by Cass Morris
“Only the unscrupulous bribe outright,” Sempronius said. “I prefer the indirect method.” He gestured out at the scene. “Shall we?”
“Indeed.”
Latona was surprised at how many people Sempronius already knew, not only the wealthier merchants, but also the lower orders of shopkeepers and artisans. ‘He seems so at ease here, with them all.’ It ought to have been incongruous, for a man of such prestige and such ancient family to seem more comfortable moving among the people of the Aventine than he did in the finest patrician dining rooms, and yet, for Sempronius, it felt entirely right. Latona took pleasure in watching him in his element—and more, each time he put her on his arm or placed a hand at her waist to gently steer her around the crowd. He was treating her, she realized, the way Lucius Quinctilius had always treated Aula: keeping her close at hand, introducing her to his friends, sharing jokes and private observations with her. And, so casually that it had almost not occurred to her to notice, he was treating her not as a guest but as a partner.
‘What would it be like,’ she wondered, her heart giving a pang at the thought, ‘if this were my everyday?’
When they drew near the platform at the top of the courtyard, Sempronius paused, adjusting his toga slightly. “I did the formal dedication of the feast this morning, of course, but not all of them have camped out here all day. So, if you will permit me, I shall leave you in Merula’s excellent care, just for a moment.”
As Sempronius ascended the platform, a nearby attendant blew on a horn for attention. The plebeian crowd fell, if not silent, at least quieter, considering that a few minutes of listening to a speech was a small price to pay for a free meal. “Good people of the Aventine!” His voice carried as easily as it had the night of the riots—a commander’s voice. Latona flushed with admiration. “I am Vibius Sempronius Tarren, and I bid you enjoy this feast, given in the names of Ceres, Liber, and Libera, protectors of you all!” This met with a good-natured cheer, which Sempronius allowed to subside before repeating the general dedication of a feast to the gods.
Latona kept her eyes resolutely forward, looking at the assembled plebs rather than Sempronius. She sent out little tendrils of Spirit magic, reading the mood of the crowd. She found it contented and appreciative, if not overwhelmingly enthused. The people of the Aventine were a notoriously tough crowd, proud of the lives they built for themselves and disdainful of attempts to influence them. They were not so easily bought as the Optimates claimed.
Latona again felt that desire to help where she could. As at the Esquiline riot, she knew herself unable to influence an entire crowd at once. ‘And that might, technically, be perceived as illegally tampering with an election, in these circumstances.’ But she could, perhaps, give Sempronius a little nudge.
And so, even as she began to turn the golden tendrils of her Spirit magic towards boosting him, Sempronius finished his invocations and glanced around at the temples. “And yet, citizens, friends, I think we owe the gods more.” A bit of a curious murmur arose. “For look—” With his right hand, he gestured at the three surrounding porticos. “Their houses fade and crack! Is this right and proper for the goddess whose bounty has allowed our city to grow? Whose beneficence nourishes you even today? Is this right and proper,” Sempronius asked, curling his free hand into a fist, “for the god and goddess who guarantee you your rights? Your votes? Your freedom?”
The cries of “No!” were loud and forceful. Latona could feel a swell in the assembly; pride and indignation mixed together.
“No, it is not!” Sempronius echoed. “And I mean to remedy it. I vow to you, I will see these temples restored to glory!” That elicited some cheers. Latona spun the positive energy back around, funneling it towards Sempronius. “My men have already begun work restoring the friezes depicting Ceres’s search for her daughter. They should, fittingly, be completed by spring.”
There was applause, and pounding of tables, and a few cries of his name, a few of “Liber!” and “Aventine!” Sempronius let it go on a moment, echoing out into the street beyond, then raised his hand to call again for quiet. Latona gave him another encouraging push of energy. He seemed to stand taller, his eyes shone with bold intent, and even his toga seemed brighter, gleaming as though the sun shone on marble, not on chalked wool.
“But this is not all I mean to do!” he announced. “I shall not only restore these fine and ancient temples to the dignity they ought to own, but I intend to construct a new temple as well—a temple to Victoria!”
