From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  “Aula, you’re terrible!” Maia said, but all three were laughing heartily.

  “Domina?” The women looked up, wiping away tears of mirth, to see the Domitian steward. “I am sorry to interrupt, but a messenger arrived with an invitation for you.” His eyes moved to the Vitelliae. “It was meant for the Dominae Vitelliae as well. I hope I was not too forward in telling him I would pass it along to you.”

  “Not at all,” Aula said. “Spare the poor man a bit of hiking up and down the hills.”

  “What was the invitation?” Maia asked.

  “Galerius Orator invites you all to his villa near Tibur in three days’ time, for a banquet followed by a day of hunting.”

  “How lovely,” Maia said. “A hunt’s just the thing for fall. So long as the weather holds, of course.”

  “Did he say who else would be attending?” Aula asked.

  “I did ask who else was invited, Domina,” the steward replied. “I do not know who has accepted, but in addition to his own family, Galerius Orator has invited the Terentiae, the Crispiniae, the Rufiliae—” Aula winked at Maia, who threw an almond at her. “—the Autroniae, the Ulpiae, the Camillae, the Ardae, and the Semproniae.” There was the look from Aula again, and Latona could not deny the heat rising on her cheeks.

  “Well, that’s a fair assembly,” Maia said.

  “And a fair mix of Popularists and moderates,” Aula added. “Clever man, Galerius.”

  “A man who wants to be consul ought to be. Send a reply back accepting on my and my brothers’ behalf. I can speak for them,” Maia said. She settled back against her cushions, reaching for the dish of dried apricots. “As though Maius or Septimus would miss a hunt. It’s been too long since they’ve had the chance to kill something. If they can’t charge off to war, at least they can vent their spleens on a hapless deer.”

  Aula wore a broad, cheerful smile that was a bit too enthusiastic for Latona’s comfort. “I’m certainly game!” she chirped. “And I’m sure I can speak for Latona as well.”

  Latona nodded. “We’ll have to see if Father or Alhena wants to go.”

  Aula snorted. “Alhena’s as likely to attend a hunt as Maius Domitius is to miss it.”

  * * *

  “You’re sulking.” Rabirus did not look at his son as he offered this criticism, but kept his eyes firmly fixed on his speech for the next Curia meeting. He was quite proud of this one; it invoked Terminus, god of boundaries, as a warning against Aven over-extending its reach with too many provinces.

  “I’m not sulking, Father,” Young Lucretius said.

  “You are, and it’s unmanly. If something’s troubling you, either do something about it or find more suitable entertainment.”

  Young Lucretius sank into a chair with all the grace of a lead weight, his arms hanging limply off the sides. “All the other young men are going up to Tibur tomorrow. Galerius Orator’s hosting a hunt.”

  Rabirus put down his stylus and folded his hands on top of his desk. “I seriously doubt it’s all the other young men in the city. Who do you mean?”

  “The— well, the popular ones, Father.”

  Rabirus sniffed. “Popularist, you mean.” He took up his stylus again. “I’d think you would know better than to mourn the loss of such company—particularly to me.”

  “It isn’t only that, Father, it’s practically everyone who’s been training in the Campus Martius. All the officers-to-be, even the ones who aren’t aligned with . . . with that set. Even Ardus Fabian and the Ulpiae are going. But of course . . .” His voice trailed off, but his father knew what he wasn’t saying. Of course, even the famously moderate Galerius Orator wasn’t going to invite any member of the Rabirae to his country estate.

  Few of Rabirus’s friends had sons the age of his own—most were already out on campaign, or else still under the care of grammarians and rhetoricians. It was a shame. Friendships forged at that age could last a lifetime—as could rivalries.

  Rabirus gave no outward sign of his consideration, but his mind was working. Galerius Orator’s home was near Tibur, not far from one of his own rustic estates. “I understand you’re upset at not being invited,” Rabirus said. His son sat up slightly, hearing the unfamiliar note of consolation. “Perhaps it would do you good to get out of the city for a bit, too. Galerius Orator isn’t the only man with a villa. I’ll see what I can arrange.”

