From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  Latona knelt before the terracotta statue of the goddess and put forward a honey-soaked cake as an offering. Juno was beloved by the women of Aven, because she understood them. She was there at the marriage altar and the childbed; she knew the pangs of birth and the sweetness of giving milk. She ached with wives and mothers when their men and boys went to war; she wept with wistful pride when their daughters became women in their turn. She was everywhere in a woman’s life, sharing all sorrows and all joys, and Latona thought it a great comfort to know that someone in the heavens paid attention to even the smallest and most usual concerns of mortal life.

  ‘But she is, also, the Queen of Heaven,’ Latona thought, remembering the words she invoked during the ritual. ‘She is a ruler, in her own right. She pursues her interests and defends herself aggressively. And—’ Latona’s lips quirked up at one corner. ‘I wonder who it is that sees to the running of things on Olympus when Jove neglects his duties to dally with shepherdesses.’

  The goddess’s carven face was kinder than many people would assume—beautiful, too, sweet and round and wide-eyed, but not without majesty for all of its feminine loveliness. ‘What do you want, Lady? I would do your will, if I knew what it was. Help me to understand, help me to stop this . . . this unbridling of the gifts you’ve granted me. Or at least show me how to make use of it . . .’

  After leaving Juno Cantatia, she only had to turn a corner, and the grand Juno Maxima was visible, looming over the Forum and Subura next to the Capitoline temples of Jupiter and Minerva. Nearly twelve years on, Latona could still hardly look at it without flinching internally. It had taken her a long while to learn to keep that flinch off of her face.

  Today she stared it down, willing herself to peel back the years and remember standing before Aemilia Fullia, the weight of a child’s protective bulla charm still heavy around her neck, and trying to negotiate with a woman two decades her senior. Aemilia was a good priestess, always precise and thorough in ritual, but her eyes had been cold and pitiless as she had spoken with Latona after the death of Gaia Claudia, from whom Aemilia had inherited her position. “‘Claudia was indulgent, but regrettably, there is no-one here who can now handle you. You’ve learned enough to keep from hurting yourself or anyone else.’” Latona knew it was as much as most female mages got, unless they made vocational use of their gifts. Claudia had intended more for her, but Claudia had died. “‘I think it best we restore you to your family now. Without another mage in residence, there’s little reason for you to stay here. You’ll learn to apply your gifts appropriately in the domestic sphere.’”

  Latona had been grief-stricken and young, but she had still been able to read more into Aemilia’s meaning: No one at the temple would have any time for her. Where she had once been a cosseted favorite, she would be forgotten at best, a nuisance at worst. Rather than face that misery, she had agreed to Aemilia’s suggestion that she return home.

  Now though, she wondered if there weren’t something more to it, if Aemilia’s insistence on her explusion was really such a matter of practicality. Or was it professional jealousy, fear that a gifted child might outstrip her authority in a decade’s time?

  The thought filled Latona with indignant resentment. ‘Aemilia, afraid I would outshine her. My mother, afraid a temper fit might get the better of me. My father, afraid I was weak enough to be manipulated by another’s ambition. I let those fears—other people’s fears—make me afraid of myself!’

  Latona realized her fists were clenched, crushing the rosy fabric of her skirts between her fingers—fingers that were swift growing hot with her rising fury. ‘Easy . . .’ she told herself, taking a deep breath. Control was still, and ever would be, essential where her gifts were concerned. ‘But that doesn’t mean I should live in terror of them.’ She glanced over her shoulder, where the goddess’s statue was visible beyond the columns of the portico. ‘I hid for too long, and maybe it was necessary while Ocella lived, but now . . .’ Now she could not escape the feeling that Juno demanded better of her, for the protection of her family and her city. ‘And if I’m going to serve you, Lady, I need to know more . . .’

