by Cass Morris
* * *
There was no moon in the sky as Sempronius settled down in front of the altar in his atrium. The day’s rain had petered off, leaving a soupy fog in its wake, but that did not trouble Sempronius. To the contrary, it would provide an excellent conduit for his energies.
He had dismissed all his servants but Corvinus from the main level of the domus. With deliberate care, he refreshed the offerings on the smooth-worn stone. He had brought sand from the Forum, to help focus the magic on the pertinent issue, and this he sprinkled in a circle around himself before kneeling in front of the obsidian mirror, his hands resting palms-up on his knees.
With the heavy aroma of balsam and myrrh incense thickening the air, Sempronius murmured the usual invocations, then repeated a call for favor, over and over again, chanting as he allowed his mind to fall into the right patterns. It took time to suspend his thoughts between the mundane and the spiritual, striking the perfect balancing point, where his mind could hold on to the crux of the matter yet let go enough to allow the gods use of him. And he could not scant the effort today, not when he had to be sure that the divine powers could find no fault with him. Breathing in the smoke emanating from the incense on the altar, Sempronius felt his awareness slide into place, and he gazed down at the obsidian mirror.
Yet the haze of gray did not clear. No images faded into discernible form on the glossy surface. Sempronius frowned. Shadow’s answers were ever tricky to corral, but the element did not usually play so coy with him. He repeated the incantation in a low voice, blocking out all external stimulus. Neither the press of the floor against his knees nor the rustling of leaves, neither the coolness of the air nor the wafting incense could be allowed to distract him. He acknowledged only the sleek surface of the dark mirror.
There was a tendril—a wisp of information, no more, but it danced out of Sempronius’s mental reach whenever he tried to grasp it. A deliberate tease, the information there yet unrevealed.
Still murmuring to his gods, Sempronius redoubled his focus, peering through the layers of obfuscation, willing the haze on the dark mirror to part for him. ‘Show me. Show me the man who stands in my way, the man who cursed Autronius Felix, who tracks me through the streets, who favored me with a poisoned arrow, and show me how he is doing it.’
Sempronius pushed harder at the mist, determined to chase the elusive hint into a corner and pin it down if necessary. Images started to clear on the obsidian mirror, but Sempronius did not allow his relief to relax his concentration. The Forum. The area where Felix had gotten himself in trouble, near the Temple of Castor and Pollux. The Via Sacra, the tribunal . . .
A lancing pain flashed in Sempronius’s mind, nearly knocking him flat. The obsidian mirror flared with a hot white light, obliterating the images that Sempronius had so painstakingly summoned. Only with effort did Sempronius manage to keep hold of the mirror itself, whose cool surface now burned like heated iron. ‘It’s just an illusion,’ he told himself, setting it down carefully in front of the altar, only removing his fingers from it when he was sure it was stable. He looked at his hands; the flesh was red, but not blistered.
Corvinus had bolted forward at the first sign of trouble. “Dominus?”
“Send for my sister. Tell her it is urgent. Let no one else in this part of the house.”
He sat, rump inelegantly on the floor, contemplating the still-blazing mirror until Vibia arrived. “Brother!” She rushed to kneel by him, though hesitated to reach out a hand, unsure of what had happened. “Corvinus said there was trouble, but he wasn’t sure—”
“The mirror.” Sempronius nodded at it. “I was attempting to hunt down whoever ensorcelled Felix in the Forum and tried to murder me—whether they are the same person or not—but nothing would come. Just mist. I got it to clear enough to see the area where Felix was cursed, but then . . . this.” He made a sweeping gesture. “It’s as though the mirror is in riot. And there’s a pain in my head like you wouldn’t believe.”
Vibia frowned at him, then at the mirror, then back at him. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her woolen under-tunic. “May I?” she asked, reaching towards his head. Sempronius nodded.
Her fingers against his temples did nothing to lessen the pain. Instead, they focused it, bringing all the sparks to two focal points. His hands clenched into fists, pressed tight against his thighs as Vibia probed.
