please accept our offerings and our vows, truly and freely given, and witness our devotions in your names.”
The procession of the elements began with Light. The de facto officiant for this element was the Vestal Virgin Quinta Terentia. Terentia had some six or seven years left in her term before retirement, though she had been serving the goddess of the hearth longer than Latona had been alive. Power and temperament alike made her a natural fit for the service of Vesta—patient, honest to a fault, and as thoroughly dependable as the rising sun.
She approached the altar, bearing a polished piece of rock crystal—the physical representation of her element. Terentia’s acolyte placed a clay lamp, painted yellow, on the altar, and Terentia set her precious burden down in front of it, to catch the light and beam it out in a dazzling array.
Hands outstretched, palms up, Terentia focused her eyes on the crystal and intoned, “I charge you, Apollo, God of Light and the Sun, truth-bearer, music-maker, to witness our devotions; I charge you, Vesta, Lady of Light and the Hearth, truth-revealer, hearth-guard, to witness our devotions. I dedicate myself to you, on behalf of myself and as representative for all those bearing your gifts. Look with favor upon us; protect us from harm; allow us to continue in your glory.”
Next was Marcia herself, representing Air. With tremendous dignity, she approached the altar bearing the symbol of her element: a glistening white feather. Marcia’s acolyte bore a lamp painted a pale blue. Both symbols joined the yellow lamp and the crystal on the altar, and Marcia said, “I charge you, Mercury, Lord of Messages and Travel, quick-witted, most clever, to witness our devotions; I charge you, Minerva, Lady of Wisdom and Strategy, aegis-bearer, inspiration-giver, to witness our devotions . . .”
Following was Rubellia, High Priestess of Venus, calling on her patroness deity and on the goddess’s husband, Vulcan, as she lay a small staff of polished wood onto the altar. Rubellia was in her mid-thirties and a vision of loveliness, a true avatar of Venus: small of height, round-breasted and full-hipped, with dusky skin and a tumble of rich, dark curls. Her smiles were full of promise, and her every gesture spoke of sensual delight. Latona couldn’t help but give a rather irreverent grin as she watched Rubellia sashay her way to the altar. “I charge you, Vulcan, Lord of Smiths and Flames, mountain-burner, metal-shaper, to witness our devotions; I charge you, Venus, Lady of Love and Beauty, heart-warmer, passion-provoker, to witness . . .”
Rubellia stepped away from the altar a moment later, cheeks aglow, even more beautiful for her joy in the ritual, and then it was Latona’s turn. She had served her role in this ritual before, and knew that whatever her private fears, she had to approach the gods without trepidation. She took a deep breath before moving forward, feeling only the softly building energy of the ritual, which created a frisson all its own.
Her acolyte was a pink-cheeked girl of ten or eleven, a plebeian child far from mastering the element. Though some others in the gathering had Spirit as a secondary element, no one else had strong enough dominion in it to serve. Latona tried not to frown as she struggled to recall the child’s name. ‘Fausta.’ That was it. A noble name on a quite common child, suggesting slave stock somewhere in her background, an ancestor freed and bestowed with his former master’s name. ‘I should offer to tutor her,’ Latona thought. Outside of the temples, it was rare, though not unheard of, for a patrician mage to take a plebeian child under her wing. ‘My own training may not have been all I would have wished, but . . . Well, no other woman in the city has had better.’ Spirit, like Shadow and Fracture, was a gift more rarely bestowed than the other elements; there were but half a dozen women in the city so blessed. None had Latona’s raw power, and if she had only benefited from six years of instruction with Gaia Claudia, the most gifted High Priestess of Juno in three generations, that was still six years more than anyone else. ‘I should offer. To try, at least, little though Aemilia Fullia will like that.’ The High Priestess of Juno, who had no magical gifts herself, had a long history of contention with Latona and would no doubt take a dim view of Latona’s taking on an apprentice.
