Sigrun noted the pause before the word lictor, and sighed internally. Dioscuri really should know better than to assume she was Livorus’ mistress, but she was dressed more decoratively than usual tonight, and didn’t have her spear in hand.
For his part, Livorus merely smiled, thinly. “I trust my lictors with my life, Dioscuri, and have no secrets from them that I can readily think of. But, as you wish. Sigrun, my dear? If you would be so kind?”
Sigrun tapped her fist to her chest, immediately, and bedamned to the fact that she was wearing a dress while saluting him. “As you wish, dominus.” She turned as Nochtli approached, and lowered her head in respect to the governor’s wife. “My lady? What will you?”
Nochtli smiled up at her, tentatively, and in smooth, pure Latin that was almost without accent, told her, “Let me introduce you around. You and the propraetor are . . . close?”
Sigrun wanted to close her eyes in annoyance, but then she’d have missed Ehecatl’s amused grin as she passed his position in an embrasure along the courtyard wall. On the one hand, being thought to be Livorus’ mistress might seem to give her political power, or at least, influence over him. On the other hand, damn it, she had her dignity. “I have been his lictor for five years. I came to his service in 1949.” Her tone was brisk and businesslike. “Before that, I was an ælagol among my people for ten years.” That much, and no more, she’d give the woman. Just enough to put the governor’s wife back on her heels a little.
Nochtli started to laugh as she directed the taller woman through the crowds. “You’re pleased to jest with me? You can’t be much more than twenty.”
Sigrun looked down at her, expressionlessly. “I rarely am pleased to do so, my lady.” She looked around the crowded courtyard. “Now, to whom would you have me speak?”
Nochtli Dioscuri blinked, rapidly, obviously re-evaluating matters. Then she drew Sigrun to the edge of the courtyard, into the shelter of one of the pillars there. Sigrun threw a glance over her shoulder, looking around, immediately, for her fellow lictors, and caught Adam, Ehecatl, and Trennus’ eyes; Adam nodded over his drink, telling her, without words, that he was keeping an eye on her. The knowledge was a relief, almost unaccountably so. She could probably tear any single person here asunder with little more than her bare hands—other than her fellow lictors—but she was still on edge. There was a hint of rain in the air, and a suggestion of electrical currents in the atmosphere, high overhead, but that wasn’t it. It was the impression of hidden undercurrents in every conversation around her, and of being deep in social waters with which she was unfamiliar. Couldn’t Livorus just have brought his wife with him on one of these trips? Of course, that would mean a second protective detail . . . and one for the children, or they’d have had to leave the children in Rome . . . and Poppaea is . . . Poppaea. Functionally useless in almost every way. Nevermind.
“Mistress Caetia? I would like to introduce you to Tlilpotonqui Tototl. High priest of Tlaloc, He Who Makes Things Sprout, for all of Nahautl.” Nochtli smiled at the man on the other side of the pillar, who was holding court there with a handful of people, most of whom seemed to be listening to his every word intently. “High priest, this is Sigrun Caetia. One of the propraetor’s, ah, attendants.”
Tlaloc . . . Tlaloc. Damn it. I’m going to have to ask Ehecatl for more details. She was not as strong on the Nahautl pantheon as she should be. And the perennial ‘ah’ before the term lictor was getting on her nerves. She was, however, on someone else’s territory, so Sigrun reined in her temper, not aware of the low rumble of thunder in the distance. She offered her hand for a straight-forward Roman wrist-clasp, and found that the priest simply stared down at the appendage for a moment, before raising his dark eyes to study her face.
