From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  * * *

  A less perceptive man might have taken her for sincere. Sempronius did not think Rabirus missed the sarcasm. ‘What a lioness.’ Latona would have stood by him and given Rabirus the tongue-lashing he desperately deserved—a boldness he had long sensed in her but knew she had suppressed for most of her life. ‘How glad I am to know Ocella was not able to douse that fire, even when it was kept to embers.’ As she disappeared up the street, Sempronius forced himself not to watch her, instead letting his gaze drift appraisingly over Rabirus.

  The two men stood in simmering silence for a moment before Rabirus said, “So. Feasting the plebs. At considerable expense, I would guess. Your ambition is considerable.”

  “I seek to do well by my city and my gods,” Sempronius said. “The citizens of the Aventine deserve as much recognition and honor as those who live on the Palatine or the Caelian.”

  Rabirus’s nostrils flared. “You flatter these menials to buy yourself an election.”

  “Their votes are their own,” Sempronius returned, “but it is the business of a politician to demonstrate that he will best represent their interests.”

  “Pandering.” Rabirus’s lip curled into its familiar sneer. “You cannot convince them to support you on your merits, so you toss them trinkets and promise them the moon. You are the weaker for it—and they are the worse off for allowing themselves so cravenly to be bought.”

  “If you think that,” Sempronius said, “you have even less understanding of this city than I credited.” It was not only the insult to so much of the city that infuriated Sempronius, but the stubborn blindness to intrinsic worth; the utter inability to value what other people could do. Men like Rabirus, with their insular arrogance, jeopardized the city’s future.

  “This is the same belief, I take it, that drives you to such demagoguery in the Forum.”

  “You may call it what you like. But I have at all times acted in accordance with the laws of our ancestors and the will of the gods.”

  “Not just ambitious,” Rabirus said, stepping swiftly forward, “but arrogant. I’ve warned you before, Sempronius Tarren, what the gods think of men who overreach.”

  Sempronius did not flinch. “And the very moment they reveal their displeasure to me, I assure you, I shall alter my course.”

  Rabirus opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, with an odd satisfaction in his eye that Sempronius found concerning. When he spoke again, his tone was too placid, too falsely harmonious. “Well. I’m sure we’re all eager to find out what else you have in store.” He turned to leave, then said over his shoulder, as his clients hastily rearranged themselves around him, “And I will be keeping a close eye on your projects, I assure you.”

  XX

  As Latona stalked home, she felt the tingling in her fingers that she had come to recognize as a warning. Rabirus’s words had ignited the fire in her blood, and her indignation gave the violent magic space to rise, hot and insistent. ‘Domestic felicity, indeed.’ It was too like Aemilia Fullia’s chastisement and too presumptuous by half, even if he weren’t a vile specimen to begin with. ‘And bringing Herennius into it, as though—’ She could feel her nostrils flare in irritation, not least because, as righteously indignant as she wanted to be, she knew her emotions regarding Sempronius fell short of the chastity expected of Aventan matrons.

  Desperate for an outlet other than arson, she went to her own home rather than her father’s and sat down at the loom, hoping busy hands might forestall another flagrant catastrophe.

  The shuttle flew beneath her fingertips. Through weaving, Latona could refocus her energy, bleeding off the heat of her anger and entwining it instead into constructive magic. ‘And anyway, Gaius must be needing new tunics and socks.’ Women often provided the men of their family with clothing when they went on campaign, and in the Vitelliae household, that duty often fell to Latona because of her gifts. She was not particularly clever with needle and thread, nor even a very swift weaver, but her talents gave something more to the garments than style or form: she could give them protection.

  No one quite knew the reason, but magic and the battlefield never went well together, at least not directly. Mars was jealous of his domain, and since he blessed no mages, he would not allow them to tip the scales of war. The annals of history were full of tales of men being sucked dry by the effort. Summon a fire, and it would flare back in your face. Summon a gale, and find yourself blown away by it. Summon the rocks to hurl against your enemy, and find the ground opening into an endless maw beneath your own feet. Disaster befell every man who made the attempt.

