by Cass Morris
It bothered her, too, to look at the elder Appia Crispinia, twenty-nine years old and fecund as ever, growing round with the weight of her fourth child. Though riding up with the garrulous Vitelliae and younger sister Crispinilla had been something of a trial, it had been preferable to sharing a litter with a woman who seemed capable of bearing one. Appia and her husband, Maius Domitius, had been about an hour behind the first group, accompanied by the rest of the Domitiae and a pack of older senators, men more of Galerius’s tenor, all of them standing for praetor or aedile in the upcoming elections.
Vibia had chosen a couch well away from the Crispiniae and had not been entirely pleased when Vitellia Latona had elected that part of the room as well. She had no way of knowing that Latona was equally as discomfited by Crispinia’s conspicuous fertility; she only saw that Latona was occupying ever more of Sempronius’s time and attention.
“The old guard is determined to keep the worthy equestrians off the lists as long as they can,” Sempronius was saying to Latona as the servants set venison, thrush, and salted turbot out on the tables. “Your father will have quite a fight ahead of him when he wins office.”
“Your confidence in him is warming,” Latona said.
Sempronius shrugged. “He’s well-respected and well worth the position. But with Buteo and Rabirus bludgeoning in every challenge and additional qualification they can think of . . .”
“Has Rabirus given you more trouble?” Latona asked. “Not with the rolls, I mean, but with—”
“—the temples?” Sempronius sighed, and Vibia found her fingers clenching in irritation.
Latona had been the first lady with whom Sempronius had shared his project. Vibia had only found out when he had come home complaining of Rabirus’s interference. He had taken Vibia to the site as well, but Latona had gotten there first. Though not as prone to vulgar behavior as her sister, the second Vitellian daughter discomfited Vibia even more. She was, Vibia felt, slyer than Aula, cannier, and perhaps more dangerous, if she ever took it in her head to be so. ‘And now he’s finishing the woman’s sentences.’ Sempronius’s wife, sweet and dutiful creature that she had been, had never infringed upon Vibia’s influence with her brother, but this woman, though married to another, seemed to have gotten her hooks in.
“Nothing overt,” Sempronius continued, “but I can sense him circling.” He had mentioned to his sister the strange press of magic following him in the streets; Vibia could feel some comfort that Latona did not know about that. “I’ve had Nisso and Obir put their ears out for me, as well, and Obir did hear something about—”
But a sudden bellow from Felix cut him off. Vibia winced. In addition to their other faults, Sempronius’s friends were so loud. “Sempronius! Sempronius, Proculus is having me on about the Lusetani again. Tell him how we’ll roll right over the bastards—err, sorry, ladies—and come home covered in riches.”
Sempronius shifted himself towards the other couches, but shook his head. “Sorry, Felix, but I can’t agree with you there.”
“What? But, Sempronius, no one’s more in favor of the campaign than you—”
“Not because I think it will be easy.” Vibia knew well enough that her brother would never think an easy conquest worth his attention. A man was measured by the strength of those he defeated.
Scowling, Felix said, “But with the training of our legions and the quality of our commanding officers—”
Aulus Vitellius laughed grimly. “And no fine generals have ever lost battles? We’d be fools to underestimate the Lusetani. Barbarian is just a word for someone who wears different clothes than we do. It’s certainly no guarantee of an easy conquest.”
“They’ve no government to speak of,” said Rufilius, “just a bold man who’s decided he wants to be king and thinks he can make a good show of it by roughing up our allies.”
“You’re wrong there, son.” His father, famous for his conquest of the Albine Mountains, still had a voice that could silence a legion’s worth of dissent, and it hushed even Felix’s fervor. “Reports indicate they have organization—didn’t your son say so, Aulus?”
Vibia felt a pinch of unease from Aulus, saw the strain of it on his face as he nodded. “This war-chief of theirs has proved efficient at bringing the tribes together and making use of their various talents.”
“It’s not like Numidia, lads,” Albinicus told his son and Felix. “These people are tribal, but not nomadic, and their idea of leadership is deeply tied to their religion, just as much as ours—perhaps more so, in some ways.”