The high priest was a short man, around Kanmi’s height, but unlike many of the party-goers, he was fully clad in traditional attire; no hint of Rome, here. In his case, this consisted of a black and red cloak, wrapped around his body, without a shirt, and a fringed and beaded loincloth in the same colors, with a tall, black-feathered headdress, which displayed the fact that his scalp was shaved at the sides. His body held just as many tattoos as Ehecatl or Trennus, but Sigrun had no idea what any of them meant. Again, she was deeply grateful that Ehecatl was on hand. She already had a list of questions for the man almost as long as her arm. The regional Praetorian office had given them thick stacks of dossiers, but at the moment, Sigrun couldn’t remember seeing any folders on the high priest of Tlaloc. I might not remember the name, but I think I’d remember the face, if I’d seen it before. He’s distinctive. As if he was carved out of a solid piece of jade, and left to weather for centuries . . . .
The high priest had been looking up at her while they’d been appraising one another, and Sigrun realized, suddenly, that the electrical potential in the air was much stronger than it had been at any other point in the evening. She glanced up at the clouds before the lighting bolt forked from horizon to horizon, and let her head roll back for a moment, as the first patter of rain fell, striking her on the face. I think that this one is god-born. He doesn’t have the hallmarks of the sorcerer. But he does not introduce himself as such, and nor am I supposed to do so tonight, in defiance of all custom and courtesy. Sigrun stifled a grimace, and asked, instead, as pleasantly as she could, “Tlaloc is more than just god of rain and crops, as best I recall.” As she spoke, the other guests muttered and began to move towards the doors to get in out of the midnight rain. “He is the lord of lightning, lord of the earth in which things grow, and lord, too, of the earth that consumes the dead, is he not?” Her frantic pawing at the hints of memory from her time in the Odinhall had borne some fruit, at least.
The high priest’s faintly supercilious stare softened, replaced by a look of interest. “You know something of our ways.”
“I am something of a scholar of the ways of other people, though I cannot count myself an expert on any save my own. For example, I read that once, that Tlaloc was offered sacrifices of human hearts in your temples, along with many of your other gods.” Sigrun didn’t say the words as a challenge. She put neutrality into her voice, as best she could, wondering what the man would say in reply.
A feint, as his eyes flickered to the side. “You’re from Nova Germania, yes? Your people once made sacrifices, too.”
“Not in over two thousand years, and even then, it was rare.” Sigrun shrugged. “Sometimes, a female slave might have volunteered to be buried with her master, after accepting the seed of all of his men.” Of course, while legend says that this was voluntary, and my people regard free will as sacred, I have to wonder how often this was truly the case. “In some tribes, there were Yule sacrifices every nine years. And of course, there are legends of kings who’d sacrificed their own sons to gain unnaturally long lives.” She leaned against the pillar as the rain began to fall more heavily, watching in mild amusement as almost everyone wearing feathers scurried for overhangs to protect their finery. “That being said? If we had a bad king, even two thousand years ago, my people could unseat him from his throne.” A notion enshrined in the law, in fact . . and kings had been supplanted, in Nova Germania and Novo Gaul, at least, by elections and democracy. Those Hellene concepts had found fertile soil in the new world.
Her skin crawled a little, as electrical potential built in the air again, and the rain began to pour down harder. Nochtli, the governor’s wife, intervened, asking, mildly, “Can we not step under one of the balconies, my friends?” She moved a little further away, trying to draw them with her, her red dress already clinging to her.
“I am quite comfortable, receiving my lord’s bounty,” Tototl replied, lifting up his hands as the rain splashed down into them. “I wonder that you should speak of supplanting kings, barbarian woman.”
“Are we not both barbarians? Do we both not speak Latin as a second or even a third language?” Sigrun’s lips quirked at the corners. She’d found a fencing partner, apparently. She glanced at Nochtli, and incline
d her head, feeling rain pour in a steady stream down her nose, like a downspout. “My thanks, domina, but I, too, am more comfortable under the open sky.” She smiled with forced cheer at Nochtli, and then turned and looked back at Tototl. Two can play this game. “I spoke of dethroning bad kings among my own people. I spoke not at all of yours, nor of anyone else’s.”
“Do you not consider the Imperator of Rome to be your king?” Sly, cautious words, implying that she harbored traitorous thoughts.
