by Cass Morris
Ocella might not have been able to stay on top of the current forever—sooner or later, there would have been, if not a murderous mob, then a hidden dagger or a poisoned dish—but he might have stayed afloat for years longer had illness not felled him. ‘Everyone falters eventually, no matter how secure they think themselves,’ Rabirus thought. ‘But could this city survive the damage Sempronius could do in the meantime?’ It was not a risk he wanted Aven to take. And living under such a man was not a condition he would endure.
“So what do we do?” Buteo said, breaking into Rabirus’s consideration. “How do we stop him?”
“We delay him, as best we can, in whatever he means to do.” Rabirus’s lips twitched. “And then excoriate him for every flaw, every fault we can find.”
“Easy to say, harder to do,” Cornicen said. “He’s made some powerful strategic alliances. Aulus Vitellius and the Terentiae are hardly a surprise, liberally inclined as they are. And the Autroniae—”
Buteo made a choked noise. “Surely you don’t mean to consider them consequential? Peasant stock. Slave stock!”
“But they have many friends,” Rabirus said.
“And perhaps more importantly, a lot of money,” Cornicen added. “And then there are the Galeriae.”
“That’s the real trouble there,” Rabirus said, “that he should net such a powerful moderate, a man who ought to be standing with us, by all rights.”
Cornicen nodded, tossing an almond in the air and catching it. Buteo glared at the offending drupe. “It’s an interesting mix of allies. The power’s not all political, I mean. Four families with seven mages between them, in addition to his own sister.”
Buteo sniffed. “Female mages, for the most part, plus a child and a peasant.”
Rabirus shook his head. “Don’t be so short-sighted, Buteo. Just the fact that they’re god-touched at all will impress many.” Liberal or conservative, many Aventan plebs considered magically gifted families to be favored by the gods and therefore particularly fit to guide the nation. The aura of piety and authority extended from the mages to their kin.
“All he needs is for Quinta Terentia to smile at him in public,” Cornicen said, nodding towards the round roof of the Temple of Vesta, halfway down the Forum from where they stood, “and he’ll win over every pious-hearted equestrian in the city. They’ll think Vesta herself wants Sempronius Tarren to lead.”
Ocella had kept the temples in line with threats and bribes plus help from his own pet mages, but Rabirus knew that tension was unlikely to hold with the Dictator gone. They could not afford to overlook the symbolic power of Popularist mages. “As for the others, Marcia is perhaps the foremost Air mage in the city, Marcus Autronius is a well-respected Earth mage, and Vitellia Herenniae—”
He paused mid-thought, remembering the golden-haired Spirit mage as he had seen her on Capraia. The Dictator had never considered her a threat, as he had Marcia, but he had thought her worth further investigation. Rabirus had never been sure if that was strictly related to her talent or if it were a side effect of Ocella’s interest in her more tangible charms. ‘And which is it that Sempronius is interested in?’
Using Spirit magic to tamper with electors was illegal, of course, but that did not mean it had never been done, especially if the influence was spread well before the election. ‘Would he dare?’ But he hardly needed ask himself the question; Sempronius Tarren, he was convinced, would dare anything. Could she be convinced, then?
“What we need,” Rabirus said, “is a pet mage of our own.”
All three were quiet for a long moment, Rabirus in consideration, Buteo scuffing his sandals on the dusty ground. Then Cornicen, finally closing his pouch and tucking it back into his belt, said, “I may know someone. Walk with me.”
Buteo and Rabirus exchanged a curious glance, then followed Cornicen as he trotted off the steps of the Temple of Castor and started across the forum. They passed the three sacred plants, grape, fig, and olive, each bedecked with ribbons and offerings, and pushed through several knots of conversing men. The Forum was neither solely political grounds, nor just a collection of temples. Business of all kinds went on here, and every contract in the city had to be sealed in the Forum, or it was not valid. Rabirus’s lip curled at a group of bald-pated Abydosians negotiating with two togate men. ‘Shameful. They ought at least to have an Aventan factor to conduct business on their behalf. That foreigners can behave thusly, here, in the heart of Aven . . .’
