From Unseen Fire

by Cass Morris

  Rabirus hoped he had sense enough not to mention Pinarius Scaeva now. Not everyone crowded into his study would understand Rabirus’s decision to engage the services of so unsavory a character. ‘I had to call upon him. I had no choice. For the good of Aven, for the good of the Republic . . .’

  Before Rabirus could think of a reply that was suitable for this audience, however, Buteo had moved on to chastising Cornicen. “And you! Took your time in voting, didn’t you? You’ve a lot of nerve even showing your face here, after that—”

  “Has it occurred to you, Buteo,” Cornicen broke in, “that just because a man is your enemy does not mean he is necessarily always wrong? There are advantages to going to war in Iberia, as you and I have discussed before. I see nothing shameful about considering one’s response to an important question before making a decision.”

  “It’s craven and self-serving, is what it is,” Buteo snarled. “You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

  “Obviously not,” Cornicen shot back, “or I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

  “Stop,” Rabirus said. “This is getting us nowhere. We have only a few days before the election to determine how to turn this to our favor.”

  “The trouble with the praetorial elections,” Gratianus put in, “is that the Centuries are, by and large, for war. Even the officer classes may back him,” he went on. “The younger men are spoiling for war, and many others will follow Aufidius Strato and Rufilius Albinicus’s lead.”

  “Then we must focus our efforts on those who will not,” Rabirus said. “The older men, wiser and steadier. Those who saw how much effort we’ve wasted in Numidia and Phrygia, who know the expense of campaigning.”

  “And who value the mos maiorum!” Buteo waved an arm in the air. “You all act as though this is merely a matter of— of practicality! As though the very foundation of the Republic were not at stake!”

  Cornicen looked about to argue the merits of practicality, so Rabirus jumped in first. “Of course I prize the mos maiorum as highly as you do, friend.”

  Buteo sniffed, as though to say no one could possibly hold the ancient traditions in a regard that compared to his worship of them.

  “But we must face the reality that not all the men of the Centuries are made of such stalwart moral character. We must appeal to their lesser natures—long enough to win the elections at least. Now.” He gestured to a slave, who approached with a tablet. “Let us decide how best to divide our resources over the next few days. Who do we most need to talk to?”

  The Optimates spent the rest of the evening in tactical discussion, determining how to make use of Cornicen’s pragmatic streak, analyzing where to deploy their consular candidate, Gratianus, and tactfully deciding with whom Buteo’s strident moralizing would do them good rather than harm. Soon they had a list and a plan, targets for public speech-making and private conversations alike. Rabirus prayed it would be enough to turn the tide against the Popularists.

  Only when the others had gone and his son had disappeared to his chamber did Rabirus catch Buteo by the elbow and hiss, “Of course I have something planned. Pinarius Scaeva promised me that Sempronius Tarren will never see the praetorship. He is not a man who makes such pronouncements idly.”

  “Forgive me, friend,” Buteo said, nostrils flaring, “but your pet mage has taken his sweet time about it. What’s he done since that fumbling excuse for action with Autronius Felix, hm?”

  “He assures me—”

  “No doubt he does!” Buteo huffed. “He’s being paid well for it! But I tell you, Rabirus, he’s working too slow for my liking. I know you prefer the subtle press of the shadows, but sometimes, a blunt object will remove an obstacle just as well.”

  Rabirus rubbed his forehead. Buteo’s strident nature made him a strong but sometimes inconvenient ally. “Certainly no one could accuse you of subtlety, friend,” he said, “but surely you see the need—”

  “What I see,” Buteo said, “is that we should overlook no opportunity to keep someone as dangerous as Sempronius Tarren out of power.”

  XXXVI

  The following evening, Sempronius accepted a dinner invitation from the Autroniae. “Felix will be dancing on air,” Gnaeus said. “He’s desperate to start talking strategy with you.”

  “There’ll be no living with him now,” Marcus added. “If he talks of anything but Iberia between now and spring, I’ll be astonished.”

