by Cass Morris
“Then I shall confess, there has been someone nudging me along.” Her mouth crinkled up at one end. “Someone . . . intriguing.”
Rubellia’s soft bistre eyes were full of understanding. “A male someone, unless I miss my guess. And not your husband?”
Latona chewed her lip, thinking of scintillating dinner conversations and walking up and down the less fashionable hills. Of a man who wanted so much for himself, with such determination, who looked out at the city of Aven and saw limitless potential. Of the strength of his belief in his ability to effect the necessary changes—and the strength of his belief in her.
She nodded.
Rubellia stared at her in a way that actually reminded Latona of Sempronius. They both had a way of looking into a person. But where Sempronius had a needle-focused intensity, Rubellia’s method was softer. She did not cut through to secrets, but simply waited, so kind and understanding, until you felt there was no need to hide them. “Oh, my dear,” she said at last. “You are in trouble, aren’t you?”
“If I’m not yet,” Latona said, “I’m at least pointed in that direction.”
Rubellia plucked at a bunch of grapes thoughtfully, rolling one purple fruit between her fingers. “This potential paramour . . . would he be free to return your affections, if you could give them openly?”
“He would.” Sempronius had not been married since before Ocella’s dictatorship, when Aebutia had died. Latona had often wondered why he hadn’t found himself a new wife, as eligible as he was. Certainly no few society dames cast their eyes at him, on their own behalf as often as their unmatched daughters’. And yet, for years now, Sempronius had remained solus.
“Then, if I may make so bold as to suggest it, my honey, I must suspect that it is not truly Herennius that’s holding you back. If he were all—well, that could be dealt with easily enough. A bit of fuss, for certain, some inconvenience and awkward questions—but wouldn’t that be worth it?” She popped a grape daintily in her mouth.
Latona fussed with her woolen wrap, twitching it into a more pleasing arrangement. “You’re right,” she confessed. “But it isn’t only that. The man in question comes with . . . complications of his own.” Rubellia nodded, still chewing on her grapes; her silence encouraged Latona to fill the space. “He is . . . quite political.”
“So is your family.”
A soft snort escaped Latona. “Not like he is.”
“Your father may well be censor soon.”
“It still doesn’t . . .” Latona shook her head. “My father and brother have their goals, but their ambition compared to this man’s is as . . . as a hearth fire to the sun.” Rubellia’s eyebrows perked up. “Taking up with him would mean thrusting myself into quite a lot of chaos.” She remembered Rabirus’s thinly veiled threats and the blind terror of Ocella’s reign. The exhaustion of holding such close control over herself, never knowing who to trust, who might be watching, never daring to so much as breathe at the wrong time. The rumor-mongering, the jeopardy to her reputation and her family’s. These were the things that prickled, suggesting that her father was, perhaps, right in his assessment that obscurity was better for her than esteem.
“My curiosity grows by the second,” Rubellia said. “So you would not welcome finding yourself the focus of so much attention?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Even though you wish to assert yourself more as a mage?”
“I don’t know, is the thing,” Latona said, quickly and honestly. “Once I would have thought, no, certainly not. I was never meant to be the one who . . .” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Aula was always the political one, with her terribly involved husband and her ambitions.” And what had it earned her? Blood on the tiles, an empty bed, a fatherless child.
But for Latona to set her course by such a brightly burning star? Few knew what extraordinary, burning zeal he harbored in his heart—but he had told Latona, had shared his secrets with her. ‘And he would never allow me to be less than all I could be.’ The thought of it sent a little shiver down her spine, though whether of fear or of titillation, she could no longer tell.
There was danger there, to be sure, but oh, such opportunity as well. Every time someone told her “no,” every time someone reminded her of her place—Rabirus, Aemilia, even her own father—it only seemed to make the desire to act burn hotter. She had never been the sort to defy for the sake of defiance, she had not a rebel’s heart, but now? ‘What a temptation.’
Rubellia’s hand tightened around her wrist. “Latona,” she said. Her voice was carefully calm but with a note of fear, the sort of tone one might use if there were a poisonous snake in the room. “Latona, the fire . . .”
* * *
Latona gasped. While she had been contemplating, the flames of the garden’s small fire had doubled in size and gone white with heat. These were hungry, angry flames, devouring what fuel they had and reaching for what else might feed them. Latona cast about for a jug of water, started to bolt to her feet—
But Rubellia kept a fierce grip on her, surprisingly strong, and it held her in her seat. “If you did this,” Rubellia said, “then you can control it. You said you’ve been able to—”
“Not— Not once it’s flared up like this. I’ve been able to stop it happening, but not—”
“We can fix this.” She sounded every bit the teacher, as though this were no more than an exercise. “Remember that Fire exists as potential. As you wake it, so can you return it. Quench it back into embers.” Gritting her teeth, Latona focused her mind on banking the flames.
It didn’t work. Licks of blue were sparking up in the midst of the heat. The stones lining the pit glowed orange and crackled. “I’m not sure how, Rubellia. Not when it flares like this.”
“Don’t think of returning it to nowhere. I imagine it as a separate chamber of my heart, reserved just for this. Breathe deep and draw it in.”