‘Oh dear,’ Latona thought, mildly concerned that she may have overdone it on the magical encouragement. ‘I hope he had already intended to do that .’
He went on: “A temple to honor the spirit that has carried our people forward through the centuries. A temple to honor the legions, the men who defend our borders and expand our realm. A temple to honor the greatness of the city—this city, this grand nation, born here on the Aventine!”
‘Neatly done,’ Latona thought. He could certainly not manage to build a whole new temple before the elections, but the promise was a brilliant one, and all the more because he had so deftly linked the city’s welfare and the Aventine’s pride to the idea of conquest by the legions.
“I thank you all for your time,” Sempronius said, “and most humbly implore you to continue to live good lives, do your duty to the state, and show all devotion and piety to the gods.” With a final wave, Sempronius stepped down from the platform, returning to Latona’s side.
It took them some time to make their way out of the Aventine Triad complex, with even more men and women coming forward to speak to Sempronius or press his hand. When they finally did emerge, Sempronius took a moment to divest himself of the cumbersome toga candida, handing it over to his attendant.
“My apologies,” he said, taking her arm again, “but they expect such things, from the host of the feast.”
“Of course,” Latona said, smiling. “You’re quite entertaining to watch.”
“I’m pleased you think so!” he laughed. “I confess it can be wearying, day in and out in the Forum. I think I prefer speaking to the people more informally.”
Remembering his casual familiarity with the men of the Esquiline college, Latona nodded. “Aula used to drag me along to the Forum to watch Quinctilius speak, but he never had the gift for oratory.”
“My father thought it the most important component of my education,” Sempronius said. “‘Words move the people,’ he said. He hired so many rhetoricians that there were hardly enough hours in the day for all my lessons.”
Latona tilted her head; Sempronius had never spoken to her of his father, not that she could remember, nor of his childhood. She knew little of Old Vibius, who had been a venerated elder before her own father had ever entered the Senate. “He must have been quite devoted to your education.”
“He was devoted to making sure neither Vibia nor I embarrassed our ancient name,” Sempronius said. “Well. Three wives pre-deceased him, and he only had the two of us to show for it. By the time I came along, I think he knew there weren’t going to be any other opportunities for legacy, so he invested quite a lot in making sure I came up to scratch. Nothing less than perfection for the scion of one of Aven’s founding families.”
Latona sensed an unusual emotion in that moment, far more tender and quiet than she was used to from him. Sempronius typically exuded an aura of unshakable solidity, so confident and forthright. Even when relaxed and among friends, he never seemed less than entirely self-possessed and sure of his place in the universe. Not many, she guessed, had the opportunity to glimpse what lay beneath that conviction. ‘What a privilege.’
They turned uphill, towards the Aqua Appia. “I can’t imagine he could have found fault with you,” Latona said. “I’m sure he was very proud.”
“He died before I had made anything of myself,” Sempronius said, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I hadn�
��t even been selected as a military tribune yet. He knew the path he had set me on, though, and I believe he died with confidence I would achieve what was necessary.” His faraway gaze dissolved into a smile. “Though I confess, I hope to outstrip even his expectations. And this will be a start.” He guided Latona off the road and onto a broad, rocky outcrop of undeveloped land. “Here. Future site of the Temple to Victoria Gloriana.”
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the location. “It has a good view of the river.”
“Not that the docks are always much to look at, as I’m well aware.” He nodded in the direction of his own home, not much farther up the hill. “But see if you can picture this. The entrance there, then long porticos with columns of Abydosian granite, and along the sides, murals detailing Aven’s greatest military victories. Veii, Vocontia, Callipolis, the Padus River.” Sempronius spoke the names like they were his intimate friends. “And the more recent as well—the Tyrian Wars, the conquests of Athaeca and Albina, and, gods willing, the restoration of order to Iberia.” He put a hand at the small of her back and guided her in a half circle. His head dipped next to hers, close enough to set her heart into a rapid patter, as he pointed across the outcrop at a space between two spindly trees. “The cella with her statue there, so that the rising sun will fall on Victoria’s face—but anyone paying homage to her will have to face west.”