  Mages might duel in private—indeed, such spectacles were often staged as part of public games and festivals—but never on the battlefield. According to the priests, magic in warcraft was a right the gods reserved for themselves, and they did not take it kindly when mortals usurped that power.

  Fire, though, retained a connection to the battlefield, albeit in an oblique way. Fire was the dominion not only of Venus but of her husband Vulcan, forger of the weapons of the gods. Used defensively, Fire magic could make a tremendous difference on the battlefield, so long as its power was placed in protection, not in weaponry. As such, one of the chief functions of the Temple of Vulcan was to oversee the blessings of military gear. Generals made sacrifices there before setting out on campaign, to ask that their legions’ weapons be sharp, their armor sound, their endurance unflinching.

  Every legionary tried to have at least one item of his kit blessed, though it was, of course, best to have it created by someone with magical talent. Many legionaries, even those who came from humble backgrounds, considered it well worth the investment to visit a Fire-forger as soon as they had the sesterii to spare. These men would put their gifts into every scale of a legionary’s segmented armor. For the right price. Others, whose craftsmanship ran in a different direction, sold amulets and charms; these were far less expensive than armor, and even the most impecunious soldier generally managed to hang at least one about his neck. It wasn’t always enough; men still died, even in enchanted gear, but it did help to turn blades, to resist blows, to reduce the damage done by wounds.

  According to Gaius Vitellius, the choice could be an important illumination of a man’s character. It said a lot about a man if, for instance, he chose to have his sword blessed instead of his shield. But the very canniest legionaries, in Gaius’s opinion, hied themselves not to a Fire-forger, but rather to an Earth mage, and got their caligae, their hob-nailed leather sandals, blessed. “Nothing,” Gaius had written to his sisters after his hike from Legio VIII’s camp to Nedhena, “is more important than taking care of your feet.” Latona easily understood how that could be so. The legions marched everywhere they went. Only the senior legates and the generals rode horses. Everyone else walked. A Fire-forger’s protection charms could guard against injury to the feet, but for the promise of comfort, to escape blisters and bunions and aches of all kinds, smart soldiers went to the Priestesses of Ceres and asked that their shoes, which would have so much connection with the mother earth in the months and years ahead, not fail them.

  Latona’s gifts fell more naturally under Venus’s domain than Vulcan’s, but she could still work protective Fire magic when she wove. It was not quite as vital as armor or a shield, but, all the same, a man could go nowhere without a tunic, and so it might as well be a magically enhanced one. Latona’s tunic would keep Gaius warm and dry in damp weather; with Fire’s power for purification, it would resist the grime and filth that could lead to infection if he got wounded. It would give him a boost of courage and faith, a sense that victory was possible, when most he needed the bolster. With such methods, the Aventan armies conquered, even without using magic in battle itself. It had worked for centuries, it would work now.

  And so, as Latona’s fingers flew, she let herself fall into a deep concentration. The work put her in a sort of meditative haze, bearing the sense of peace an
d contentment she felt when the magic found its natural channels. Latona let the shuttle rock back and forth through her hands, pulling the crimson threads tightly together. She whispered prayers as she wove, and her fingers tingled with a slight reddish glow—the proof of Fire magic at work and under her control.

  Hours passed, and it was well into the evening before footsteps brought her out of her work—fast, light steps, padding rapidly from the atrium, with a more even set behind them. Then a cheerful voice calling, “Aunt Lala, Aunt Lala!”

  Latona froze, set oddly off-kilter by the imposition into her pleasantly thoughtless cocoon. Slightly dizzied as she surfaced from the magically induced haze, Latona became aware of the weariness in her hands, the prickling pain in her fingers, the ache in her shoulders and neck. Then she let the shuttle rest, turning just as her niece hurtled into the room, with Aula’s voice echoing from the atrium. “Lucia, do not run—”

  Latona was blinking rapidly, trying to re-accustom her vision to something other than the back-and-forth motion of the thread. Oblivious, Lucia crawled right up into her lap. “Aunt Lala, Gera helped me learn a poem. Do you want to hear?”