  Sempronius nodded, but whatever the Autroniae might think, he knew that winning in the Curia was only half the battle. Now he had to ride that victory to another. A campaign in Iberia would do him little good if he was not the one leading it.

  At Marcus’s suggestion, Sempronius had brought the Vatiniae brothers to dinner with him. Their star was rising along with Sempronius’s, but even so, they would never be accepted for meals in houses like the Galeriae’s or the Crispiniae’s. The Autroniae, however, were only a few generations removed from freedmen. They weren’t about to turn their noses up at Mauretanian immigrants. Obir and Nisso got along famously with Felix in particular, trading stories about fighting desert nomads, theorizing on how best to take on the Lusetani.

  The night was well advanced when Sempronius and the Vatiniae took their leave. As was his habit, Sempronius chose to walk rather than ride in a litter, the better to observe the life of the city. The night was cold, but between thick woolen cloaks and the warm flush of wine, none of the men minded. Since he had Corvinus with him as well, Sempronius would have parted ways with the Vatiniae at the bottom of the Quirinal, but as his clients, they insisted on walking him at least as far as the Circus Maximus, even though it meant traipsing in the wrong direction.

  The Subura was never quiet, even at night. They avoided the more well-attended streets, full of brothels and rowdy taverns, picking their way through the relatively peaceful maze of insulae and shops that curved around the low slopes of the Carinae. Eventually, the haphazard avenues would careen into the Via Sacra, and they would be in the decidedly less disorderly side of town.

  As they passed through the markets, an enormous cart, laden with amphorae, blocked their way. They veered into a narrow alley, intending to dog-leg back—

  A heavy body impacted Sempronius from the right side. He pushed back, hard, thinking at first it was just some drunkard, staggering his way home. Then he saw the flash of metal, caught by the light of the waxing moon, and noticed two more men hurtling towards them through the alley.

  Sempronius was unarmed, but the Vatiniae certainly were not, and even Corvinus had a little knife at his belt. Amid punching, grunting, and shoving, Sempronius heard the wet suction of a blade entering flesh, but in the press of bodies and the darkness of the alley, he had no idea who had been stabbed. He parried a thrust aimed at his chest, then grabbed the man’s arm, gave it a twist, and swung him hard into the wall, using the attacker’s own weight and forward momentum against him. When the man fell, Sempronius stamped hard on his hand, forcing him to relinquish the blade.

  Corvinus and Obir were holding their own, but—Sempronius’s stomach lurched—Nisso was slumped against the wall, his hand clutched to his belly. Sempronius recovered his attacker’s blade and started for one of the other men, but Corvinus put his own knife between the man’s ribs. The last man standing, realizing it was now, at best, three against one, dropped his blade in front of Corvinus and took off down the alley. Sempronius’s attacker, though his head was bleeding, had recovered enough to stagger to his feet and follow his comrade. “Should I track them, Dominus?” Corvinus asked.

  At least one of them would not get far fast. But the streets here were a labyrinth, so easy to disappear into, and Nisso was bleeding. “No. Vatinius Nisso needs help.”

  “We are near your sister’s house, Dominus.”

  “Lead the way,” Obir said, heaving one of Nisso’s arms over his shoulder. Sempronius moved to take the other. “And quickly, lad!”


  * * *

  Sempronius pounded on the green-lacquered door so loudly that a neighbor cursed out the window at him. The petite Ionian slave who answered recognized him, but was clearly confused. “Dominus Sempronius— Domina Vibia has already retired for the night, and Dominus Mella is still at—”

  “Wake my sister. Now.” He pushed past the little man and ushered Obir and Nisso in as quickly as he could. Even in dim light, Sempronius could see that Nisso was in a bad way. His tunic was dark with blood, his eyes rolling and unfocused as Obir supported his weight. “Get him a couch,” Sempronius ordered the slave, who was standing gape-mouthed, shocked at the sudden intrusion of chaos into their house. “And send a boy out, find a healer and bring him here immediately. And someone bring lights!”