Fausta bore a lamp painted the same rosy pink as her gown, and Latona held the symbol of Spirit: a fine-wrought golden crown. The irony had never escaped Latona—Aventan society abhorred kings, disdained the eastern potentates who wore the diadem, yet revered the King and Queen of the gods and were more than happy to wield magical power with so strong a correlation to monarchical authority. Perhaps in deference to Aventan republican sensibilities, the crown was wrought more in image of a military corona than an imperial diadem. That, at least, was fitting. How many victors of war, whether from legends and stories or from Aven’s history, had been said to be blessed by Spirit? Even if they could not work magic on the field of battle, their very personalities translated well to command.
Latona spoke in a strong, clear voice, holding the crown up towards the opening in the roof. “I charge you, Jupiter, King of Heaven and Lord of the Sky, lightning-bearer, nation-builder, to witness our devotions; I charge you, Juno, Queen of Heaven and Protectress of Women, grace-bestower, womb-blesser, to witness our devotions. I dedicate myself to you, on behalf of myself and as representative for all those bearing your gifts. Look with favor upon us; protect us from harm; allow us to continue in your glory.”
As she lay the crown upon the altar, she felt as though her heart were swelling within her chest, top-full of magic and heightened emotions. The crown seemed to glow all the brighter, set in line with its fellows of other elements, paired with the rosy lamp, and invested with the full strength of her prayers.
* * *
From across the room, Vibia Sempronia watched as Latona moved to the side and Davina the bathhouse-mistress, representative of Water, took her place. Vibia knew she ought to have been paying more devoted attention to the ritual itself, but she always had trouble at the Cantrinalia. It was, in essence, a coming-together and, as such, went against the grain of Fracture magic. She strove to remind herself of what she had been taught: that Fracture was not the domain of fickle Fortuna alone, but of Janus as well, he who looked forward and back, that it was not only the rend a knife could make, but the edge of the blade itself—the hazard of chance, the point on which the world could tip.
It was difficult to master, though, when the strain of magic that came most easily to her was the ability to see the places where others crackled and split. She struggled to focus, as in a brisk, clear voice, Davina said her words to Neptune and Lympha, and then a graying priestess croaked her invocation to Ceres and Diana on behalf of Earth. The stronger the force of magic within the room grew, the more that Vibia had to fight the urge to let loose her instinctive inclinations. One woman’s insecurities, another’s envy, another’s distraction—all of them called to her, little bells softly ringing in the back of her heart. Ignoring them in the spirit of the ceremony took a great deal of concentration, and she knew that she would suffer for it with a headache later in the day. ‘Small wonder,’ she thought with wry detachment, ‘that Fracture mages are known for coming unhinged.’
Every element had its dangerous aspects. Even Light could blind, after all. Time mages were at risk of madness, Shadow mages could fall into darkness—a risk Vibia watched for in her brother—‘And Fracture mages tend to crack.’
&nbs
p; A young woman from an up-and-coming family gave devotions for Time’s mages, then came a patrician acolyte of Nox, representing Shadow. The progression ended with Fracture. As Sexta Rufilia approached the altar, Vibia’s limbs tensed, but not now with the effort to keep herself under control. This was jealousy, pure and simple, and if Vibia was not proud of it, she could at least admit it to herself. It rankled that she, a daughter of one of Aven’s oldest houses, had to stand by and watch another perform these sacred rites.
Adding to the unintentional insult was that Sexta Rufilia, despite her aristocratic name, was no patrician of pure Aventan descent. Her full name was Sexta Rufilia Mulugonis, and she was the free-born daughter of a former Numidian slave. Like Davina, Sexta’s power was too great to be overlooked on account of her low birth. Sexta had never performed her duties with anything less than total devotion and capability, but perversely, her competence irritated Vibia all the more. ‘The gods bestow their gifts where they will, and there’s no gainsaying it . . . I just wish they had seen fit to provide me with strength befitting my rank.’