  XV

  The morning chill had burned off under the bright autumn sun, and so Latona and Merula took their time walking back towards the Palatine. The Esquiline was a strange mix of high and low society, where fashionable homes shared streets with rickety insulae and bustling shops. As she worked on reconciling the day’s tangle of thoughts, Latona walked with her head up, taking in the city in all its unrefined splendor. Next to a thermopolium selling quick, hot meals to passers-by, a group of eastern clerics huddled near a cubbyhole which must have passed for a temple to them, their threadbare robes dragging dust as they paced back and forth. A knot of Cantabrians brawled in front of a tavern, whilst a pair of whores yelled encouragement from an upper window. Latona nodded amiably at men who tugged their forelocks in recognition of her religious garb, ignored the few disrespectful comments thrown her way by those who didn’t know better, and was amused when one man smacked his comrade upside the head for whistling at her. The black borders on her tunic meant something to Aventans, and they were quick to educate newcomers to the city. Even plebeian women wearing the tunica magica got a little extra elbow room.

  Rounding a corner near the base of the hill, she was surprised to find, standing across the way, Sempronius Tarren. He wore no toga, only a wheat-colored tunic and a light cloak, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow as he called up to a man who was coming down a ladder. The building, Latona realized, was the same crossroads tavern he had spoken from on the night of the riot.

  Latona came to a halt at the side of the road, pulling herself out of the main rush of traffic so she could watch. “Merula, let’s wait a moment, until Sempronius Tarren appears finished. I should like to speak with him.” Latona chose to ignore the little smile curving her servant’s lips. It was a bit unusual, and they both knew it, waiting in the street to speak to an unrelated man. But Latona couldn’t help it. There was something fascinatingly bizarre about seeing him outside a crossroads college, chatting easily with a common workman. Genuine curiosity as much as anything else prompted her to want to ask him what was going on. She tugged Merula a little closer, so they could hear a bit of the conversation.

  * * *

  “You’re absolutely right, of course,” Sempronius was saying. “The wood’s warped. That patching ought to help keep the chill out, but one strong storm through here, and the whole thing will come crashing down.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it’s far from my purview, Nisso, and with no urban praetor until the elections, it may be hard to get anything done. I’ll speak to Galerius about it, though.”

  “Thank you, Dominus,” the man replied. “I know what people say about the collegia, but—”

  “Only half of it is true?” Sempronius challenged. “You might remember that, Nisso—and tell your fellows as well. You are privileged with a certain amount of leeway because of your sacred duties. A little less petty crime and a little more piety might serve your purposes as well as applying to me.”

  The man did not look terribly chagrined by the chastisement. “We do what we must do, Dominus. It’s no different from what all the other collegia do—”

  “And a great deal less harmful than some. Yes, I know.” Sempronius’s brow had a hard line down the center; he was gazing thoughtfully at the streetside altar which gave the college its reason for existence, the shrine to the spirits of the crossroads. Every major intersection in the city had one of these, and they were the responsibility of the collegia to maintain. The balance of the city would be upset if they were ever to fail in their duties—and, indeed, no few accidents had been blamed on the neglect of one college or another. Despite this sacred charge, in many areas, the collegia had grown into little more than armed gangs. The crossroads taverns became havens for criminal exploits, and the men they employed noted for thuggery. It was a comm
on complaint in the city, but no one had yet sorted out how to settle it. “I have some thoughts on that score as well,” Sempronius said, then shook his head again, as if clearing away plans already forming in his mind. “I’ll see what I can do about your roof. I may be able to call in a favor with the carpenters’ guild. A collapse here would be dangerous.”

  Nisso nodded in agreement, then made a little jerking motion with his head, lowering his voice. “Eh, Dominus, you have some company, I think?” Turning, Sempronius strove not to appear surprised at the incongruous presence of Vitellia Latona and her spitfire of a slave-girl standing a short distance away, curious spectators to their conversation. “She’s a fine little piece, if you don’t mind me saying so, Dominus.”

  “She is a great and noble lady, besides being one of the most powerful mages in the city,” Sempronius said. Nisso’s eyes opened in surprise, and he glanced at Latona with a touch of bewilderment. “Her husband,” and he stressed the word ever so slightly, so that Nisso would not get any mistaken ideas about the nature of his friendship with the lady, “has many mercantile interests, and her blood is of the very best in Aven. If you and yours ever see her in these parts again—well, keep any mischief from happening to her, and you’ll have my gratitude.”