  Sempronius was not his master, but the door-slave rushed to obey, fetching the steward first, then scurrying to the other errands. The steward, in turn, woke Vibia, who rushed bleary-eyed into the atrium, clutching a wrap around her tunic. “Sempronius, what in Juno’s name—” Vibia began, but Sempronius heard the note of protest in her voice and held up a hand.

  “We were ambushed,” he said, as two slaves dragged a couch over and helped to ease Nisso down onto it.

  “Amb— What happened?”

  “We were on our way back from the Autroniae’s, passing through the Subura,” Sempronius said. “Three men came out of nowhere, daggers out.”

  “Thieves?” Vibia asked, though there was more hope than certainty in her voice.

  “We were meant to think so, Domina,” Obir said. “Yet they seemed to have no interest in our purses. We left one dead in the alley, but the other two ran like rabbits once they realized—” Obir cut himself off, grimacing. He had injuries as well, though nowhere near as dire as Nisso’s: an ugly welt raised on his cheek, a slashing cut over his left eye, and splashes of blood drying on his arms.

  “This was no robbery,” Sempronius said. “They didn’t take anything. Just stabbed and ran, as soon as we started to fight back. I apologize for bringing this to your doorstep, but we were nearer here than my home or theirs.”

  “Of course.”

  “Send one of your men to the nearest collegium. Say there’s a dead man around the corner from them that I want investigated, and I’ll pay for their trouble.” Sempronius doubted there would be enough evidence for him to bring a suit against anyone, but he wanted whatever information there was to gather. “Tell them to knock on the surrounding doors, ask if—” Nisso gave a groan, refocusing Sempronius’s attention. He knelt beside the couch. “Obir, give me your knife.” Sempronius used it to slit Nisso’s tunic up the side. Behind him, Vibia turned demurely away. Nisso groaned as Sempronius peeled the sodden fabric away from his skin. “I’m sorry to jostle you,” Sempronius said, “but I need a look at this.” Nisso gave no response. His breathing had grown labored, and Sempronius wondered if he could hear.

  Sempronius had seen enough skirmishes during his early military service to know a lethal gut wound when he saw one. The stench of blood and bowels was nearly overpowering, enough to prompt Vibia to remove herself from the room. A clean puncture wound might have been salvageable, but the tearing rent across Nisso’s midsection was wide enough for Sempronius could see the knotty pink expanse of his intestines. He was hemorrhaging blood that covered Sempronius’s hands and stained the couch. His brow and cheeks were drenched in sweat, and his mouth gaped open, his lips working wordlessly. Pluto’s mark was on him: a dark shade, which Sempronius’s Shadow magic saw all too clearly, that spoke of inescapable death.

  Feeling heavy, Sempronius stood and walked to Obir. “I’m sorry, friend. But . . . your brother is beyond aid.” Obir staggered backwards, looking suddenly ten years older. “We’ve sent for a healer, but, I’ve seen this before. The wound was deep enough to tear open his insides. It allows poison into his blood.” He gestured towards the shrine, standing in an alcove off the atrium. “If there are any gods you would like to say words to on his behalf . . .”

  Obir nodded dumbly, and as he walked lead-footed to the shrine, Sempronius returned to Nisso. “Corvinus,” he called. “Tell someone to bring me a basin of water.”

  It was a branch of his magic that Sempronius rarely exercised. Water was the conduit of the soul, and Shadow the province of the Underworld; together, Sempronius had the power to ease a man’s passing. And it was magic he could work subtly, especially with the household in such disorder and Obir oblivious in his grief.

  Corvinus placed the basin beneath Nisso’s couch. Sempronius sunk his hands into the water, turning it pink with Nisso’s blood. “I call upon you, Lympha, Reader of Souls. I call upon you, Pluto, Lord of the Underworld . . .” As he whispered, he could hear Obir at the shrine, praying in a mix of Truscan and Maureti, to the gods of both lands, his voice low and choked with tears.

