by Cass Morris
She started to protest, but couldn’t find the voice. What had she dreamed of, in the days before Claudia’s death? Who might she have been, if the High Priestess of Juno had had the cultivating of her life?
“You know that, deep down,” he pressed on. “And I promise you that your husband senses it. That is the seed of his resentment. The pigeon knows he has no right to love an eagle.”
This time, the tightness in Latona’s chest, the quickening patter of her heartbeat, had nothing to do with her magic. “You— You should not talk that way.”
“I should, and I mean to,” Sempronius insisted. His voice had the same strange, unshakable certainty it had on the day of the Cantrinalia, when he had told her of his plans for Aven—the tone that harbored no thought of failure, no concession that the world might turn out in any way but how he wished it. “Someone ought to. It would be a sin if you went through life yoked to such a lesser creature, unaware of the indignity.” His fingers dropped onto her arm, just below her elbow, so lightly that she almost would not have felt it—but his skin was warm, a contrast to the cool autumn air breezing in from above, and his touch soothed. “He certainly has his place in the order of the world, but he is not the man for you, Vitellia Latona.”
“And what sort of man do I need?” Latona breathed. She knew full well what she was doing, what she was inviting, the chaos she feared, but she could not have stopped herself for the world. She felt it in him, too, the yearning; Spirit magic sang between them, glimmering with the promise of their connection.
“A man of ambition,” he said. “A man who appreciates all that you are, and who will not let your talents wither unappreciated and uncultivated.”
“So I should look for a man who will shamelessly use me for his own purposes?” she questioned, light mockery not quite covering the concern in her voice. It was what her parents had feared, after all.
He gave a soft chuff of laughter. “A man who will make you a partner,” he said. “Who would cherish your bravery and your goodness as much as your talents. Who would take pride in seeing you in all your glory, not seek to dim you for fear of standing in your shadow. Someone beside whom you could brave down the dangers that the world imposes on extraordinary people. You, Latona, deserve a man who sees you, as you are, and who adores you for that.”
No onlooker could find anything scandalous about how they were sitting, yet Latona felt the intensity of his gaze as intimately as an embrace. Her heart thundered; her fingers ached with the heat of unspent energy. When he continued, the passion in his voice could, Latona was convinced, have stirred the gods themselves to do his bidding.
“You could be the greatest lady in Aven. You should be. But you need a husband equally worthy—a husband with drive, ambition, vision—a husband strong enough to take the reins of this city and guide it to its destiny. You deserve a husband who is your match.” Those words hung heavy between them, and Latona caught herself thinking, ‘Please, Sempronius, please . . .’ But a cough from Merula reminded them both of the censorious eyes upon them. Sempronius drew back, and Latona was ashamed to realize she lurched slightly at the sudden loss. “And Herennius,” he continued, “is not that man—not a man with common ambition, much less a man with an extraordinary destiny.”
Latona wet her lips and looked down at her lap, trying to re-center her composure before speaking. But ardor rode too high in her blood to be set aside. She flicked her gaze back up to him, provocative, challenging. “And you, Sempronius Tarren? Are you so worthy?” She was almost afraid to hear the answer.
There was a secret, hiding in the corner of his smile; probably there were dozens of them, peeking deliberately out so she would know they were there, but refusing to reveal themselves in full. “You would have to ask the gods, Vitellia Latona, for the answer to that question. But all things are possible.”
“You certainly make it seem so.”
They stayed like that a moment, though Latona was unsure whether they were appreciating each other or sizing each other up. Then Sempronius stood, breaking the spell. He gestured to two of his servants. “My purpose in coming, lady, was to thank you. You saved my life.”
Latona blushed. “A lucky instinct, Sempronius.”
