by Cass Morris
She swayed again, and he caught her under the elbows. Latona looked up into his eyes, finding herself lost in the compassion and concern she saw there.
A compulsion pattered in her heart, but this one had nothing to do with her magic. A coil of need begging her to throw worth, wealth, and reputation all away, just to know what his lips would feel like against hers. It was absurd. It was mad, wanting a man like this, and the only thing that made it endurable was the same thing that made it so painful—her awareness, ever more certain, that he wanted her too, just as fiercely.
“Venus protect me,” she whispered as her fingers seized the front of his tunic. She went up on her toes, pressing her lips to his.
However much she may have surprised him, Sempronius responded eagerly, and the hands holding her up slipped easily around her back. This was no gentle, tentative kiss, no awkward endearment; Sempronius’s mouth was hot and insistent, eliciting little shocks of pleasure that Latona felt all the way down to her toes.
He kissed with the same intensity he applied to everything in his life, and Latona felt possessed, swept up in his flood. She clutched blindly at his shoulders, clinging to him for support, and as she swayed into him, his arm locked around her waist, holding her fast. She felt, too, a tingle of warmth that came not from their close-pressed bodies, but from within her, the tangled haze of Fire and Spirit rushing over her skin and pricking up the hair on her arms.
There was something oddly restorative in it, too, as though the kiss brought her back to herself, anchoring her soul back into her body. Perhaps it was Venus driving her, giving her strength through this impossible desire.
Sempronius broke away first, though his lips drifted over her cheeks and hair before he said, “You mad, brave creature.”
“I’m sorry,” Latona said, making to turn away from him.
“Don’t you dare apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have— we shouldn’t— this is—” Latona pushed back from him, but her balance and strength were not yet fully restored. She swayed unsteadily, and in an instant found herself swept up in Sempronius’s arms again.
“I’m a monster,” he said, moving them back out into the street. “Pouncing on you like some starving animal.” Latona wound her arms around his neck and refrained from pointing out that it was she who had done the pouncing. “Come on,” he said. “I’m taking you to Ama Rubellia.”
XLIII
Latona was able to regain herself somewhat at the Temple of Venus through the restorative power of a bath, as well as the cosseting of Rubellia and her acolytes. Little Pontia, the girl that Latona had rescued all those months ago on the Esquiline, proved particularly attentive, gently pulling a comb through Latona’s limp curls. She looked so in awe that Latona might have been embarrassed, if she had had any energy left for self-indulgent emotions. “She sees you as a savior twice over,” Rubellia said, when she came in with a fresh gown, so that Latona need not return home so disheveled. “There’s nothing wrong with letting the girl have a hero.”
Latona’s error was in then heading for the Caelian, not the Palatine. She recognized the mistake before she even got through the doorway, for she could hear her husband bellowing, and the steward howling in protest.
When Herennius realized the front door had opened, he left off beating his steward and whirled about to face his wife. For a moment, Latona thought he might strike her as well. He stayed his hand, however, not that far gone. ‘Yet.’
“You!” Herennius shouted, advancing on her. “You defied me.”
Latona was too tired to bother dissembling. “Yes. I suppose I did.” Some impish inclination to press her luck made her add, “Though in fairness, I never did agree to your proclamation that I would stay home, and in fact informed you that I had every intention of supporting my fa—”
“Explain yourself!”
She forbore to point out that was what she had been doing before he interrupted her. “I was with Aula and my father’s men,” Latona began. “It was all perfectly—”
“Do not lie!” Herennius bellowed. “We’ve had a message from your father—your sister is in a panic, wondering where you were, if you’re well.”
Latona closed her eyes. Had it only been a few hours ago that she had shoved her excess clothing at Aula and bolted off into danger? But Herennius’s words revealed that Aula had not given her away. “We got separated when the fires broke out,” she said. “There was quite a crush.”
“Trouble!” Herennius said. “Just as I predicted. You can’t keep yourself away from it.”