“I consider him to be the Imperator. As your own emperor stands above the petty lords who govern the various cities subject to him, so does the Imperator govern kings.” Sigrun paused. “And yet, even the Imperator is subject to the laws of Rome. Admittedly, he makes the laws, but over the centuries, there have been efforts to contain even the absolute power of the Imperator.” She smiled again, faintly. “I find your people’s history interesting, high priest. I know, for example, that a common man could always rise through the military, or the priesthood. As my friend Ehecatl Itztli has done. He was common-born, and rose to a high rank among the Jaguar warriors before becoming a Praetorian.” Sigrun glanced around, trying to find her fellow lictors, and failed. Either Ehecatl had gone invisible, or he, like the others, had had the great good sense to get in out of the rain. “And yet, for all your society’s mobility . . . have your people never thought of dethroning a bad king?”
A twitch, just barely visible, under his eyelids, fairly shouted to her that he was concealing something as he replied, “All of our kings descend from the Toltecs. The first-born children of the gods. To do such a thing would be . . . sacrilege.” His eyes were hooded.
He’s hiding something. But I can’t tell what. He hasn’t spoken a direct lie yet. “Ah, so your kings are god-born, are they?” Sigrun knew that wasn’t quite true. There hadn’t been a true god-born on the throne of Nahautl in about four hundred years . . . not since the last time Rome had been forced to march in and chastise the province. “But the title of emperor does not always go from father to son, is that correct?” Sigrun could feel the rain’s intensity start to ease a little now, but she was already soaked to the skin. Her dress was clinging to her legs, but at least her leathers would dry well. She wasn’t sure about the silk of the damnable skirt.
“No. Sometimes, the tlatoani, in times past, has been elected from the imperial family, by the aristocracy. Huitzilíhuitl, our second emperor here in Tenochtitlan, was elected so. The tlatoani have always come of the blood of the gods. But they rely on the wisdom of many to rule.” His voice was serene, and absolutely unshaken now.
Interesting reaction points he has. “And are you, by chance, of the blood of the gods?” Sigrun asked, and could feel the electrical charge overhead building once again. This time, however, she diverted it. And instead of sending lightning forking from horizon to horizon, she brought it down on a radio tower’s antenna she could just see blinking, peacefully, past one of the buildings in the palace complex. She didn’t dare bring it down any closer; she wasn’t holding anything metal, weapon or otherwise. Touching metal gave her a much finer degree of control over lightning.
As the thunder echoed against the walls of the palace, Tototl drew himself up, studying her, his eyes narrow. Sigrun made a point of looking in the direction of the lightning bolt, as if surprised by it, and then looked back down at him. “I am,” the high priest assured her, with dignity, after a moment’s pause.
So, you descend from nobility. Doesn’t automatically make you god-born . . . but I can feel someone touching the weather, the same way I can. And while it could be someone else, why not a priest of ‘He who makes things sprout?’ She thought for a moment, and then asked, “So, you could rule as a . . . tlatoani?” Sigrun knew she’d mangled the word hopelessly.
The high priest’s eyes went wide, and he glanced from side to side, eyeing Nochtli for a moment, as she’d ducked under a nearby balcony, trying to find some kind of shelter from the wet. “I am only a very distant relation. And I am a priest. Only a king may rule.”
“Interesting,” Sigrun managed a smile she didn’t feel. “It’s been lovely meeting you, high priest. I wish you and your people fertile fields, and much rain.” She looked up at the sky, from which drizzle still fell, adding, “Though perhaps no more today.” She nodded to Nochtli. “My lady? Should I return you to your husband now?” She ducked under the cover of the balcony herself now, and reached back to squeeze water out of her braid.
Nochtli Dioscuri gave her a wide-eyed glance. “You should not speak to the high priest so,” the governor’s wife muttered, sounding upset. “He is a good man. He tries, very hard, to preserve our cultural heritage.”
“You know him well, then?” Sigrun asked. Might as well figure out the undercurrents here. If I can.