“Latona.” There was something desperate written on Sempronius’s face. “Why will you insist on diminishing your successes?” When Latona had no ready answer, he sighed. “Well. You did save it, whether you’ll own it or not, and as I am exceedingly fond of my life, I am thus most grateful for your efforts.” At another brisk signal, the slaves uncovered the baskets, revealing piles of elderberries, blackberries, plums, peaches, and cherries. “From my estates in Umbria.”
“You’ve had an excellent harvest, by the looks of it,” Latona said, drawing down the mask of courtesy as bastion against her discomfiture. “This is a generous gift, Senator, and I thank you for it.”
“It is but a token,” Sempronius said. “No gift could equal the generosity of spirit you have displayed.” He stepped in closer to her, dropping his voice again. “Unless, perhaps, I could find the words to convince you to see yourself as I see you.”
He took his leave, and when he did so, Herennius’s steward gladly returned to his usual duties. Latona’s chest ached as though she had been sobbing, and her fingers were a-tingle with the magic brimming in her. ‘Discipline,’ she reminded herself. ‘Don’t let your emotions . . .’
She could not force the thought to completion.
‘I should weave. Or I should practice as Rubellia recommends. Or I should . . . I should . . .’ The unfairness of the situation welled inside her chest: that fate and her father had consigned her to Herennius, that she had such trifling outlets for the power dammed up within her. ‘That Sempronius Tarren . . . That I cannot, that I may not . . .’
Merula was quicker this time; she doused the nearby clay lamps with a bowlful of water from the impluvium pool before Latona even realized she had heated them to the point of shattering. It wasn’t enough. Latona felt ready to immolate. ‘There were heroes in the Golden Age who could not merely manipulate fire, but summon it, shoot it from their very fingertips, like Jupiter wielding a lightning bolt.’ Near-choking on her frustration, Latona felt the temptation. ‘Dangers be damned, I want to set a blaze.’
Another few lamps popped into short-lived balls of flame, swiftly knocked into the water by Merula. Then Latona slumped to the floor, wishing she were a child who could scream and rail and throw a tantrum. Instead, she stuck her hands in the impluvium pool, and when that proved insufficient to settle the heat under her skin, splashed water on her arms and face as well. ‘This is what Mother and Father feared, this is why Aemilia says you’re unfit, this is why you scare yourself . . .’ But the familiar castigations had lost some of their power to flagellate. ‘Sempronius isn’t afraid. Nor Rubellia. They believe you can control it—and the emotions behind it. Having a temper needn’t, in itself, be a danger. And the force of your emotions could be a strength, not a weakness.’
Merula plunked down beside her mistress; her face spoke volumes, though her lips were tight. Latona sighed. “Very well, Merula,” she said. “Chide me.”
“It is not being my job to chide you,” Merula said. “And, I am getting swift with the water, so there is little harm being done there.” Then, after a beat, “It is being my job to protect you. Which will be harder if you are doing something that makes Dominus Herennius beat you.” Latona looked at her sharply, though more in surprise than reprimand. “I am hoping it is never coming to that, Domina, but . . . A married woman may not do as you wish to do, I think.” Then she muttered, low enough that Latona could pretend not to hear her, “Though there are ways of fixing that.”
* * *
By the time Sempronius returned home, Vibia had been sitting on a chair in his study, drumming her fingers on her thigh, for quite some time. “I came to call,” she said, without turning to look at him. “But
they said you were out.”
“Obviously,” Sempronius said, coming around to stand behind his desk. “But as it was a brief excursion, I know you can’t have been waiting long.”
Vibia sniffed. “You should be resting. The physician said—”
“Corvinus is already doing an excellent job mothering me; I’m sure he does not need your help.”
Vibia scowled briefly at the freedman, who had trailed in behind Sempronius, bearing a stack of messages. She had never been comfortable with the fact that he knew of his master’s hidden magical blessing, but she had to admit he’d done an admirable job keeping the secret. “They said you’d gone to the home of Numerius Herennius.”
“I had.”
“I was unaware you had business with him. I always thought he was only an incidental Popularist because of family connections.”