“Well, that’s the oddest damn thing I’ve ever encountered,” Vibia said, rocking back on her heels.
“You have always had a way with comforting words, sister.”
“Would you rather I tiptoe around it?” she snapped. “This is bizarre magic, and I don’t know any gentler way of putting it. Someone’s used Fracture magic to set wards.” Sempronius’s face screwed up in confusion. “I know. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Vibia rubbed at her own forehead. “I suppose it’s not entirely non-sensical. Like cutting a trench around a camp instead of building up walls. All the same, very odd.” She pinched at the bridge of her nose. “The good news is, I don’t think it was meant for you specifically. It’s just a guard against anyone who comes poking about.”
Sempronius nodded. “That is good news. If anyone knew to put up magical wards against me, specifically . . .” He did not need to spell out the disaster that would presage.
“And it means it likely won’t stick.” Vibia pushed to her feet, and Sempronius rose, too, though his head was still rolling with pain and dizziness. “Get a good night’s rest and it should clear itself. And tomorrow, figure out how to track down your quarry through more traditional means.”
* * *
“Of course it’s Rabirus.” Corvinus stood over Sempronius’s desk, his eyes roving over papers. Most were in Sempronius’s handwriting, though a few were in Vibia’s. Others were Corvinus’s own, with occasional additions in Djadi’s neat script. Notes on politics, notes on alliances, notes on personal intrigues—and notes on Fracture magic. “Forgive my saying so, Dominus, but that seems fairly obvious.”
“I concur with your assessment,” Sempronius said. “But how?” He pulled a paper from the stack. “If he’s attacking me with Fracture magic, he must be using a Fracture mage. I’ve accounted for all the ones in the city, but I haven’t been able to connect any of them to Rabirus.” He waved a hand over the list. “Several in the Temple of Janus, as expected. One in Fortuna, one in Orcus, one in Castor and Pollux . . .”
“That’s a lot in temples,” Corvinus commented.
“The alternatives for a Fracture mage can be bleak.” Sempronius tapped his finger on a few other names on the list. “Beggars and madmen . . . Without the discipline of a temple, the more powerful Fracture mages can quite go to pieces.” He frowned at one name, whose story he knew. “Though for this poor woman, it was Ocella’s hard usage, not lack of control, that did her in.”
Corvinus nodded his understanding. “And you think there’s nothing to fear from those in the temples?”
“There could be quite a lot to fear,” Sempronius said, “but I had Marcus ask around. He says the High Priest of Janus swears up and down his people are quite devoted, hardly ever notice the world outside their rituals.” He frowned, thinking of the fog on his mirror, the things it would not let him see. Something near the Forum, but that scarcely narrowed matters down. The Forum was the heart of the city, surrounded by temples and administrative buildings. Thousands of people streamed in and out of it every day. “As for the others, the acolyte at Orcus and the priest of Castor and Pollux hardly have enough power to find a door with, and the girl at Fortuna has potential but is scarcely sixteen. None have known political connections to the Optimates.”
“Unlikely then. What about these?” Corvinus pointed to three other names on the list of Fracture mages: a gambler, a bookmaker, and a landlord of one of the cheapest insulae in the Subura. “They would be easy enough to pay off.”
“An excellent inclination, C
orvinus, but I’ve had the Vatiniae look into them. They say there’s no indication of a connection—or that they have enough power to cause the mayhem my unknown opponent has.” Sempronius rubbed his forehead, smudging it with a bit of ink, and bent once again over the list. “Two children, no worries there. Vibia vouches for Rufilia Mulagonis, little though I think she likes to. And that’s all of them inside the city.”
“Do you think it could be—”
“Someone outside the city?” Sempronius drew a breath, then released it slowly. “I have to confess the possibility, considering the poisoned arrow at Tibur.” He rose from the desk and began pacing. “If this mage is acting at Lucretius Rabirus’s direction, then the likely purpose is to disrupt my political aims. That business with Felix in the Forum, meant to cast aspersions on my associates and thus the Popularist cause . . . the arrow, so soon after we began debating Iberia in the Senate . . .”