Through her panic, Latona tried to visualize as Rubellia suggested. Old fears bubbled up—that Aemilia had been right, that she could not control herself, that she was dangerous. But she locked those emotions away, thinking only of Rubellia’s steady presence and quiet faith. Rubellia believed she could do it.
The hairs on the back of her arms stood up, but she felt a warming inside her, in her blood. With Rubellia’s words in mind, Latona found herself thinking in terms of potential—not just releasing the impetus that sparked a fire back into the world but taking it into herself.
Slowly, the flames faded back to orange. The stones cooled to black. Rubellia released Latona’s wrist. “Well,” Rubellia said, “you certainly know how to liven up an afternoon, Latona.”
“Rubellia, I’m sorry—”
Rubellia waved a hand. “Fascinating.”
That startled Latona out of her self-pity. “Fascinating?”
“Mm-hmm.” Rubellia’s hand cupped Latona’s cheek, stroking softly. “Latona, I perceive two things. One is that it is no surprise, after so many years of tamping it down, that your magic yearns to be free.”
There was sense in that. The relief she had felt at Ocella’s death, the lessening pressure to stay hidden, the way it surged along with high emotions . . . “And second?”
“More esoteric,” Rubellia said. “I feel you’re right in thinking that . . . the gods have decided to alter your course. Or perhaps they always meant this for you. Venus and Juno have laid their hands heavily on you.” She tilted her head to the side, smiling sympathetically. “The only pity is that they are not always so good at explaining their whims to us mortals.”
Latona laughed lightly, as much to keep from weeping as anything else. “Do they say why that is, when you’re a priestess? Is that a secret of the temples? The gods were once quite clear in what they wanted, back in the day, popping down from Olympus to issue instructions or to bed pretty girls and likely lads.”
Rubellia laughed, too. “It is a matter of
debate, one of the mysteries yet unsolved. Perhaps the gods seek to wean us from their direct control, like children.” She tucked a finger under Latona’s chin, tipping it up so that she had to sit up straight. “But I do know that they would not choose an unworthy vessel. If they have chosen you for some purpose, it is because you are clever enough and strong enough to bear it.”
Latona crinkled her nose. “So you’re saying the gods want me to make a spectacle of myself?”
“I’m saying they seem to be giving you a choice: make yourself prominent, or immolate in your own fires.” She tilted her head, dark curls swaying. “If the city sees you as a grand mage—if you force them to see that, to give you the respect you should have had as a priestess of Juno—then you will be a woman of great consequence, Latona.” Rubellia smiled. “And then, I think, you’ll find it much easier to do Juno’s work in the city without impediments.” She kissed Latona’s cheek. “Come back and visit me more often. We’ll practice. The Fire will dance to your will, soon enough, and Aemilia can make of that what she likes!”
♦ NOVEMBER ♦
XXII
“We’re not just going to put down the revolt, we’re going to make sure they bloody well stay down.” Autronius Felix sat astride a bench in the Forum surrounded by several friends, some his fellows from military service, others the young bucks of distinguished families, including Proculus Crispinius and Publius Rufilius. He was gesticulating wildly as he pontificated on what had become his favorite topic: the necessity of war in Iberia. “We were too lenient the last time. We didn’t push past the coastal regions, and we should’ve. As long as we let those tribes stay active on our borders, we’re going to have trouble from them. So, we need to end the trouble. Permanently.”
The military-minded men nodded, but Proculus shook his head. “We would be perfectly fine just bloodying their noses and sending them back to their hovels. There’s no need to take the whole of Iberia.”
“We control the mouth of the Baetis,” Felix said. “We ought to control the mouth of the Tagus. Come on now, Proculus, if you’re not going to listen to me, then you respect Sempronius Tarren’s opinion, don’t you? He’s spoken quite—”
“Yes, I know, I hear his speeches in the Curia, too. But I still think you’re over-reaching. My brother was stationed in Gades for a year before Ocella. It’s not like Numidia, Felix. Iberia is vaster—and more populous—than most people realize. We can’t keep multiple legions stationed there to keep the people pacified, not with the northern tribes raising a fuss every time we turn our backs. The Lusetani certainly aren’t going to march over two mountain ranges to get to us, and they’re not a seafaring people. We have nothing to fear from them.”
“If we don’t teach these barbarians a lesson, the others will be encouraged—”
“We can teach them a lesson without needing to—”
“As will our enemies in the east,” Felix overran him. “If Parthia knows we can’t defend our provincial borders, then we jeopardize our standing all around the Middle Sea. We could lose everything that the last two centuries have built. And that’s without even taking into consideration the value of the territory itself.”
Publius Rufilius, who had been blinking back and forth between them, looked impressed. “Sweet Juno, Felix, you have been paying attention to forum matters.”
Felix shrugged his muscular shoulders. “It benefits me to do so.” He had never considered that his noted career as a profligate carouser should be mutually exclusive with political awareness, and the more time he spent in Sempronius’s company, the more he felt encouraged to use the brain the gods had given him as well as the brawn.
“I still think you’ve mis-interpreted,” Proculus said. “Sempronius wants to go to Iberia, but I don’t think he means to hold it. Not with Aventan legions.”