Cornicen drew to a halt in front of the Temple of Janus. Its massive bronze gates were closed—for now. The Gates of War opened when Aven had active engagements. They had last been open when the Vendelicians stirred up trouble in Albina, but with the northern tribes quiet, they had closed. If Sempronius Tarren had his way, they would be flung wide in Iberia’s name by the end of the year.
“I want to be clear,” Cornicen said, rubbing his sandy hair with an expression of mild chagrin. “I may not favor his politics, but I wish Sempronius no ill will. What you do with the information I give you is your own business, but I want no part of it.”
“Very well, Cornicen, I understand,” Rabirus said, though in his heart he castigated the man for a lack of commitment. Protecting the mos maiorum was not work for the weak-willed.
Cornicen sighed, nodding his head towards the temple. “There’s a man in there, a priest by the name of Pinarius Scaeva.” Buteo jerked slightly; the name was inauspicious, unlucky. Cornicen shrugged. “You want dark deeds done? Ask a man with a dark nature.” Cornicen folded his arms, hugging his chest. “He’s a Fracture mage with . . . well, I suppose you’d have to call it skill, though what you make of a talent for destruction . . .” He shook his head. “I saw him at the rites of the Mundus last year. Apparently he insists on being the one to open the portal to the netherworld. No one else has done it as long as he’s held his position.”
That told Rabirus quite a bit about the man’s character. The Mundus was a subterranean gate located beneath the Temple of Janus, opened only three days a year—cursed days, nefasti, when unsettled spirits roamed the land of the living. The man who opened the gate risked his own soul. Just the thought made Rabirus shiver, despite the sun bearing down on them from the broad, empty sky.
“If anyone can disrupt Sempronius’s plans,” Cornicen said, “he’ll be able to. But it’ll cost you. From what I understand, Pinarius doesn’t come cheap.”
“It would be worth it,” Rabirus said. “Whatever it costs . . . it will be worth it.”
XIX
For the politically-minded in Aven, October was a whirlwind of negotiations, speech-making, and alliance-coagulating. As the month wore on, the women of the Vitellian household found themselves in the thick of it all. Aulus’s clients had proved ever more attentive since he had announced his candidacy for censor, turning up before dawn to await their chance to speak with him. Aulus had a reputation for beneficence towards those the Optimates deemed “the rabble.” Half of his clients were of families only in the first or second generation of holding Aventan citizenship—and many of those had relations still bearing only the lesser Truscan rights. Buteo’s proposals had them all anxious. Aulus’s election could secure a great many futures, and his clients were eager to make sure he was aware of their devotion.
Aula believed it was her filial duty to further the family’s ambitions, and she received visitors with Aulus or in his absence—not only clients, but allies as well. Though Alhena could scarce be coaxed from her room to assist, Latona spent many afternoons at Aula’s side, finding the entertainment better than what could be had at the Herennian domus.
Galerius came often, sometimes with his son in tow, discussing strategies for the election. General Strato blustered in on occasion, roaring amiably, as did Rufilius Albinicus, offering advice on Gaius’s military career and seeking news from Iberia. With him came his son, Young Rufilius, giving Aula someone to flutter her eyelashes at. The Autroniae
were frequent guests, and Felix gave Aula merry flirtations as well. If Latona happened to visit on the afternoons when both Felix and Rufilius were present, she could sometimes hardly breathe for laughing at their antics.
And Sempronius Tarren would stop by, to discuss matters military and political. Aula would laugh and tease and beg for Forum gossip, which Sempronius happily provided. Sempronius was even gracious enough to tolerate Lucia’s presence. He brought the little girl a toy model of a lion with moving arms and legs, which she now prized alongside her favorite doll. But sometimes, if Aula was napping or had wandered out on some errand or other, Latona would have a few precious moments alone with Sempronius.
Something had happened in the weeks since their strange conversation following the Cantrinalia. Their growing friendship spurred something warm inside her, an unexpected tenderness—but too, she felt freer in his presence. There was less need to draw down the persona of polished grace and cool regard that she found useful in other social situations. It was not merely a matter of relaxation: It was a liberty, to needle him and allow him to push back, a mutual challenge that sparked something in her mind and heated her blood.