Latona discovered in that moment that she had precisely no patience left to spare for her husband. “It’s certainly not as though I wanted to find myself in the middle of a conflagration, Herennius, and furthermore, you had no right to forbid me going out in the first place!”
His face grew florid, and as he stepped closer to her, Latona felt Merula tensing behind her. “I am your husband—”
“But not my master,” Latona spat back. “Not my owner, Herennius.”
“—and you will show me the respect I am due!”
“I show you precisely the respect you have earned!” Latona shouted, pushed beyond her ability to retain composure.
Herennius’s lips were thin and white. “I am a worthy man, you know,” he said. “I act with honor. I see to my clients’ interests. I manage my estates well. I do not shame you.”
Latona sighed, her chest feeling oddly deflated. Nothing he said was untrue. But that was, itself, a trouble. Herennius was respectable without ever being extraordinary—without wanting to try. It would have suited a great many women, but not her—not now. Not when she was beginning to discover what she herself was capable of. “We are ill-suited, Herennius, and that is a fact,” she said, rubbing her forehead.
“Will you divorce me?”
Latona let the question hang in the air. She had the legal right to do so, of course, any woman did. The memory of Sempronius’s lips still hanging on hers should have inspired courage, perhaps, but instead it reminded her what was at stake. ‘There are already rumors about me . . . Ocella, Sempronius, too many will not see a difference.’ At least marriage to Herennius sheltered her reputation in that regard. Divorcing him without clear cause would provoke suspicion of her virtue—and knowing herself to be derelict, Latona was not sure she could face the scrutiny, not with her family’s fortunes also at stake. “No,” she said at last. “Will you divorce me?”
“No,” he responded, much more quickly. “It would be foolish, particularly with your father about to become censor.” He jabbed a finger at her. “But you will remember what I have done for you, what I protect you from. You will behave in a more suitable wifely fashion, and then . . .” He settled back on his heels with a self-satisfied nod. “Then I expect we shall get along tolerably enough once again.”
A tolerable marriage. Many women would consider that a fine enough thing, as much as they could expect out of life. But the powers of Fire and Spirit had re-awoken in Latona’s soul, and she found herself uncertain whether she could resign herself to so lackluster a thing as a tolerable marriage.
“So,” Herennius went on, “We will go to your father’s for dinner, so that he may see you are well—and you can apologize for having so foolishly worried everyone.”
All Latona wanted to do was curl up in her bed, but it seemed this day would never end. “Then by all means,” she said, gesturing at the door, “let us go.”
* * *
The meal was stiff and awkward, but Latona was so fatigued that she hardly noticed. Aulus had a scolding for her, and she did regret the hours of terror she had caused Aula, but most of the evening passed as in a fog. After dinner, Aulus and Herennius withdrew to Aulus’s study to discuss what financial rearrangements might have to be made, if the elections were put off long enough to require another round of campaigning. Latona let Aula fuss and cluck ove
r her for a few minutes, but when Gera caught Lucia creeping out of bed to try and eavesdrop on the adults’ conversation, Latona took the opportunity of Aula’s diverted attention to draw Alhena aside.
“We should have listened to you, pet,” she said, squeezing her sister’s hands.
But Alhena surprised her by shaking her head. “No. You shouldn’t have. I think . . . I think it all had to happen, so that other things can . . .” She paused, frowning. “It’s the oddest sensation, you know, to be so sure of something, and yet have no idea at all what it’s about. If I’d seen the end of that vision, it might’ve made more sense, and I wouldn’t have been so panicked.”
“It’s a good thing you were panicked!” Latona said. “You saved the day. If you hadn’t brought Vibia, of all people, I don’t know what might have happened.”