“Towards your victories,” Latona commented, smiling over her shoulder at him.
“Naturally,” Sempronius replied. His hand, Latona realized, was still around her, and she had no desire to move away. Quite the opposite: she found herself fighting the maddening instinct to curl into him and rest her head on his shoulder. “It’s hard to envision now, I know. I’ll have to show you some of the sketches my architects have done.”
Just as Latona was wondering if she were far more affected by their cozy proximity than he was, Sempronius turned to face her. When their eyes met, Latona felt a swell of emotion from him, so passionate it near staggered her. ‘Oh . . .’
His fingers came up to her face, as though to brush a hair back behind her ear, but hovered there, untouching. For a moment, Latona wondered if he were going to kiss her. For a moment, she desperately wanted him to—but then a crashing noise from somewhere downhill made them both look away, shattering the illusory privacy of the moment.
At the stark reminder that they were in public view, Latona drew back from him in an attempt to reassert some form of propriety. “Well, I eagerly anticipate the project’s completion.” She swiveled to take his arm, and they started towards the southern slope, back towards the Palatine Hill. “You’re doing incredible work.”
“You could, too, you know.”
“I’m hardly likely to contribute to the city’s architectural glory.”
“I don’t mean in that way.”
“I know you don’t.” Latona pressed her lips thin. “Perhaps I shall.” She caught his grin out of the corner of her eye. He had been expecting another demurral; the idea that she had surprised him was strangely satisfying.
By the time they reached the south end of the Circus Maximus, not far from her father’s house, darker clouds were gathering overhead, suggesting another rain storm would not be long off. Sempronius pulled her aside, out of the street, to stand beneath a juniper tree whose branches swayed with the strengthening breeze. “Lady Latona. I hope you believe you can trust me.”
A heat rose in her blood that had nothing to do with unruly magic. ‘Yes, Sempronius Tarren, I would trust you if I had the liberty to do so . . . but what trouble that might cause, I don’t know if I am prepared to find out . . .’
Before she could make any answer, Merula rushed forward, taking Latona’s arm from Sempronius’s and pulling her aside. “My apologies, Senator,” she muttered, “but you should see—” As Latona turned to see what had put her companion into a panic, a sudden darkness clouded Sempronius’s face.
“Sempronius Tarren.” Rabirus, accompanied by several tough-looking clients, had joined them on the knoll at the crossroads, and between their own absorption in conversation and the bustle of Aventan life around them, they had not noticed his approach until he was nearly upon them.
Unable to keep her expression from displaying her disdain, Latona felt her lip curl as Rabirus drew nearer. For her, Rabirus was a reminder of Ocella’s court and things best left in the past, and she could not swallow her discomfiture at his unexpected presence. Sempronius, however, greeted him with all outward semblances of civility. “Lucretius Rabirus. Hail and well met.”
“And Lady . . . Vitellia Herenniae, I believe?” Hearing the marital form of her name, which she never used, either formally or informally, irked her, almost as much as that he should pretend not to know her, but she nodded. “What brings you to such an unconventional promenade?”
“I might ask you the same,” Sempronius said. He moved forward, placing himself between her and Rabirus. “I would ask if you were merely strolling this area for pleasure, but considering your dress and your entourage, I must assume you’re about on business.” For Rabirus was togate, fully swathed in the red-bordered senatorial garb.
“I heard there was quite a to-do on the Aventine,” Rabirus said. “I thought it would behoove me to check in. The last thing any of us want is more unpleasantness such as followed Dictator Ocella’s funeral.”
“Then I am happy to put your mind at ease. It is no riot, but a feast thrown in honor of the Aventine Triad,” Sempronius lifted his chin in anticipatory defiance. “At my expense.”
Rabirus gave little outward sign of consternation, but a few of the men behind him shifted subtly into a fighting posture. Close beside Latona, Merula tensed. “Be ready, Domina,” she whispered. “If trouble starts, you run.”