Vibia considered the altar, at the sequence of symbols: the crystal and feather, rod and crown, the cup bearing Water, the dirt-sprinkled dish for Earth, Proserpina’s pomegranate seeds to represent the passage of Time, a black veil to stand for Shadow, and finally, a bronze razor for Fracture. For a moment, her heart beat faster. The power in the room was strong enough now that even she could sense it, the compulsion forged when the elements stood together, united in their appeal to the gods.
At the altar, Marcia Tullia was presiding again, beginning a rhythmic chant, an incantation which the others took up until the garden resonated with humming vibrations. At a signal from Marcia, all the women there assembled held out their hands, waist-high, palms up, and joined in the final stage of the supplication. The energy hummed like music from a cithara, the rise and fall of the vibrations drawing nearer together, nearly frenetic in its tension, drawn out until it seemed, surely, the threads must snap.
Vibia felt a sharp shock in the midst of this joining, and her eyes flew wide, searching for the source. Sexta had noticed it, too, from the way she was glancing around, but no one else seemed disrupted in the slightest. ‘Except . . . Rubellia?’ But Vibia could feel no indication that the disturbance had come from her. ‘How would she—?’ Vibia noticed Rubellia looking sideways at Vitellia Latona, and when she followed the gaze, she saw why: Latona’s face had gone scarlet and her eyes were unfocused.
‘Fracture mages may crack,’ Vibia thought, frowning, ‘but Spirit and Fire can be an unpredictable mix.’ And that which was unpredictable, Vibia would always consider dangerous. ‘What has her so riled?’
XIV
Latona gritted her teeth, focusing all her energy on maintaining her part in the ritual. This was usually her favorite portion of the ceremony, but she found herself unable to moderate the influx into her own mind and heart. Her tongue felt the sharpness of cinnamon, and a faint golden sheen dropped over her vision. It was not Fire, but Spirit betraying her this time. It twisted in her gut and throbbed in her head, and each heartbeat seemed to spiral her deeper into the emotional vibrations of everyone around her—dozens of mages, all projecting currents of their own, all with their own hopes and intentions and concerns. Latona felt it all.
And then—a blasting release, a wave of enchanting energy, surging outwards from the altar, rushing over the ritual participants like a flood. Some of the women sighed with relief, others swayed slightly. Latona staggered, then felt a hand at her elbow: Rubellia, keeping her upright. “Breathe.”
“My sister—” Latona said, casting across the room for Alhena.
“She’s fine. She’s with Tilla.” Around them, the other mages were starting to mill about and chatter. Some would depart immediately, others would join Marcia Tullia for a meal, others would walk to the Temple of Juno Cantatia for private rituals on this sacred day. Latona felt Rubellia steering her aside and heard Rubellia say to her acolyte, “Berenike, would you go ask Terentilla if she would see Vitellia Alhena home? Tell her I need a word with the Lady Latona. Thank you, dear.”
‘Good,’ Latona thought, ‘there’s someone who can look after her.’ Quintilla Terentilla, most often just called Tilla, was an Earth mage cast in a different mold from her Vestal older sister. Her clothes never seemed to hang on her correctly, always slipping off a shoulder or twisting asymmetrical, and her family indulged her in many eccentricities. But she had a good heart and was not much older than Alhena. Perhaps her presence would be not just a momentary comfort, but the start of a friendship that could draw Alhena out of her shell.
Rubellia pulled Latona behind one of the portico columns, away from prying eyes. The flux of emotions did not ebb. Latona could find no outlet to push them from her own heart and back into their owners’. They pulsed overtop of each other, one invasive influence rising to the forefront only to fall back in favor of another. Latona was worried for a sick mother, dizzy with the flush of new love, fretting over her children, anxious over the autumn rains, excited to purchase a new farm, frightened for a brother trading in Gades, each thing in rapid succession, flooding her with sudden intensity and then receding in a painful gasp.