“I brought her because she had to be there,” Alhena said, with a self-conscious shrug. “I’m just glad it didn’t take me any longer to figure it out. And him, too. Sempronius Tarren, I mean. I think—” She bit off her words, her cheeks flushing nearly as red as her hair.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Just . . .” Alhena’s blue eyes darted about the room, as they tended to do when she was avoiding saying something. “Your gold and his darkness. I see them together. You and he are connected, somehow.” Alhena fidgeted with her hair, poking distractedly at a loose pin. “I don’t know what it means, but you two are . . . a part of one another’s stories, I suppose is the best way of putting it.” Her hands fluttered. “I don’t know, but I . . . I’m going to try to do better. To learn more. I know I’ve been . . . I mean, I know I haven’t . . .” Alhena glanced over her shoulder; Aula was returning to the table, having wrangled Lucia back to bed. “Well. Whatever it is you’re heading into, you won’t go ill-prepared, not if I have anything to say about it.”
She looked uncharacteristically fierce when she said it—and in that moment looked more like Gaius and Aula than Latona had ever noticed before. “Thank you, dove,” she said, leaning to kiss Alhena’s forehead.
“Thank her for what?” Aula said, flopping herself down.
Latona glanced at Alhena, but she gave the tiniest shake of her head—and Latona agreed. No one seemed to know that Alhena had slipped out of the house that afternoon, and Latona would not repay her courage by giving her away.
“For being my sister,” Latona said, as brightly as she could manage. “And you, too.” Her fingers still entwined with Alhena’s, she reached out for Aula with the other hand. “No one could ask for better.”
* * *
The augurs looked to the skies and determined that the next clear day for the elections would be the fourth following the Ides of December. On the day before, Latona and Alhena went to the home of Taius Mella to meet with Sempronius and Vibia: Latona, to thank Vibia for intervening with Pinarius Scaeva on her behalf; Sempronius, to thank Alhena for raising the alarm. Latona felt it a little awkward to be so indebted to Vibia. They were friends, but only in the vague way their social class and familial alliances demanded. Latona had always suspected Vibia did not actually like her or Aula much—and she had difficulty mustering much fondness in return.
None of that dimmed her appreciation for what Vibia had done. “I don’t know what it was that you did,” Latona said, “but it must have been extraordinary magic.”
“It’s something we Fracture mages learn early on,” Vibia said. “The most dangerous thing to one of us is another of us.” Her shoulders moved beneath her mantle, but Latona felt more emotion churning in her than her affectation of nonchalance let on. “Our control has to be so precise. Perhaps that’s why we’re best suited to tamper with each other.”
“You must have done a magnificent job of it,” Latona said. “He was strong and well-prepared.” What she did not say, but knew they were both thinking, was that Vibia’s power was not nearly a match for Pinarius’s. Latona had no idea how Vibia had managed to find the weak link in his defenses, and could not help wondering, for all her gratitude.
Vibia’s gaze flicked towards her brother, speaking something that Latona could not identify. Then she sighed again. “Never discount the element of surprise.”
“I’m only sorry you’re not getting public credit for it.” They had agreed, between them, not to make any public mention of Pinarius Scaeva or of Lucretius Rabirus’s part in the whole scheme. With no proof of his involvement in the fire and nothing concrete to link him to Pinarius, there was little they could do. Latona had not even told Aula the details. Ama Rubellia knew a little, but Sempronius had offered as sparse an explanation as he could manage, and Latona had not had the strength to explain further.
“It’s of no matter,” Vibia said. “The price for taking credit would be far too high.” Again, a little glance at Sempronius. “And don’t worry,” Vibia added, a dark look coming into her eyes. “Lucretius Rabirus hasn’t gotten away clear, not if I have anything to say about it.”
“My sister has rather an enthusiasm for righteous cursing,” Sempronius said.
“Pinarius Scaeva was using filthy Fracture magic to do his work,” Vibia said in defense—though to Latona’s mind, she had no need to explain or excuse her vehemence. “It’s— it’s a miasma. Perverted. Rabirus knew that and set him loose on the city. He deserves everything I can throw at him and more.”
“I’m more concerned,” Sempronius said, “that Scaeva professed association with the Discordian Cult. I thought they were all gone from the city, but if he was nestled into the Temple of Janus . . .” Sempronius shook his head. “I dislike the implication.” The man himself had been found a gibbering wreck, during the clean-up of the docks the next day. No one seemed to have any idea how a priest of Janus had ended up in an Aventine warehouse, nor how his wits had come to be so shattered—no one except the four people standing in the Mellan atrium, none of whom were inclined to illuminate the matter.