“And that sense you’ve had, Dominus, of someone or something following you in the streets,” Corvinus said. “I’ve noticed it happens when you’re on Forum business, not social.”
Sempronius looked to him, startled. “I had not realized that.” The omission surprised him.
Corvinus bowed his head slightly. “It is my duty to make note of such minutiae.”
“Well done.” Sempronius paced a few more moments, the only sound in the room the occasional flick of a page as Corvinus continued picking through the notes on the desk. “The advantage of a Fracture mage as an opponent is that they can easily become reckless.”
“Dominus?”
“Just a thought. Our best hope of finding out who is working against me may be in waiting for them to make a mistake—or pressuring them into making one.”
♦ DECEMBER ♦
XXXV
Autumn turned to winter with unseemly haste. A cold and biting air swept over the city, prompting sensible men to stay close to a high-functioning hypocaust.
The senators of Aven, it could be argued, were not sensible men.
The Curia was cold brick and ancient, unforgiving timber, heated only by a fire pit in the middle of the room. ‘If we had consuls,’ Sempronius thought, glaring down at the empty chairs from his bench, ‘they, at least, would be warm.’
Still seething over his inability to discover the source of his troubles, Sempronius was in no mood to deal with the bickering and maneuvering of his peers. The shouting started well before session formally opened. New reports had come in from Tribunes Vitellius and Mennenius, lamenting the depredations suffered by the Arevaci allies. Mennenius, who had talent as a cartographer, had included a map of the destroyed villages they had found, and Aulus had thrust these under the noses of practically everyone in the Forum over the past few days. “Half the Iberian Peninsula seems to be up in arms,” shouted General Strato. “We can delay no longer!” There was much pounding of fists and shouting, both approving and castigating.
“What matter is it to us if the inland tribes squabble amongst themselves?” Buteo asked, rising. “Our settlements on the coast are safe, are they not? Do those scribblings of a tribune show any attacks within two hundred miles of the coast?”
“Seven hells, Buteo, do you truly fail to see why we must stir ourselves?” countered Quintus Terentius. Throughout the autumn, he had stayed neutral on the Iberian question; Sempronius considered his support a sign that the tide was moving in the right direction. “Our coastal settlements need access to goods from the inland. Every report that comes from Iberia tells that the rebel tribes have pushed further out. They could be at the gates of Gades before long!”
“Every man in the Senate can guess why you’re in favor, Quintus Terentius!” bellowed Buteo in reply. “Hoping to find a new wife among the Lusetani, are you?”
There was a deal of laughter, as much of it good-natured as mean-spirited, and even Terentius himself grinned, feeling no shame for his family’s reputation for making eccentric bridal choices. “Perhaps we all ought to look to the west for our next wives,” Terentius said, gesturing broadly. “For it seems they breed impressive men. It might improve our stock!”
Throughout another hour of bickering and trading jibes, Sempronius remained quiet, partly due to a lingering headache, but also because he was sorting out what he most wanted to say. Aven’s possible fates danced in his mind’s eye, echoes of what he had seen in his obsidian mirror, shifting and uncertain—but all pointing, at this first crux, towards Iberia and towards his own hand in shaping Aven’s work there. To further his goals of expansion and financial success for Aven, he had to have victory in Iberia. To have victory, he had to have an army when the new year rolled around; to have an army, he had to have first pick of the praetorships, a mandate to command. Sempronius listened, considered, and at length, counted heads.
Then he signaled that he wished to speak. “Gentlemen, I have a proposal.”
“Of course you do,” muttered Rabirus.
“When I first broached the matter of Iberia, this august body determined that more information was needed.” He gestured towards Aulus, who had in his lap every message that he had received from his son in the past few months. “We have information. We have not heard from Governor Fimbrianus in Gades—a silence that speaks of the Governor’s unwillingness to risk the Fourth Legion outside the city walls! We have information. Every scrap of it calls for action.” His outstretched hand pointed next towards Buteo. “Some in this body would question the need for action. If there is fighting, allow them to fight. If there is murder, allow them to kill. What business is it of ours?” His fingers curled into a fist, and his voice exploded as though he were on a battlefield, not in the Curia. “They are our allies!”