Felix shifted himself on the bench as a group of priests wended their way towards a temple, the backs of their rough-woven gray togas pulled up as hoods. Each bore a dish in his hands, filled with dirt, so far as Felix could tell. Conversations in the Forum often suffered interruptions by passers-by, and though magic was not permitted within the Forum, non-thaumaturgical religious rituals could hardly be avoided. Felix thought nothing of it until one thin priest tripped over his robes, spilling his burden all over the ground. Some of it puffed up, smudging Felix’s legs and those of his fellows. “Steady there!” Felix said, catching the man by the elbow before he could tumble entirely.
“My apologies, sir!” the priest said. “So sorry, so very sorry.” He had a reedy voice, with a slight whistle to it. Felix rolled his eyes, ever impatient with dodderers.
“No harm done to us, old man. It’ll wash. But you’ll have to start the whole damn ritual over again, won’t you?” He smiled as he said it, but the priest scurried off the way he’d come, muttering to himself in alarm. Felix shook his head and shrugged.
“How on earth to hold it if not with legions, then?” asked Rufilius, picking up the thread of conversation.
“Alliances,” Proculus said. “Put good men in charge—those who fight alongside us to subdue the radicals—then bring their sons to Aven for education. Show them our ways and let them turn Aventan on their own, rather than put ourselves to the expense of maintaining such vast provinces.”
“Hells, the both of you,” Rufilius snorted, fluffing up his fair hair. “You’re both turning politician on me.”
Felix laughed. “Only till I can get back on the march, friend.”
“It’s the same theory your father eventually came ’round to on Albina, Rufilius,” Proculus said, “little though we’ve been able to implement it. Friendly relations will get us much farther than brutal subjugation.”
A frown creased Felix’s typically merry countenance. “And you think this is what Sempronius intends?”
“From what I gather—”
“Do you mean Sempronius Tarren?”
The group turned towards the new voice. A rope-muscled man in a red tunic sauntered towards them, his legs splayed wide. He had several other men of similar aspect following behind him. “And what if we did?” said Rufilius, squaring his body towards the newcomer.
The man sniffed, grinning over his shoulder at his friends. “‘S’nothin’. Just that I wouldn’t be sitting in the Forum proclaiming my loyalty to a man like that.”
“A man like what?” This time the question came from Proculus.
The newcomer snickered, scuffing his feet in the dirt. “It’s just there’s a word for a man who talks big talk about going to war, putting down rebel tribes . . . a man who stands up at the Rostrum and makes pretty speeches . . .” The man came close enough that Felix could smell the oil on his recently-scraped skin, “but who turned tail and ran from trouble when it came calling at his own door.”
Felix did not remember getting to his feet but seemed to have been propelled there. His muscles tightened, as they had each time he had ridden out against Numidian raiders. “Say it.”
The man glanced back at his comrades, his lip curling in an ugly laugh. “Coward.” He looked Felix up and down appraisingly, then jutted his chin out, stepping yet closer. “And if that’s what we call him, then what do we call the weak-bellied fools who follow him?”
Felix’s fist impacted the other man’s face with a satisfying thwack. What happened next, he could hardly tell. A roaring went up in his ears: the shouts and hollering of his fellow soldiers, Rufilius and Proculus surging forward, the dust from the street scraping beneath his sandals.
* * *
Latona and Merula were walking back from the markets on the far side of the Forum, crossing from the Via Sacra to the Via Nova, when Latona suddenly staggered. It no longer surprised Merula, who put an arm behind her mistress’s back. “Fire or Spirit, Domina?” she asked in a hushed tone, pulling Latona off to the side of the road.
“Spirit.” Latona’s throat was tight, her heart su
ddenly racing with a wash of violent energy, hot and angry and pulsing. Her hands clenched into fists. They yearned to lash out, to pound into flesh, though the sensation could not have been more foreign to Latona. “Something’s happening, this isn’t . . . isn’t normal . . .” Latona’s teeth were closed around the savage impulse, but she ground out, “Need you to find out . . . Go see . . . Forum . . .”
“I am not leaving you here, Domina,” Merula said.
Latona gestured vaguely towards the nearby row of painted columns. She didn’t trust herself to move very much. Her limbs cried out for brutal action, and she would never forgive herself if she struck Merula. “Over there . . . The garden . . . I have Pacco . . .” Latona was glad she had brought one of her father’s men on the shopping trip; one of Herennius’s would have carried the tale to her husband.
Merula followed her gesture towards the small garden behind the Temple of Vesta. “I am not liking this, Domina,” she said as she guided her mistress. She barked orders at Pacco, then muttered in Phrygian as she settled Latona on a bench. As Merula dashed off to try and find out what was happening in the Forum, Latona uncurled her hands and placed them flat on her thighs.
‘Clear your head, damn it all to Tartarus, clear your head!’ Latona forced her focus towards the source of the unwanted energies. This went beyond the empathic flood that had opened in her at the Cantrinalia. Something was driving this power, cruel and hungry. Her fingernails pressed into her legs, prickling through the fabric of her stola. ‘Follow that thread . . . Don’t let the tide take you . . .’