  Young Lucretius leapt up, his features transformed with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “You’re right. Of course. A bit of— of fresh air, really. I’m sure I’ll feel much improved.”

  “Yes, yes. Go on now. I’m busy.”

  Young Lucretius left with far more spring in his step than when he’d slunk in, leaving his father to think.

  Pinarius Scaeva had caused quite an uproar earlier in the month, but it had not had the desired effect. Aulus Vitellius had swept away the scandal with his son’s news from Iberia. Ludicrous, overblown, tall tales, but the Senate had seized upon the new conversation rather than chastising Felix or blaming Sempronius Tarren’s war-mongering. Pinarius assured him that he was working on other means to stymie Sempronius’s efforts—but magic of this sort could take a while to work, and as the elections drew nearer, Rabirus grew impatient.

  ‘But perhaps there is something that would not require Pinarius’s absence from the city, but could be effected far away, leaving no trail . . .’ Rabirus and his son would travel with a coterie that befit their station: slaves, attendants, cooks, litter-bearers, horsemen—and hunters.

  Opportunity, he knew, could manifest in many ways.

  * * *

  TAGUS RIVER, IBERIA

  A pair of warriors came to Otiger’s tent, pitched behind Ekialde and Neitin’s in recognition of his status as her relative. The taller of the two had a deer slung over his shoulders, but it was the smaller who spoke. “We would have your blessing, honored one.”

  Otiger looked up at them, still squatting over the mantle he was piecing together for his niece. Then he glanced towards the clustered tents of Bailar and the other magic-men, on the other side of the fire circle. “You are mistaken. The man who gives blessings here is Bailar, favored of the erregerra.”

  The two soldiers glanced at each other, then the taller dropped the deer in front of Otiger. “We have brought you a deer, downed by our own hands.”

  Nodding, Otiger set down his bone needle and prodded at the dead beast. “Good knifework,” he said. “You chased it down?”

  “Against the side of a cliff.”

  “A young and spry one, too,” Otiger observed.

  “Honored one,” the shorter warrior blurted, “we would have the traditional blessing. Favored Bailar’s ways are . . . well enough, for those who seek them out. But we . . . our fathers told us what Bandue wanted from such as us.”

  “We would take the strength and the speed of the deer,” said the other. “And its silence. We are to be sent out scouting.”

  “Too many scouts have not returned.”

  “We wish to return.”

  Regarding them coolly, Otiger thought through the consequences. Bailar was sure to be displeased, but Neitin—Neitin would be delighted to learn that not all of Ekialde’s warriors had been entirely won over to the darker magics. The erregerra, he suspected, would care little who did the blessing or how, so long as his fighting men did their duties. These young men believed in Ekialde’s cause, if not Bailar’s methods. ‘And me?’

  Otiger had no abhorrence for using the blood of men in his magic, when time and occasion warranted it. Such things had their place and their purpose. ‘This Bailar, though . . .’ Observing him in the past weeks, Otiger had come to question his practices. His fondness for using men’s blood bordered on mania. He demanded it even when the blood of deer or birds would suffice just as well. Sometimes it seemed the war-band was sent out with no purpose but to bring b
ack fresh victims for the draining. It was overuse. If nothing else, the gods would soon stop listening. A gift was most precious when it was most rare.

  And so Otiger nodded.

  In due course, the beast was drained of its blood, and Otiger anointed the warriors’ foreheads, lips, and hands with crimson smears, chanting all the while. The men beamed when it was done. “Thank you, honored one,” the shorter of them said. “Now Bandue will know where to look for us. Such protection is invaluable.”

  “We will skin the beast and bring you the hide and meats,” said the other.

  “The bones, too, if you don’t mind,” Otiger said. “There’s always use for them. But string your bows with the sinews.” He patted the deer’s sightless head. “Best to waste no part of an animal given over to the gods.”

  The young warriors agreed cheerfully and trotted off, looking fresher and stronger than when they arrived. Otiger allowed himself a small smile for a job well done.