“Count your heartbeats.” Rubellia seized her hands, her fingers rubbing slow circles on Latona’s palms. “You know what to do. This is in you. Listen to the air passing through your nose and mouth, feel it fill your lungs.” Latona tried to follow her instructions, though it was difficult even to hear her over the torrent of magical energy inundating her. Tears swam to her eyes as the press of sensations threatened to overwhelm her.
But then there was Rubellia, determinedly calm. Latona desperately tried to narrow her focus on Rubellia’s composure, Rubellia’s tranquility. Slowly, she was able to push out the other influences, drawing in the soothing energy from her friend. Latona did not know how long she stood there, siphoning Rubellia’s serenity into herself until it quieted the rest of the emotional cacophony. Eventually, she could breathe easily again.
“There,” Rubellia said, “that’s better, isn’t it?”
Latona nodded. “Thank you, Rubellia. And my apologies. I— I seem to have opened myself a bit too wide.”
Rubellia tilted her head. “A surge of uncontrolled empathy, I think?”
Latona dropped her eyes to her hands, still clutched in Rubellia’s, and gave as small a nod as she could manage. The shame she felt now was all her own, but no less painful for that, and mixed with fear. “Has it happened before?”
Her thumbs moved gently over Latona’s knuckles, and that gesture, so small and familiar, gave Latona the courage to explain. “Not the empathy. Fires, though . . . It’s been happening since . . . well, since the Dictator’s death, I suppose.” And perhaps that was the answer: Without the need to suppress her magic, it now flowed too freely. ‘Control, control . . . You see what happens when you lose control?’ She glanced up again, into Rubellia’s warm brown eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not, my dear.”
Rubellia looked about to ask another question, but Latona could not bear any more well-meant examination. She pulled back from Rubellia. “Excuse me. I’m so grateful for your assistance, but I really must . . . I should get home, to check on my sister.”
Rubellia did not release her hand immediately but gave it a press. “Very well, Latona. Just know . . . I am here if you need me.”
Latona nodded tightly, then bundled her mantle about herself and hurried away.
* * *
Merula frowned as her mistress exited the Galerian domus. Without a farewell, she left the girls she had been chatting with. “Domina?” Latona’s face was streaked with a red flush, and she moved without her usual open grace, but instead closed-off, holding her arms close to her body as though afraid she might break. “Domina, are you unwell?”
“I— No, Merula, I’m afraid I’m not. It happened
again.”
“Not . . . not the flames, Domina?” Merula cast her eyes back at the Galerian house, reassuringly intact.
“No, it was . . . different.” Latona rubbed irritably at her forehead. ‘Claudia taught you better than this . . .’ she chastised herself. But then, Claudia had been teaching a child, and one who had never known want or fear or violation. ‘And she didn’t know what tribulations the grown woman would have to face.’
Merula fussed at Latona’s mantle, re-draping its folds. “What are we needing to do?” She saw little point in offering condolences or getting flustered. If Domina Latona had a problem, they would simply have to find a solution.
“I ought to go to my father’s house to check on Alhena, but, I think I should like to go to the Temple of Juno Cantatia first. Perhaps there will be . . . some sort of an answer there.”
Merula nodded in agreement. Going to the temple would do her mistress more good than seeing to the wayward Vitellian sister. “Domina Alhena is seeming fine when she left. The Terentiae had her well in hand.” Merula snorted softly as they started down the street. “Indeed, she is almost seeming to enjoy conversation with the Vestal. No smiles there, still, but perhaps she is looking slightly less like drowned nymph.”
“Good. That’s good . . .”
Unsettled by her mistress’s faraway tone and brittle manner, Merula kept up a steady, distracting chatter as their walk took them through the shallow valley angling towards the Esquiline Hill.
* * *
The Temple of Juno Cantatia, devoted to the goddess in her aspect as governess of mages, was far smaller than the Temple to Juno Maxima on top of the Capitoline Hill, but was Latona’s choice for her devotions. This temple, with its small, cerulean-painted portico and its bright mosaic floors, had never been home, and so was unhaunted by Latona’s past.