“You are correct in that assessment, but my business was not with him. It was with his wife.”
Though she had expected the answer, it twisted Vibia’s gut nonetheless. “Ah.”
“Vibia,” Sempronius said, weariness in his voice, “you are being tedious. If you have something to say—”
“Are you in love with Vitellia Latona?”
Vibia felt the jolt of shock ripple out of him, though he gave no external sign of his discomfiture. “I beg your pardon.”
“You may yet need it,” Vibia said. “You are, aren’t you?”
Those who knew Sempronius less well would never have caught the hesitation, the twitch in his jaw, but Vibia saw it, flickering there in the breath before he replied, “I hold her in very high admiration. She is a grand lady of estimable family, superb intelligence, and considerable charm. And she did just save my life.”
This time, Vibia weighed her words before speaking. Pique had got the better of her with the initial question. “Take care, brother, that your admiration does not grow less appropriate.”
Sempronius started to fold his arms over his chest, then winced at the pain in his shoulder. “What is your objection?”
“I think there are better places to set your sights,” Vibia sighed. “An admiration for a woman from a more moderate family might do you more good in the election, for one thing. But that consideration pales next to the danger that Latona poses to you. Have you even considered that?”
“If you mean because she’s married, I think I can handle—”
Vibia flapped a hand irritably. “That’s on your own conscience, and hers. No. I mean because she’s a Spirit mage.”
“Because she’s a—”
Vibia’s eyes flicked over at Corvinus, who was observing from the doorway, his pale face expressionless. “No one lurking around out there, I take it?” He nodded. “Good.” Vibia turned back to Sempronius. “Because she could find you out. If she manages to fully harness that power you’ve detected in her, then if you slip up at all, she might discover you. And frankly, brother, it troubles me if you’re so besotted that that had not occurred to you.”
His face took on a stubborn set. “What makes you think it hadn’t occurred to me? I am as careful around her as I am around Marcia Tullia or the men in the Augian Commission, all of whom have a lot more practice than Latona in discovering the signatures left by magic.”
“I hope so,” Vibia said. “For your safety, brother, I do dearly hope so.” She hesitated, weighing her next words: they were hard on her tongue, but she had avoided this point of fissure for too long. “That isn’t the only danger of her magic. You know what they say of her.”
“Oh?” Sempronius gestured for Corvinus to come and unwind the toga from his shoulders. “Do I?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Now you’re being tedious.” Vibia rolled her shoulders, searching for words that were tactful yet precise. “You were in Abydosia for some time, brother. You weren’t privy to the rumors in Aven towards the end of Ocella’s reign.”
“No,” he agreed. “Marcia and Galerius rarely passed along gossip.”
“Ocella took an interest in her, after he murdered her sister’s husband—”
“Tread lightly, Vibia.”
“—an interest she was not seen to repudiate or disavow, and I simply wonder at the wisdom of associating with someone whom others perceive as a dictator’s mistress—”
“No.” Sempronius’s tone was so sharp that Vibia blinked in surprise. “Her association with Ocella was no kind of—” His face tightened, making Vibia wonder what stories he had heard, in Abydosia or since returning. Would Latona herself have dared to speak of it to him? Vibia could not imagine such a breach of the bounds of appropriate conversation—but then, Vibia could not imagine doing many of the things the Vitelliae did. “She was as much victim to Ocella’s predation as anyone he proscribed or exiled. It would be unjust for anyone to use against her the actions she took to survive—as unjust as blaming me for fleeing to Abydosia, or General Strato for staying in the field.”
Vibia took his measure. She knew her brother well enough to know when not to pick a fight—and to know when he spoke with true conviction. She nodded her concession to him, though she retained private concerns about Latona’s tendency to captivate powerful men. “If you say so, then I shall speak against those rumors as I hear them.”
“And I shall thank you for it.”