* * *
The following morning, the elections resumed with rather less pomp and enthusiasm than they had generated the first time. The crowd was smaller, Sempronius noted. He wondered how many were absent because they assumed the electoral results would repeat themselves and how many stayed away out of superstition. If the gods were to express their displeasure a second time . . .
The speeches and negotiating were less energetic. Even Sempronius had difficulty summoning the necessary passion. He felt as though he had already spoken to everyone whose opinion was not permanently fixed against him. The good news, so far as he was concerned, was that his reputation did not seem to have been damaged by the Aventine fire. Buteo had tried to imply that the gods had singled Sempronius out for punishment, but too many men, from senators down to foot soldiers, had seen him not only organizing the brigades, but hauling buckets with his own hands. The senators appreciated the leadership; the lower classes, the willingness to work.
As such, Sempronius found the entire atmosphere of the elections far more casual. He stood discussing the fire and its implications with the Autroniae while the officers and the First Class voted. When they had finished, Sempronius found himself enjoying more of an advantage than he had during the first election.
When the final results were announced following the votes of the Third Class, however, Sempronius’s good mood evaporated immediately.
He had taken first place among the praetors. The province of Cantabria, command of a legion, direction of the Iberian War, all were his for the taking. Galerius and Aufidius had won the consulship and Aulus Vitellius the censor’s office. By all accounts, it was a resounding victory for the Popularists, by a wider margin than they would have won on the first try. Yet here he was, feeling punched in the stomach.
He had taken first place among the praetors. Lucretius Rabirus had taken second.
“How?” Sempronius said, clenching his fists. “How did that man come in second?”
“I can onl
y assume,” Marcus sighed, “that he bribed very, very well.”
Sempronius was ruffling his hair in agitation, mindless of the fact that chalk from his toga had rubbed off on his palm. “I can’t even begin . . .” It beggared his speech, that Rabirus, of all men, could stand now in such a position to imperil his plans to bring Aven to the glorious future of his visions.
Felix cursed under his breath. “Diana’s tits, here he comes.”
“He wouldn’t,” Marcus said.
“Well, he is.”
Marcus rubbed briskly at Sempronius’s head, trying to shift the white streak that he had deposited into it, but Sempronius brushed him off. He had far, far greater quarrels with Lucretius Rabirus than precision of appearance.
“Well.” Rabirus pulled to a halt in front of him, flanked by cronies, wearing that slick, self-satisfied smile. By Felix’s fidgeting, he wanted to punch it off Rabirus’s face as badly as Sempronius did. “Congratulations, Senator. Returned first among the praetors. What an honor.”
Sempronius nodded. Rabirus rocked on his heels slightly. ‘If he wants me to return the congratulations,’ Sempronius thought, ‘he can wait until Mount Olympus crumbles into dust.’ Not even peace-making Marcus looked inclined to offer an olive branch.
“I presume you’ll be taking Cantabria,” Rabirus said, “with your enthusiasm for the Iberian endeavor. Sensible, of course, most sensible.” Sempronius did not dignify that observation with a response. Taking Cantabria—and its legions—to spearhead the Iberian War had been part of Sempronius’s campaign, which made him wonder why Rabirus thought it worth mentioning. “In fact,” Rabirus continued, “I think you’ve quite won me over.” Sempronius arched a disbelieving eyebrow, and Rabirus’s irritating little smile broke into a broad grin. “So much so, in fact, that I think I’ll claim Baelonia for my province.” Thunderstruck, Sempronius thought he had misheard until Rabirus continued: “Yes, Baelonia. And that means, of course, I’ll be taking over Fimbrianus’s legion in Gades. Control of a port city is so crucial to a campaign, isn’t it?” Rabirus leaned in, the self-righteous smile melting away and his false cheer with it. “Just something for you to take into consideration when you’re making your plans for this war you’ve thrown us into. I will be there.”