  He had to hold on to that satisfaction an hour later, when Bailar came looking for him. ‘The man knows so much so quickly,’ Otiger thought, and would have shivered, but perhaps it was no strange thing after all. The warriors had their friends and would have explained their anointments.

  “Friend Otiger,” Bailar said, approaching. Otiger did not rise, but continued his work on the mantle. Magic-men had no rank between them, and he owed Bailar no homage. “I understand you’ve been blessing some of the war-band.”

  “Scouts, I think they said. They came to me.”

  Bailar’s lips were pressed thin. “Some might say you were trying to undermine my authority here, friend,” he said, “and by extension, the authority of our blessed erregerra.”

  “Might they?” Otiger said, unconcernedly placing another stitch. “How unfortunate. If you hear anyone saying such, be sure to send them straight to me. I will happily disavow them of the notion.”

  “You are new to the camp, and your affection for your niece may have clouded some of your awareness of how things run here.” A pause. He clearly wanted Otiger to ask, but Otiger had no intention of satisfying him. Bailar cleared his throat. “I speak for Bandue here. It is my sacred trust and responsibility.”

  Another stitch, pulled slow. “No man owns the gods, friend Bailar. A magic-man should not need reminding.”

  XXIX

  CITY OF AVEN

  Galerius’s estate was half a day’s ride up the Via Valeria, posited in the foothills of the Apennine Mountains. “I hear there’s a grove sacred to Faunus nearby,” Aula said, making herself comfortable on a pile of plush blue pillows. “That should be good luck.” She and Latona were sharing an enormous litter with Vibia Sempronia and Appia Crispinilla; Alhena had, as ever, declined the invitation, and Lucia was still too young to come along to such an event. In addition to the slaves bearing the litter, they were accompanied by Aulus, Sempronius, Vibia’s husband Taius, both Autroniae brothers, and Rufilius, all on horseback, along with a coterie of attendants bearing hunting equipment and fresh clothes for the next day. They would arrive at Galerius’s villa in time for dinner and would hunt on the morrow.

  Because the streets were clogged with pedestrians, beggars, donkeys, and other litters, it seemed to take as long to get out of the city as it would take to get up into the mountains. Sempronius’s habit of pausing to strike up conversation with any passer-by he recognized had Vibia huffing in frustration. “Brother!” she called out, peeling back the curtains just enough to peek out at him. “Must you check in on the family history of every benighted soul in the city?”

  “Of course not, dear sister,” he said. Spying Latona peeking out behind Vibia, he winked. “Just the ones that can vote.”

  Vibia flung herself back, sighing in irritation. “It’s a wonder he makes it home some days. I’ve never known a man to get so sidetracked.”

  “I think it’s quite noble of him,” Crispinilla said, her voice fluttering in a way that prickled Latona’s nerves.

  “Could we open the curtains, please?” Aula asked. Never well-suited to idleness, the prospect of spending half a day trapped in a litter already had her fidgeting.

  “It’s too cold,” Vibia answered, drawing her woolen mantle back up over her wavy sable hair for emphasis.

  “Oh, it’s hardly—”

  “Maybe when we get out of the city, Aula,” Latona said, to forestall a quarrel. “We must be near the gate by now.”

  But the litter was coming to an unsteady halt. “Ugh, not more traffic.”

  “No,” Latona said, peeking out onto the road. “I don’t think so . . .” Then she laughed and pulled the curtain back farther. “Look! We’re to have more company on the Via Valeria.” Quinta Terentia stood nearby, dressed modestly though not in her formal Vestal’s garb. With a straight nose set in a narrow face, deep olive skin, and curling raven hair, she had a severe look to her. With her was her younger sister Terentilla, perched atop a horse and grinning with sheer delight as the breeze caught her unbraided hair—a stark contrast to Terentia’s precision.

  “How wonderful! Hello, ladies!” Aula called, waving.

  “A Vestal on the hunt?” Felix laughed, wheeling his horse about. “Galerius really is throwing a fete for the ages!”

  Terentia’s smile was small but genuine. “I’m sorry to spoil your fun, Young Autronius, but no.” Though not strictly forbidden, it was not customary for a Vestal to leave the city until after her retirement; few did so for anything less than dire matters of state. “I couldn’t think of leaving Vesta’s hearth to anyone else while the mundus is open. It’s Terentilla who will be joining you.”