“If you can call it a religion.” Felix had found his tongue again. “Drinking blood and praying to trees and—”
“Do not mock the gods of other people,” Latona cautioned. It was an impudent interjection into the men’s conversation, in Vibia’s opinion, but Latona played it off with a teasing smile. “Remember, we fine Aventans borrowed most of ours from other nations.”
“From Athaeca, Lady!” Felix objected. “From civilized people. Not from savages.”
Vibia felt another ripple of unease, this time from Galerius Orator, but it was his wife who spoke next. “Religion is far too serious a matter for an evening such as this.” Her voice had a cool thread of magic in it, the power of rationality cutting through the high emotions. “Let’s have a game, instead. I heard an excellent riddle at Appia’s last party. Dear, would you be so kind as to share it?”
‘Neatly done,’ Vibia thought, gratified to have her respect for her hostess validated. Much though they tried to outstrip their plebeian origins, the Autroniae still had little sense of appropriate behavior. ‘Felix may have been magically manipulated into that Forum brawl, but I suspect it hardly took much prompting.’
Sempronius was not yet ready to abandon the topic of Iberia, and as Appia launched into a recitation and the others set to guessing, he bent his head back to Latona and said, “Your father hears often from Young Vitellius?”
Latona nodded. “As often as the post can manage, that is. Sometimes we hear nothing for weeks and then get four or five letters all at once.”
“And you write to him as well?”
“I do. I’ve a packet to send to him soon, in fact.”
“Might I give you something to include with it?” Sempronius asked. “I’d like to sound him out on— well, it’s not the sort of thing he’d comment on in official dispatches.”
“Certainly you may,” Latona answered. “Though you must promise to tell me what it’s about.”
Sempronius laughed. “Another time, I certainly shall. But Marcia is right—we should set such dull matters aside tonight.” And with that, he leaned over to offer a suggestion to Appia’s riddle.
The evening ended early, as the hunt would start at daybreak. Vibia was all too ready to retire with her husband—but as they started towards their comfortable guest room, she saw her brother walking down the opposite corridor with Vitellia Latona. Her cheeks were candescent with wine and laughter, and as she leaned against the brightly-painted wall, her hips angled towards Sempronius. He was canted towards her, not quite whispering, but Vibia felt sure that whatever he said would not be fit for public discourse. For one startling moment, she thought he meant to accompany her, or pull her into his own chamber—but then her sister joined them, all smiles. Aula was forward enough, or drunk enough, to tip forward and kiss Sempronius’s cheek, then she took her sister’s hand and pulled her into their room. Shaking his head good-naturedly, Sempronius turned a corner towards his own chamber.
And Vibia could breathe a little easier.
XXX
The morning of the hunt dawned, as Galerius had predicted, free of rain, though thin gray clouds still paled the sun’s light to a suffusing glow. Those who would hunt were up at dawn for a light breakfast provided by Marcia, then off into the woods, accompanied by packs of hounds and spear-bearing slaves. The men on horseback would, in truth, do lit
tle of the hunting. Local plebeians had been hired to guide them, slaves would stir the bushes and guide the dogs, and trained hunters might even make most of the kills. Nonetheless, the noblemen all had bows or spears, as suited them, in case the opportunity for action presented itself.
As they rode into the forest, Sempronius’s thoughts were uncustomarily preoccupied. Latona’s conversation the night before had been as stimulating as ever, and she had been a picture of loveliness, with soft azure wool pooling about her curves and an emerald mantle pinned in her hair, bringing out the brilliance of her eyes. He could not be sorry that her husband had, once again, chosen his provincial concerns over attending his wife at a social gathering, but he faulted the man’s choice anyway. ‘Herennius has a jewel, and he wastes his time counting pebbles.’ Sempronius could not fathom it. If Latona were merely beautiful, it might have been understandable—but a woman of intelligence, grace, and magical talent was an invaluable partner to any Aventan man of ambition.