  When Sempronius finished his incantation, he placed his dripping hands on Nisso’s cheeks. “Go in peace, my friend,” he said. The magic flowed through him, through the water, a dark wave that crossed from one realm to the next. Passing so near the shades of the underworld, Sempronius could feel its magnetic pull, but he watched without blinking as the spark of life, still fighting so desperately, through so much pain, finally faded from behind Nisso’s eyes.

  Sempronius’s muscles ached as he stepped back and allowed Corvinus to wipe the blood from his hands with a fresh towel. Corvinus took both the towel and the basin of water away. While Obir prayed and wept, Sempronius kept watch over the corpse.

  At length, Obir finished his supplication and returned to stand beside Sempronius. His eyes streamed tears freely as he looked down at what had been his brother. “He always fought well,” Obir said. “But these bastards surprised us. He never had a chance to draw his knife.”

  “I would like to pay his funeral expenses, if you would allow me,” Sempronius said. He might not know who, precisely, had been behind the attack, but the Vatiniae would never have been involved had they not been attending upon Sempronius. It conferred an obligation that Sempronius did not think he could ever fully pay.

  “I thank you, Sempronius,” Obir said, his voice thick with sorrow. “But we are members of a burial club.”

  Sempronius nodded. “All the same, if you should wish a monument for him, mourners, anything of that sort, I will provide it.”

  “You have always been a worthy patron to us.”

  Sempronius laid a hand on Obir’s shoulder. “I will leave you to say your farewells. My sister’s people will see to it, if you need anything.” He went to seek out Vibia.

  She had gone to the portico at the top of the garden, and she looked even paler than usual. “There is a dead man in your atrium,” Sempronius said. “A man who was my friend and client, so I pray you, spare me any chiding until tomorrow, at least.”

  Vibia swayed, drawing her wrap even tighter around her. She swallowed her discomfort, however, and asked only, “Do you know who did this?”

  “I can only suspect,” Sempronius said. “And it will be easy enough to track. There was no magic to this, just thuggishness.”

  “They fear you,” Vibia said. “If they did not, they would content themselves with the usual corruptions. Not curses in the Forum, poisoned arrows, and blades drawn in the dead of night.”

  “Some of them, it seems, got a taste for bloodshed under Ocella.” Sempronius paced along the line where the light spilling from the house gave way to the darkness of the unlit garden. Rabirus or Buteo, it hardly mattered which was the hand behind this particular atrocity. They were a matched pair of black nags. Buteo, who loved the idea of the republic so much he could not see its reality, and Rabirus, who had learned brutality at a dictator’s elbow. Sempronius knew them to be ruthless, but he would never have guessed them so entirely unscrupled as to attempt an assassination mere days before an election. ‘And all because I outwitted them.’

  Vibia let her bro
ther walk out his irritation, his grief, and whatever else drove him to kick at fallen leaves and swear under his breath for several minutes before speaking again. “Be careful, brother,” she said. “You know I support you, but it will be hard to effect change if you are dead.”

  “I promise you, sister,” Sempronius said, looking up at the stars, “I have no intention of dying at these men’s hands.”

  “No.” Vibia followed his gaze. “No one ever does.”

  XXXVII

  TAGUS RIVER, IBERIA

  “There is a price.” Bailar held a fresh-whetted knife in one hand, a bronze bowl in the other. Despite the biting cold, Ekialde knelt, bare to the waist, under the bone-white full moon. “Another man’s blood can give you strength, but if you wish dominion over another, or to extend your protection to another, for that, it will require your own.”

  Bailar had consulted the stars and determined that the time was right for Ekialde to take the next step in his path as erregerra. Drinking blood to absorb power was easy; any man could do it, though not all would feel the hand of Bandue upon them if they did. But Bailar, clever and wise and always seeking, had come to Ekialde with some ideas drawn from ancient tales and half-forgotten superstitions.

  Ekialde had not been sure at first. Some of what Bailar suggested verged on darker magics than he felt comfortable with—certainly darker than Neitin would approve of. ‘But I have all my people to think of.’ Was it not the duty of an erregerra to bear burdens on his tribe’s behalf? And Bailar assured him these actions would help him to protect the Lusetani.