  “A lady like her is not often in this neighborhood,” Nisso said. “And I think she might not be all too glad for our protection, rough characters that we are.”

  “Oh,” Sempronius said, “she might surprise you.”

  “Well, Dominus, I think you’d rather be talking to her than to an ugly brute like me,” Nisso said, good-naturedly. As they shook hands and said their farewells, Sempronius reflected on the oddity, that a man from a crossroads college, whom many would consider a common criminal without being too far off the mark, should feel familiar enough to tease him in such a fashion. It did not offend or discomfit Sempronius, but it was, he knew, strange. Many men would criticize him for allowing the breach of respect. Sempronius rather intended to use it to his advantage.

  But for the moment, Nisso was right. Sempronius was far more interested in finding out what had the Lady Latona wandering the streets of the Esquiline.

  * * *

  Latona knew it was no good pretending she had been doing anything other than watching Sempronius, so she hailed him in friendly terms as he approached. Sempronius strolled towards her, not looking the least bit embarrassed to have been caught out in so unusual a setting or such informal clothing. “Good afternoon to you, Lady Latona. On your way home from Juno Cantatia this morning, I take it? Are the fortunes of Aven’s mages well-tended for another year?”

  “As well as they ever are, I expect,” Latona replied. She nodded her head back at the building Sempronius had been inspecting. “What has you doing business in this part of town?”

  “The crossroads collegium has a faulty roof. If it collapses, it could bring down half the block—which would be far more expensive than merely fixing the problem. With no urban praetor and no aediles, things have fallen into disrepair.”

  “That still doesn’t explain how you came to be responsible for the problem,” Latona pressed.

  “No,” Sempronius agreed, “it doesn’t. The head of the college and a few of his boys are clients of mine. They were auxiliaries in Numidia while I was a tribune there,” he added by way of explanation, at Latona’s questioningly raised eyebrow. “I’ve done them a good turn before, and they thought I might be able to do so again.”

  “And I expect they’ll remember the good turn in the December elections,” she teased.

  “If they do, I shall certainly be grateful,” he said, grinning. “I missed most of my year as aedile thanks to Ocella’s proscription. Now, I must earn their regard. Besides—” His voice took on a more earnest tone. “These are the people—for better or for worse—on whom the success of the entire city depends. If they suffer, Aven suffers.”

  “A noble outlook.”

  “Practical,” Sempronius corrected. “If you must put a word to it, always err on the side of calling it practicality. If word got out to my political opponents that I’m going around being charitable, I’d never hear the end of it.” There was a mocking spark in his eyes, though whether it was directed at himself or at those opponents, Latona didn’t know. “Forgive me,” he said, switching focus, “I’m a brute to keep you standing out in the street. Are you headed home? And would you allow me to escort you?”

  He offered her his arm, and Latona slipped her left hand out from under her mantle to take it. Since he was not togate, she should, for propriety’s sake, have let the fabric remain wrapped around her, a barrier between them, but it had been a challenging day, and she would not deny herself the pleasure of feeling his skin against hers. “I shall be grateful for the company, at least as far as the Palatine. I’m heading to my father’s so I can check on—” But she broke off, no more eager to reveal Alhena’s troubles than her own.

  Sempronius looked sideways at her for a moment, and though Latona had no notion of it, he tapped into some of his Shadow reserves, sensing a secret, compelled to know what it was. With most people, he would not have cared. In fact, he spent a great deal of time trying not to notice what others were keeping to themselves. So many banalities, so much smallness that they all considered to be of such great importance. Shadow mages, Sempronius knew, often fell prey to the temptation to concern themselves with minor scandals, white lies, tiny omissions. Sempronius tried to keep his concerns loftier, aimed only to invoke his power when it mattered, to the state or to his career. The golden-haired woman at his side intrigued him far too much to ignore the urge, though, and so he peeked, just a touch, just enough to let him know that she had family matters on her mind. His own knowledge could fill in the rest. “How did your younger sister weather the ceremonies today?”