  “Hail, Penthesilea!” Felix made an elaborate bow from horseback, which Tilla returned, grinning at the reference to the famous Amazon.

  “She insisted on coming along—”

  “Certainly did!” Tilla chirped.

  “—and I simply wanted to see her placed in the custody of those I trust.” Terentia looked pointedly at the ladies in the litter.

  Tilla leant down to brush a kiss on her sister’s cheek, then cheerfully spurred her horse up to join the men. The slaves bearing the litter lurched into motion, and Vibia motioned for Aula to close the curtain again. Aula conceded only after Latona gave her a good nudge with her foot. “Are the Vitelliae, er, much-acquainted with Quintilla Terentilla?” Crispinilla asked.

  Latona pressed her lips together slightly, piqued on Tilla’s behalf at the implied judgment of the high-spirited girl’s character. “I am,” she said. “I think she’s a darling, and such a refreshingly genuine person.”

  “She’s half-wild,” Vibia said. “You would never know she’s the daughter of one of the city’s oldest patrician houses, to look at her. Why her parents didn’t take her in hand years ago, I’m sure I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps you should ask them the next time you see them,” Aula shot back, though keeping her tone light and sweet, “since you have such a care for their family’s affairs.”

  “Tilla has blessed Diana’s spirit in her,” Latona said, in as conciliatory a voice as she could manage, “and we cannot fault her for that.”

  “Perhaps not,” Vibia said, “but I don’t see where that negates the necessity for good manners.”

  Latona settled herself in for a long ride—but not before catching a telltale flutter of Aula’s eyelashes that suggested her sister was suppressing an impolitic comment.

  * * *

  TIBUR, CENTRAL TRUSCUM

  It rained for a good portion of their journey, though even that did not drive Tilla inside the litter. Like the men, she simply pulled on a cloak treated with lanolin and went on riding and chatting. The ladies in the litter gossiped, read, and napped by turns, until late afternoon brought them to Galerius Orator’s villa. It was prettily situated within sight of the town of Tibur, a little ways off the main road. The Anio River, source of many aqueducts, frothed and ch
urned its way down from waterfalls, and beyond, the Sabine Hills had bald patches where autumn’s leaves had already fallen, but streaks of green pines striped them up and down.

  Like his domus in Aven, Galerius’s rustic villa was modestly decorated and slightly old-fashioned, but it was spacious, with plenty of guest accommodations. “I’ve sacrificed to Jupiter that this drizzle may clear up by tomorrow,” Galerius said as he welcomed them to his home, “and Marcia’s been reading the winds. She feels confident this will all blow over.”

  Once the other groups of travelers had arrived and everyone had settled into their rooms, dried out, and re-dressed, they gathered for dinner—a less formal affair, even in the Galerian household, than they would have had in the city.

  Vibia Sempronia was less at ease in this company than her brother was. Popularist more by familial association than by true conviction, she often thought her brother’s compatriots rather too rough and rude a crowd. Not Galerius and his wife, of course. No one could challenge Marcia Tullia for propriety, and Vibia had only agreed to come along on the trip because she was the hostess. ‘But the rest of them . . .’

  Their parties were a little too wild for her taste, their speech too coarse, their opinions too radical. Worse, the women of the group were too forward. While Vibia certainly never scrupled to speak politically with her husband or brother, she did so in private. The Vitelliae, the Domitiae, the Crispiniae all apparently felt comfortable voicing their opinions in public—at dinner tables or luncheons, at the theatre, at the gardens. ‘Astonishing, really, that Aula hasn’t stormed the Rostra yet,’ she thought, watching as the copper-haired woman joked with Young Rufilius, smacking him lightly on the arm.

  Too, the Popularist men often lacked the dignity that Vibia felt appropriate for the sons and daughters of Aven’s most esteemed houses. ‘Felix I could forgive, I suppose,’ she thought, ‘but a son of the Rufiliae ought to know better.’