Several men startled visibly. Sempronius was glad about it. He was known for his cool head, keeping his voice moderate however outrageous his ideas. When Buteo bellowed, no one thought it strange. When Sempronius did, it was worth the noticing.
He took care not to make it seem like a loss of control. A deep breath steadied him, kept his face from reddening. His arm resumed the normal speech-giving posture. “Our allies, venerable fathers. Men to whom we have pledged ourselves. Women and children who think of Aven as their shield against destruction. If we fail them now, we disgrace ourselves. We dishonor ourselves, our ancestors, and our gods. We prove to the world that Aven is not a nation that can be trusted!” Sempronius adjusted his stance to a less aggressive posture. “This is not the reputation I wish for our nation to hold, gentlemen. This is not a reputation to be proud of. Could we allow the Iberians to slaughter each other? Withdraw our troops, leave our allies to fend for themselves? Certainly we could. But it would be morally reprehensible, and the other nations of the Middle Sea would rightly despise us for it.”
He kept his hand up, a signal that he was not done, and even Buteo looked too shocked to interrupt.
Sempronius weighed his next words. If he called for a division and lost, it would impair his reputation at a critical moment. If won, he would gain votes from the citizens who supported the war but could alienate those who didn’t.
But he heard his own words ringing back at him. He wanted war in Iberia for his own purposes, true. He wanted to win an election and lead an army. But he also believed what he had said: Aven had taken on a responsibility. Sempronius would not suffer the shame of the city, his city, failing so utterly.
“We said we would wait for more information. We said we would wait for December. Well, gentlemen, December has arrived. The year draws to a close. I call now for a division on the question of going to war in Iberia.”
As soon as he dropped his hand, the Senate erupted in turbulent conversation. The interim censor eventually had to pound his walking stick on the floor for attention. “A division has been called for!” he wheezed. “Those in favor of opening the gates of war for an Iberian conflict will move to the left. Those opposed will move to the right.”
Aulus was first
to move to the left, still pointedly holding the stack of reports from his son, and Generals Strato and Albinicus, with Sempronius himself, followed almost as swiftly as Rabirus and Buteo moved to the right. Gnaeus and Marcus Autronius looked unsettled, but also moved left; Sempronius could only imagine the row at home if they abstained and Felix got wind of it. Herennius rose slowly, glaring at Sempronius—but he glanced at Aulus and then moved left. ‘I’ll take a grudging vote,’ Sempronius thought. ‘At least the Vitellian marriage alliance has some kind of benefit.’ Cornicen wavered, too, but at a sharp look from Rabirus, moved right.
As the men continued to divide, Sempronius’s jaw tightened; it was too evenly split for his comfort, and a great many men seemed unprepared to make the decision, alarmed by the suddenness of Sempronius’s call.
When Galerius Orator rose, his face impassive, and moved left, more began to follow. Sempronius released a breath he was unaware he had been holding. Galerius’s support moved many of the prominent moderates. Then more of the middle-rankers, the back-benchers. Followers, all of them, too weak to decide on their own, but Sempronius could hardly chide them for that in this moment. Soon two-thirds of the room was on the left.
“Motion passes,” the interim censor said. Buteo looked fit to burst. “The first matter of business following the elections will be the preparation for war in Iberia, and the Senate will recommend a course of action to the Centuriate Assembly.”
Sempronius, cautiously, smiled.
* * *
“You have a plan. Tell me you have a plan.”
Several of the Optimates, all men who had moved to the right with alacrity, were gathered at Rabirus’s house. His son stood in the corner, goggling at the infuriated outbursts and venomous invectives. Most of those had come from Buteo. Ally though he was, Rabirus was suppressing the urge to kick him. Buteo was wonderful at making a lot of noise, and certainly he had done his duty at the Rostra nearly every day for the past month, but when it came time for action, he looked to Rabirus. Not just looked to him, demanded it of him, as though Rabirus alone had such agency.