  Latona flicked her eyes up at him, a little startled. “It’s kind of you to ask,” she said. “I didn’t get to speak with her afterwards. I was . . .” She searched for an adequate excuse. “The priestess at Juno Cantatia wanted a word. So I’m headed to the Palatine to check on Alhena before I go home.”

  “She was engaged to be married, wasn’t she? Someone from the . . . Tervian clan?”

  “Tarpeian,” Latona corrected. “Yes. She ought to have been. But he . . . he died, on his way back from the Vendelician border. We just had word a few weeks ago.”

  “My condolences,” Sempronius offered, with genuine if detached sentiment.

  “I barely knew the lad, but I’m terribly sorry for my sister. She took it hard.”

  “Is there anything you could do for her?” he asked. “With your gifts, I mean.”

  There was a keenness in the question, but Latona missed the significance of it. “I tried a bit, at first. Mostly I just seem to be able to lull her to sleep, when she’ll let me try. It’s always difficult to exert influence on someone who knows what you’re trying to do, and harder still when she’s determined not to be cheered up.”

  “I can see how that would be challenging. Has it affected her gifts at all?”

  Thinking back on the conversation later, Latona wasn’t quite sure how he had managed to draw quite so much information out of her. She hadn’t intended to divulge so much, especially not so many details of her sister’s condition, and to a man who was not an intimate of the family. Yet somehow, with careful questions and a gentle voice, he coaxed much of the story out of her. She could not fathom the reason for his solicitous interest. What concern could a heartbroken sixteen-year-old girl provoke in a man with so much on his mind? Yet it seemed to go far beyond the bounds of strict politeness. And it had, at least, deflected from her own concerns about her magic.

  They were only halfway to the Palatine Hill when they had exhausted the subject, however, and instead she got him talking about some of his other political plans. “Do you intend to visit every collegium in the city? Or simply the ones where the brutes-in-resi
dence are so amiable?”

  Sempronius laughed. “No, though I do have some other plans for improvement. Dictator Ocella was careful of his own power, neglectful of the city at large. There are roads that need repairing, docks in want of attention, grain doles that need re-apportioning . . .” He gestured at the shops and stalls they were passing. “Not to mention market disputes and judicial matters. Fortunately, Ocella was also a miser, so the city’s coffers aren’t as poorly off as they might be. I intend to help where I can. The city can’t wait until after the elections to start putting itself back together.”

  “Will they let you?” Latona asked, surprised. “The Optimates, I mean. Strictly speaking, until the elections, such measures aren’t within anyone’s purview.”

  “I don’t intend to leave it to men like Rabirus or Buteo to decide what I am allowed.” Sempronius held his chin a little higher, as though in defiance of his absent foes. In such a dignified man, Latona found it an almost charmingly petulant gesture. “This is . . . private charity. There really isn’t anything they could do to stop it, even if they had the nerve to try.”

  “No one would be so foolish, not with half the city still a breath away from riot.” Latona shook her head, unsure if his keenly incisive ploy impressed or frightened her.

  Their walk had brought them to the eastern edge of the macellum cuppedenis, the spice and flower market, where the wafting aromas from the spicers’ stalls reminded Latona that she had not eaten all day. Here, it was too loud to converse, unless they felt like shouting. Many merchants called to them, hawking their wares. Above the general din came the noise of a flute; a nearby flower-seller was using a musician and a juggler to attract passers-by to her stall. The crowd around them grew denser, and Latona’s religious garb no longer won her a respectful radius. She knew Merula’s fingers would be itching for her dagger; she was ever uneasy in such a press. Latona should have felt claustrophobic, with so many emotions pressing in around her, but her revelation at the temple appeared to have done some good; she was able to breathe freely, letting the sensations roll around her like water at a boat’s prow, a part of her world, but not something that would sink her. ‘This . . . this is what you need to master, to be of use . . .’