  “Aunt Lala” was a nickname generated before Lucia could pronounce Latona’s full name, but it had stuck, and Latona now suspected she would bear it until Lucia’s maturity. Trying to ground herself back in the moment, she stroked Lucia’s hair. “I would indeed, darling. What did Gera teach you?”

  “She said it’s called the ‘Poem of the Nine.’” Latona nodded. Lucia’s foreign-born nursemaid might not know the significance, but the Poem of the Nine was a typical component of every Aventan’s early religious education.

  “Go on then, little love.”

  Lucia interlaced her fingers, worrying her lower lip, then took a deep, searching breath and started. “Earth supports, Air directs; Water nourishes, Fire protects; Spirit inspires, Light reveals; Time measures, Shadow conceals; Fracture marks the lines between; Thus do all the Nine convene.” Then she blinked large blue eyes up at Latona. “Was that right?”

  “Exactly so.”

  As Latona was pressing a kiss to her niece’s forehead, Aula strode into the room, looking harried. “I’m sorry, Latona, she got ahead of me, and then Merula didn’t want to let me in, but when I heard how long you’d been at it, I decided that was—Oh, Bona Dea,” Aula lamented, crinkling her nose at the loom. “I’ve a message from Father, but I didn’t imagine I’d find you quite so . . . domestic. Please tell me that’s not for Herennius. I don’t know if I could bear being in the presence of such a display of marital devotion.”

  “It’s for Gaius,” Latona chided. “To send to him in Iberia.” It felt so strange to focus on something other than the back-and-forth motion of the thread, it almost hurt to look at anything else, and Latona rubbed at her eyes with the heels of both hands.

  Aula’s tone changed. “Oh. I’m sorry, you were in the middle of something, weren’t you?”

  “No, no, it’s best you interrupted me,” Latona said, still rubbing. “It wouldn’t do for me to lose myself like this for much longer. I’d sleep for a week after.”

  Aula came to sit next to Latona. “Well, it’s good of you to be doing it,” Aula said. Lucia peered with interest at the loom. Latona gathered she didn’t often see one in use in her mother’s home. Aula had such distaste for it, and for Alhena, the repetitive motion might trigger a prophetic trance—not an endeavor undertaken lightly—so most of the weaving for the Vitellian household took place in the slave quarters.

  ‘I should teach the girl, though,’ Latona thought, as Lucia reached a tentative hand up to stroke the crimson wool. ‘She might end up hating it as much as her mother, but she at least ought to have the skill to her name. She’ll be five soon. That’s not too young to start.’ Latona handed her niece a ball of wool to pluck at and stretch out, then asked Aula, “You came for a reason, I take it?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I did,” Aula said. “Father wants us. Both of us. He sent Haelix to fetch me from Maia Domitia’s, with instructions to collect you on the way.”

  Latona stood up quickly. Their father was not given to summoning them from work or leisure. “What’s wrong?”

  “He didn’t say. He came home with a letter of some sort. Apparently it warrants discussion.”

  * * *

  When Latona and Aula entered their father’s house, he was in the garden with Alhena. Lines of worry creased his face. “Girls. Sit down, please.” All three daughters dropped themselves onto couches, and then Aulus turned to Helva, Merula, and Mus. “You may go.” Aula and Latona exchanged nervous looks. Aulus rarely bothered to dismiss attendants, ever-ubiquitous in a wealthy Aventan household. Whatever he needed to talk to them about was either deeply personal or of great import. “I’ve had a letter about your brother.”

  “About?” Latona echoed. “Not from?”