“You have been such a busy man,” Rabirus said. An echo of Latona’s earlier words, but from Rabirus, they oozed with vitriol. “It’s difficult to keep up with all of your good works.”
“And yet you have spared them such attention,” Sempronius said. “With such administrative dedication. Why, I think I should put out that I’m supporting you for urban praetor.” A twitch in Rabirus’s cheek indicated that he had caught the implication. The position, though critical to the city, was known to be exhausting, expensive, and largely thankless. “I would be happy to share my thoughts on what else needs improvement. So much got neglected these past few years, as you no doubt know. The road to Ostia, perhaps? Improving the drainage of the Cloaca Maxima? Or perhaps you’re more interested in pure construction. I’ve spoken to architects from Abydosia about tenement conditions in the Subura—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Rabirus’s gaze went beyond Sempronius, lingering on Latona in a way that that she found too bold. She resisted the urge to pull her mantle closer about her shoulders, instead clenching her hands into fists as she tried to avert her Fire magic causing another accidental conflagration. “Lady Vitellia, I wonder that it did not occur to you that your presence at such an event might be inappropriate.”
Latona lifted her eyebrows. “I had no idea the Aventine had been declared off-limits to women. What a disappointment for the thousands of them who reside there.” Rabirus’s silence managed to convey how little her quip impressed him. Though Latona knew she ought to feign meekness, as she had so often done to escape notice in Ocella’s court, she could not seem to govern her tongue sufficiently. “If the Senator has been good enough to indulge my interest in his charitable works, I hardly think that a matter for intervention.”
“Cavorting about the lesser neighborhoods of the city is most unusual for a patrician woman.”
Latona felt her temper rising. “Unusual is not unfit.” She knew how to quiet the heated emotions, knew how to bite her tongue and endure humiliations, had done so over and over again for years. ‘But why should I answer insult with civility? Not now, not any longer. Not for such a vile creature as Rabirus.’
As much curiosity as contempt lived in Rabirus’s eyes as they roved over her. “And just because a thing is not forbidden does not mean that it is proper. The place for a patrician woman is in her home, seeing to domestic felicity.” Rabirus’s eyes flicked meaningfully towards Sempronius. “I wonder what your husband thinks of your dabbling in such curious matters, and with such company.”
“I’m sure you are the very last person whose opinion I would—”
Sempronius touched Latona’s shoulder. “Lady Latona,” he said in a low voice, “you should go.”
“I can hold my own, if that’s what—”
“I have no doubt.” The shadow of a smile touched the corner of Sempronius’s mouth; Latona dared to hope it might be born of pride. “But he’s here for me, and he’s not likely to let us alone until he gets whatever it is he came for.”
“I would stand with you,” she replied in a fierce whisper, “and I have things of my own to say to that man.”
“Latona.” Her empathic magic felt a sudden flare from Sempronius: fear, little though she would have expected it. Fear for her and for what he might do if Rabirus menaced her further. “He’s baiting you to get a rise out of me, and if he keeps it up, I am likely to satisfy him in that respect.”
She pressed her lips in a tight line. However great the temptation to give Rabirus a piece of her mind, she would not want Sempronius to bear the indignity of losing his composure on her behalf. “Then I shall choose a more advantageous field of battle for that conversation.”
The sharpness of his fear, prickling at her senses, gave way to relief. “Thank you.” Despite Rabirus’s presence, he risked taking her hand and pressing it briefly. “I regret that our afternoon must end so abruptly. I shall endeavor to make it up to you.”
Latona gestured to Merula, stepped around Sempronius, and addressed Rabirus again, in a voice of perfect honey. “Senator, I thank you. Your consideration for the welfare of Aven extends to the moral virtue of every citizen, it appears. I shall take myself home to contemplate what damage my uncommon proclivities might do to the threads which bind our nation together.” Head bowed, hands folded together in front of her, Latona floated on down the street, Merula, still tense, at her side.