“I just—I want you to take care.” She sighed, feeling a touch defeated, wondering if this was a battle she had lost before even taking the field. “You have such grand vision, brother. I worry sometimes that the smaller things slip by you.”
Sempronius’s stance softened. He drew near to Vibia, clasping her by the shoulder and kissing her forehead. “Your concern is well-meant, and I shall endeavor to take it as such. I value your observations and opinions, as they have been invaluable to my political career for more than a decade. But I do believe I can see to my own personal affairs.”
Vibia, though, remembered close-bent heads at dinner tables, glances exchanged across crowded rooms, and the readiness with which Sempronius trusted those of whom he thought highly—and she did have to wonder at the wisdom of it.
XXXIII
TAGUS RIVER, IBERIA
There was snow on the mountaintops.
Vitellius stared at the ragged crests a long time, praying it was just some trick of the light from the rising sun, but as Phoebus Apollo drove his chariot higher in the sky, Vitellius realized there was nothing for it: snow had fallen in the higher reaches.
“Damn.”
“Double damn,” said a voice behind him—Mennenius. If there had been anything good about the past few weeks on the march, it was that the second cohort had caught up to them, doubling their strength to the near-thousand it should be. “How close are we to Toletum?” Mennenius asked.
“Three days, perhaps.” Hanath’s voice, this time. Mennenius startled; he had not yet gotten used to her habit of injecting herself into any conversation she saw fit. “The river has turned more southward, and the banks open up a bit. It should be easier marching from here.” She smiled at Vitellius. “Fear not, Tribune. We will get you there before the snows find us.”
Around them, the men were busily breaking camp. The strict order of the Aventan legion was among its chief assets. Every man knew his duties at dawn and dusk. Each camp was arranged the same way, every tent in the same proximity to the others, wherever the site. If the legionaries were similarly troubled by the appearance of white caps on the surrounding peaks, none let it interfere with their work.
By the time Vitellius finished his supervisory rounds and returned to his own half-deconstructed tent, two messengers were waiting for him—one with a scroll from Governor Sallust, and another from Fimbrianus in Gades. Sallust’s was just what he had expected: an acknowledgment of his efforts thus far and a slew of questions about the allied tribes. There was a note of concern about their magic-men, but far more interest in their numbers, position
s, and skills—information to pass on to whoever took over the Eighth from him after the upcoming elections. Fimbrianus’s letter, though—
“There’s a scowl,” Mennenius said. “What on earth does that say?”
“I’m being ordered to stand down,” Vitellius said.
“Stand down?” Mennenius looked aghast.
“Mm. Governor Fimbrianus accuses me of stirring up trouble. Says I’m inciting the tribes to violence.”
“But the violence was going on long before—”
“Yes, and everyone knows that.” Vitellius frowned, thinking of what he knew of Fimbrianus. Aulus had never thought much of him. ‘What would Father say about this? And what would he have me do, with contradicting orders?’
Mennenius was casting about in confusion. “We can’t very well just pack up and abandon our allies now! Not when we’ve promised to—”
“I know,” Vitellius said, still glancing at Fimbrianus’s over-long letter. ‘A great many words to say “Go home.”’ He snorted. “No. Even if it weren’t craven and ignoble to take our leave, I doubt we’d make it halfway to Tarraco without getting slaughtered by those we betrayed.” Hanath, he suspected, would take great joy in running him through with that spear of hers, should he prove false.
“So what do we—?”
Vitellius worried the inside of his cheek. Fimbrianus was from a powerful family, and he was, in theory, in control of the region. ‘But if I must make an enemy . . .’ He let the scroll snap shut. “Governor Fimbrianus is not my commanding officer,” he said. “Governor Sallust says press on, so press on I shall.” He glared down at the offending roll of paper. “And if my father has anything to say about it, we may hope for reinforcement.” Behind him, legionaries were packing up his desk. “That letter, it seems, will have to wait till we make camp this evening.”