And that was the trouble. Herennius was a thing incomprehensible to Sempronius: a man without initiative, lacking not only the hungry, chasmal need that so drove Sempronius through life, but even the customary sort of motivation to spur him on. A woman as extraordinary as Latona could never find happiness with someone so . . . pedestrian.
From Aula, Sempronius received a steady stream of hints. Nothing so overt that it could be called gossip or that Aula could be accused of revealing her sister’s secrets. Just enough to add detail to the picture. Herennius had not yet turned wife-beater, at least not that Sempronius could discern or that Aula had let on, but he punished his wife for her exceptional qualities in other ways. Dismissal and disregard cut deep.
Small, petty men often lashed out, belying their own insufficiencies. But why the lady would put up with it, why she would stay shackled to such an unworthy creature, that was the question. Sempronius might have felt pity for him, hopelessly outmatched in life with just enough wit to be aware of it, had his petulance not contributed to Latona’s melancholy. ‘She deserves support, encouragement. If she learned to trust her own strengths, there’s so much she could achieve.’
Perhaps if his thoughts had not been so occupied, Sempronius might have had attention to spare for Shadow’s warning press at his mind, or his mundane five senses might have alerted him that their band was not alone in the forest.
* * *
Most of the ladies, Marcia and Tilla excepted, had opted for a relaxing lie-in, a luxury the noise and bustle of the city rarely afforded them. Equally refreshing was the liberty of not needing to rise to manage their own households. Marcia had all in hand, and when they did drift from their rooms, they found tables set with fresh fruits, new-baked breads, and olive oil from the first press of the season. Latona rose before Aula, who had drunk more deeply the night before. Just as when they were girls, Aula had pulled a pillow over her head to shield the morning’s light.
A party of men returned to the villa for the midday meal—some of the older senators, worn out by a few hours’ hard riding, and some of the younger men, more eager to spend time with the ladies than to chase down another deer. They spread on out several blankets underneath a patched sky, enjoying the sweet air brought in by a cool and gentle breeze. Galerius had a smartly-dressed coterie of slaves attending on them, and they saw to it that the dishes of nuts and fruits never went empty—nor the glasses of warmed wine.
Felix and Rufilius had shucked off their togas and were wrestling good-naturedly in the grass, and several of the ladies were admiring the spectacle. Crispinilla’s mouth hung slightly agape, Maia Domitia stared with avid appreciation, chewing absent-mindedly on one of her fingernails, and Aula, who had finally appeared just in time for lunch, shamelessly applauded every throw and fall. Latona could not fault them; dark-haired Felix and golden Rufilius were both fine specimens of Aventan manhood and well-worth the watching.
Terentilla, for all her boundless energy, had decided to take a break from the hunting as well. “I like it well enough,” she confided, plopping her brown limbs down on Latona’s blanket. “But really it’s the riding and the chasing I like. The killing itself . . .” Her nose wrinkled.
Latona nodded, understanding. Spirit did not have so close an affinity with animals as Earth did, but it was near enough that she could guess Tilla’s discomfort. “It can be overwhelming. I’m content to partake in the bounty without needing to be present for its fall.”
“Exactly so! I mean, I like a roast venison as much as anyone, but sometimes it seems a bit unfair, to chase them down with hounds and horns. Sometimes I feel it should just be bow and arrow against the wilderness.”
Latona had to smile. “Diana’s instincts would serve you well, I’m sure.”
Tilla rolled onto her back, ignorant of the disdaining glances being sent her way by some of the other women. “I’m so glad Terentia convinced Father to let me come, all the same. I hadn’t been out of the city since Sextilis, and—”
But Latona, despite her fondness for Tilla, was no longer listening. A heaviness had swarmed her senses, dizzying her. “Something’s wrong,” she said, staggering to her feet.
“Latona?” Tilla reached up for her hand. “What is it?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know . . . but something’s . . . ah!” She clasped a hand to her chest. A lance of pain had gone through her suddenly—a shock of fear, but more than fear, outrage and indignation. “Someone’s hurt.” She looked around, half hoping to see that one of the ladies had sliced her palm while cutting fruit, or that one of the wrestlers had accidentally landed a blow in a too-sensitive area. No such signs of distress manifested, however, though her own actions were garnering some attention. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the thread of Spirit magic that had called out to her. “On the hunt. Someone’s been injured. I’m sure of it.”