  Aulus shook his head. “A magistrate in Tarraco sent it. I didn’t want to worry you three, but I last heard from Gaius a few weeks ago, when he was about to set out from Nedhena. And now it seems . . . there was a storm.” Alhena made a strangled little noise, prompting both Aula and Latona to swiftly relocate to either side of her. With a stricken expression, Aulus rushed on. “He’s fine! At least, he made it safely to shore. Lost a few men on the way, but not so many as he might’ve. And Gaius is fine.” Whether from release or sheer emotional stress, Alhena slumped, not quite fainting, but simply as though all strength had flooded out of her at once. Aula put an arm around her to keep her upright, and Aulus looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, my dears, I’m a bit flustered, and it’s making me tell the story out of the proper order. The storms forced them to put in farther north.”

  Fanning Alhena’s face, Latona said, “There, dear, you hear? Gaius is fine. Nothing happened.” She looked back at her father, hoping that the rest of the story would help calm Alhena. “Why didn’t he write himself?”

  “Apparently there was some rush,” Aulus said, his eyes on his youngest daughter. “Should I call for—”

  “She’s fine,” Aula said, jostling Alhena a bit. For her part, Alhena wiped her eyes and made an attempt to sit up under her own strength.

  Aulus hemmed for a moment, then went on. “Well. When Gaius landed, he learned there was no time to spare. Word had already spread that far of tribesmen ravaging the local populations around Toletum.”

  “Toletum?” Latona asked. Though her gasp of Iberian geography was far from perfect, she did know that Toletum was near the center of the peninsula. “I thought it was the Lusetani giving them trouble,” Latona said. “Aren’t they further west?”

  “Clear on the other side of the mountains,” Aulus said. “But it seems this Ekialde character has inspired others. The Vettoni in the central mountains are in revolt and warring against our allies the Arevaci.” He sighed, and took a letter out of the folds of his toga. “The magistrate says Gaius hardly had time to pause in Tarraco on his way down the coast, but Gaius asked him to pass the message along. He doesn’t want to take two spare cohorts to face a full-scale revolt—if it is that—so he’s trying to rustle up the allied tribes. He will write himself as soon as he can.”

  “But the magistrate would have written . . .” Aula did the calculation in her head. “Nine days ago? Ten?”

  “Closer to fifteen,” Aulus said. “The seas have stayed so rough, the ships have been crossing slowly.”

  “He could be halfway to Toletum by now, then,” Aula said.

  “He could be dead by now,” Alhena whispered.

  All four Vitelliae remained quiet for a moment, neither willing to confirm that possibility, nor to risk the gods’ ill favor by denying it. “Well,” Aulus said after a moment, “if he did manage to write before heading inland, we should know in another two weeks. If he didn’t . . . we shall just have to wait.” He cleared his throat, and stood up a little straighter. “In the meantime, I’ll be readin
g this to the Senate,” he said, voice suddenly fierce. “I fear we have been grievously underestimating the situation in Iberia. If this many tribes are involved, if the fire from these Lusetani is spreading within the borders of our provinces . . .” He shook his head. “It must be seen to. I can hardly blame Governor Sallust for not wanting to abandon his post in Albina, but that no one else is willing to stir more than a few cohorts is flatly absurd. And with Vendelicia so quiet—”

  Aula’s mind was working fast, figuring out which of her acquaintances she could press, whether the wives and sisters of important men, or the senators themselves. A personal appeal always helped, and with her brother now in harm’s way, she felt certain she could conjure up just the sort of emotional overtures which would tug at a few well-placed heartstrings. Alhena was still shaking with terror, too stricken by the idea of her brother Gaius dying at sea to follow the thoughts through to what might happen to him in battle. It was Latona who spoke. “They won’t want war now,” she said. “Not with the city still struggling to get back on its feet. They’ll say our resources must stay here.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, my dear,” Aulus said, sighing. “We shall just have to find the right method of persuasion.”

  “May I?” Aula asked. Aulus nodded, and as she read, with Latona peering over her shoulder, Aulus paced about the garden, wondering how he could best serve his country and protect his only son at the same time.