She had a suspicion it was going too far.
With so many comings and goings, it was little surprise when the steward let Sempronius into their atrium shortly after the Ides of October. “I came to invite Aulus Vitellius and his daughters out for a walk,” he explained. “I have a new project in the works and would be grateful for your master’s opinion.”
“Dominus Vitellius is out for the afternoon, Senator,” the steward, Paenas, answered. “As for the ladies—”
“Alhena is indisposed!” Aula chirped, coming around the corner with Latona in tow. “But perhaps Latona and I could still join you, if you don’t mind strictly feminine companionship.”
Paenas fluttered a mild objection, though Latona wasn’t sure if it was more at their sudden appearance or at the suggestion that they join Sempronius without their father present. Sempronius, however, inclined his head politely. “I would be honored to escort you, ladies.”
Aula’s eyes flicked to Latona, then back to Sempronius, then a broad grin broke over her face. “Oh, no,” she said, in a tone that utterly failed to convey any sorrow, “I’m afraid I’ve just remembered. I’m due over at Maia Domitia’s this afternoon. Lucia’s such friends with her girls, you know, and she’s just got her heart set on seeing them. But we couldn’t possibly leave you bereft of company when you’ve come all this way, Senator. Latona, you should certainly go with him.”
Latona stared at her sister, shocked more at her utter lack of subtlety than at the suggestion that she alone should accompany Sempronius. For his part, Sempronius’s chest was shaking with suppressed laughter. “Well, Lady Aula, I shall mourn the loss of your excellent company.”
“And where will we be going?” Latona asked.
“I think I’ll keep it a secret,” Sempronius said, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “You’ll be perfectly safe, on my life . . . though I will caution that you may be dressed a touch too finely for the occasion.”
“She can borrow something plainer from me,” Aula offered, before Latona could get out so much as a word. “Come on, my dove, let’s alter your plumage.”
Once secluded in her own chamber, Aula wasted no time unpinning Latona’s stola and shucking it off her. “What in Juno’s name are you playing at?” Latona asked as Aula tossed the azure gown to Helva and went to a trunk to pull out a plainer garment. “That was somewhat lacking in your usual social grace.”
“Well,” Aula said, shrugging, “I had to think quickly—”
“You might’ve had longer if you hadn’t dragged me out of the library as soon as you heard him cross the threshold.”
“—And I told you we ought to cultivate Sempronius Tarren.”
“No, you told me I ought to cultivate him.”
“So?” Aula grinned brightly as she draped an unembellished stola of burgundy wool around her sister’s shoulders, fastening it with bronze pins. “I thought, after the Cantrinalia, that you’d taken my advice, and now here he’s given you a fine opportunity to gauge his mettle outside of the triclinium. And I can’t think you truly object to spending the afternoon with such an intriguing gentleman.”
Latona could feel her cheeks turning scarlet. Her heart had no objection at all, but good sense was willing to provide what instinct lacked. She had to hope the delight she took in Sempronius’s company wouldn’t be as obvious to anyone they encountered as it was to her sister. She settled her hands on her hips, though it was difficult to affect a stern demeanor when faced with Aula’s relentless cheerfulness. “Meeting him by chance on the way home was one thing, Aula, but this is quite another. It’s going to look like he’s—”
“Come courting?”
“No. I mean, yes! I mean—” She huffed. It was hard to think with Aula fluttering around her. “I am married, you recall?”
“Yes, you are married, to a man who’s chosen to forsake the city weeks before the first proper elections we’ve had in years. Who thinks it more important to look after his olive trees than his political future.” Aula snorted, snatching up a tawny mantle and pinning it into Latona’s hair. “As such, I think he could hardly fault you for doing what you can to further strategic alliances for the rest of the family. You do have Father and Gaius to think about.”
“You might be surprised to learn that Herennius’s ideas of what he can fnd fault with differ somewhat from yours.”