Tilla searched Latona’s face, then leapt to her feet and gave a loud whistle, drawing attention away from the wrestling. “Boys!” she hollered. Crispinilla wrinkled her nose at the unladylike volume, but Tilla did not notice. “There’s trouble in the forest. Who’s up for a ride?” Without waiting for a response, she whipped back around to Latona. “Can you keep a seat?” Latona nodded. She was no great equestrian, but she had enough skill not to embarrass herself. “Good. Hoy! Felix! Put those damn muscles to good use and help the Lady Latona up behind me!”
A few minutes later, Latona clung to Terentilla’s back as they thundered down the forest path, Felix and Young Rufilius flanking them. Tilla took instruction from Latona on which way to go, though Latona had only the aching compulsion in her chest to guide them. Up one hill and down another, along the banks of a rippling stream, and then they encountered a group of the hunters racing back the opposite direction. Tilla’s horse whinnied in objection as she pulled him up short. “Terentilla?” someone asked, and Latona recognized her father’s voice, though her face was pressed into Tilla’s shoulder. “What’s going on? And—Latona?”
She looked up to see not only her father but Marcus, Albinicus, and Sempronius on horseback. They had evidently left their attendants behind with the others, and on closer inspection, the reason why was obvious. Sempronius had an arrow sticking out of his upper arm, the shaft bobbing awkwardly with each step his horse took.
“She sensed it!” Tilla said. “We didn’t know precisely what it would be, but she knew something was wrong, someone was hurt.”
“Where did that come from?” Latona asked.
“Daughter, it’s none of your—”
“We don’t know,” Marcus said. “Just—out of the woods. No one saw who loosed it.”
“We can’t stay here,” Albinicus said. “He needs to—”
But no one needed to tell Terentilla that. She rounded her horse and took off back towards the villa at a gallop, leaving Latona to clutch desperately at Terentilla’s tunic for balance. Once back at the house, Tilla and Latona rushed past the
confused picnickers, hurrying to tell Galerius’s servants to be ready for an injury. The men were not far behind, ushering Sempronius. Tilla looked perfectly ready to stay and help, but Aulus shooed both women out. “Go and calm the other ladies,” he said to his daughter. “Tell them it was an accident. A stray arrow from another hunter.” Latona’s instincts were still bristled, and she suspected it was nothing so simple, but she nodded and tugged Tilla back outside, where Marcia was already attempting to restore normalcy.
* * *
In Galerius’s office, Marcus settled Sempronius into a chair while slaves brought in clean linens and fresh water. Galerius threw open the shutters, flooding the room with sunlight. Felix angled Sempronius towards the window and bent over him, inspecting the wound. “No good pulling it out. Best to push it through.”
Sempronius nodded, though he was grimacing. “Do it, Felix.” It was rough, battlefield medicine, but most soldiers learned how to do it sooner or later.
“Brace yourself, then,” Felix said. He grasped the shaft of the arrow and broke it a fist’s width from Sempronius’s skin. The jostling of the wound jarred a slight moan out of Sempronius, though pride made him bite it back as swiftly as he could. “Worse to come,” Felix muttered. “Someone wanna give him something to bite down on?”
“Just do it,” Sempronius growled. “Marcus, hold my arms, please.”
Despite the severity of the situation, Felix grinned. “I appreciate you not wanting to punch the man who’s helping you.” He waited until Marcus had come behind the chair and had a firm grip on Sempronius’s forearms, pinning him to the chair, then gripped what was left of the arrow shaft. “One . . . two . . .” And before Felix could say “three,” he pushed on the shaft, hard and fast. This time, Sempronius could not swallow a cursing cry as pain, hot and twisting, lanced through his arm. Felix adjusted him to get a grip on the arrowhead. “Now, now, Senator, my brother’s a pious man, and you’re gonna curse like that in front of him?”