Aula spun Latona around, fussed with her curls, and smoothed out her mantle. “In that case, I see no reason why your husband ever need know about the friendships you choose to nurture on your family’s behalf.”
“And what do I do when gossips’ tongues start wagging?”
“It isn’t as though you won’t have Merula with you. Feisty little thing makes a perfect chaperone.” She pinched color into Latona’s cheeks, making her yelp. “Go on now. I expect to hear everything when you return.”
* * *
Latona and Sempronius, with Merula trailing behind them, stepped out under a sky heavy-hung with gray clouds. As October dwindled away, autumn’s fingers had finally reached down into Aven. The pines that dominated much of Truscum stayed evergreen, but other trees burst into flagrant color, then shrunk to brittle spindles. Even in downpours, the Forum had been crowded with candidates hawking their platforms, surrounded by clients and detractors alike. Latona expected that Sempronius would lead her in that direction, but instead, they turned south and west, towards the Aventine Hill and the Tiber River. “Don’t worry, Lady Latona,” he said, as they passed the Circus Maximus, “I’m not leading you down towards the docks—though I do have some projects ongoing there as well.”
“You’ve been a busy man, Senator.”
“What was it the old Athaecan fabulist said, of the noble virtues of the bees? Ever busy is ever happy?”
“Then you must be the happiest man in Aven,” she teased.
“Not yet, Lady Latona,” he answered, inclining his head towards her with a playfully conspiratorial smile. “Not quite yet.” He helped her down from the uneven bit of sidewalk where a tangle of sidestreets collided, then tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow as they went on—an intimate gesture that Latona was only too happy to indulge. Merula coughed meaningfully behind them, but Latona ignored her. She was too delighted with him and with this adventure.
They skirted the Circus Maximus. Outside the Temple of Hercules, a plebeian Light mage was performing some basic illusions to the delight of a knot of squealing children, while their nursemaid, a flaxen-haired girl with a northern look to her, tried unsuccessfully to herd them away. Latona was glad when Sempronius took the path closer to the wharves rather than the temple-lined street closer to the Circus: the neighborhood was less savory and potentially more dangerous, but so alive! Sempronius pointed out the s
ails of a few boats that were known to him, those which brought Abydosian goods up from Aven’s main port of Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber. Here was the lifeblood of the Aventan Republic, its vigor flowing in from a hundred sources. However unorthodox the outing, Latona beamed with pleasure, enjoying the simple, everyday chaos of the streets.
The Aventine Hill was, like the city at large, a strange mix of grandiose and grubby. Even the patrician domuses here were smaller, older, crowded closer together than those on the northern hills. Nothing on the lower end, here by the river, had been allowed to become decrepit; the area near the Hut of the Twins was still revered, and the neighborhood collegia kept things in line. It was a different story on the southern side of the hill.
Before dog-legging up the hill, the lane opened up into a small forum in front of the temple complex dedicated to Ceres, Liber, and Libera, the plebeian counterparts to the supreme triad of Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva who sat atop the Capitoline. The three temples stood at right angles to one another, with a great open area and a decorative fountain in the middle. On this afternoon, however, the space was filled with a hundred tables, around which a crowd thronged. Slaves carried trays and platters back and forth, so that the assembly could eat their fill. “A public feast?” Latona asked. “It’s not a holiday. Is this your doing?”
“A small portion of what I owe to them. Ocella robbed me of the chance to throw games and feasts during my aedileship. I am trying, in some minute way, to make it up to them now.” Sempronius had a brightness in his cheeks as he regarded the crowd. “These people are the backbone of Aven, little credit though they get for it. They deserve recognition.”
“And hoping that they’ll remember your beneficence in two months’ time?” Sempronius inclined his head in recognition. “It’s a magnificent sort of bribery.” Not only bread, nuts, cheeses, and vegetables, but roast fowl and boar, fresh fruit, goose eggs, fish, mushrooms, and delicate honeyed pastries loaded the tables. Latona even saw a dish of snails go by—an extravagance most citizens of the Aventine could only dream of tasting.