“He’s been a friend of my family since I was a child.” Nochtli still sounded perturbed.
“You are noble-born, yourself?” Sigrun tried to make her voice as conciliatory as possible as they splashed, barefoot, through the puddles towards the entrance of the palace building into which the rest of the party had gone for refuge from the storm.
“Well, yes. To a degree. My father worked his way into the aristocracy through military service. He was a Jaguar soldier, when he was young.” Nochtli shrugged. “He fought in a few border skirmishes with the Quecha, alongside the Legions, long before I was born. He married my mother, who was from an old noble family, and the rest, as they say, is history. The high priest traveled with the army in those days. He was younger then, of course.”
“High priest Tototl is god-born, is he not?” Sigrun tried to put dates to the last serious border skirmishes in which the Legions had been mobilized. Damn it. Again, I need Ehecatl’s mind. Nochtli here is . . . thirty-five or so, I think. Her father served against the Quecha and had to work his way through the aristocracy to marry her mother, Jaguar warriors are recruited at fifteen, and undergo several years of rigorous training . . . . Her father is likely in his late sixties to early seventies . . . .
Nochtli had almost stopped in her tracks, and looked embarrassed, now. “It is said that all of the great noble houses descend from the gods. In ancient times, emperors had commoners who looked at them killed, and their feet were not permitted to touch the ground. They had to be carried by slaves, or walked on fine rugs strewn before them on the ground. Some of the highest noble families demanded similar privileges, as time went on. In spite of Rome’s . . . discouragement of the practices.”
“So you’re saying that all the old families are god-born, then?” Sigrun said, pleasantly. Apparently, our definitions of the term seem to vary a little.
“Every member of the old families is accorded that respect, yes.”
A very neat dodge. You have been the wife of a governor for a while, haven’t you, for all that you still fluster around your family’s very old friend. “I meant no offense by the question, domina. I merely wished to get a feel for the high priest’s age. You said that he was much concerned with maintaining your people’s cultural traditions and heritage.”
“Oh, as to that, he’s been involved in such movements for at least fifty years,” Nochtli said vaguely, waving the question of Tototl’s age away.
They stepped through the old stone doorway, into a wash of golden light and the damp heat of many bodies, and waited as servants came over with towels to help them dry their feet. Sigrun again tried to wring out her braid, and gave it up as a bad job, before trying one more information probe. “So, the high priest still speaks with you regularly, even though you are married to a Roman?”
Nochtli looked appalled. “Of course he does. He’s not at all prejudiced. And through my charitable works, we’ve become even better acquainted now, than when I was young. The people revere him. He brings rain to the crops through Tlaloc’s blessings. He’s a good man.”
Of course he is. He’s just hiding something, and I don’t know what. It’s probably nothing. Diplomats and politicians are paid to hide things. There
were dozens of gods in the Nahautl pantheon. Many, if not most, of them had been offered human sacrifices in centuries past. She probably shouldn’t be suspicious of the man just because he wasn’t perfectly forthright with a complete stranger on first meeting. And, in truth, he’d said nothing actually wrong.
Sigrun sighed, and told Nochtli, “Of course he is. My apologies,” before turning away . . . to find Adam ben Maor standing directly beside her, and blinked. “I . . . didn’t know you were there.”
“You were distracted.” Adam picked up the damp coil of her braid in gentle fingers, and wrapped a towel around it. “You know, most people have the sense to get in out of the rain. I’d tell you that you’re going to catch your death of a cold, but, well, colds are caused by viruses.”
“. . . and I have never been sick in my life.” Sigrun reached back to take the towel and dry her own hair, smiling at Adam faintly, and stepping away from Nochtli Dioscuri.
Adam, for his part, wouldn’t let her take the towel. “No, no, this is easier.” He added, in a mutter, “And gives us cover to talk for a moment.”
In a quieter tone, she asked him, “Please tell me we’re making headway.”
“Other than the fact that Livorus has been redirected onto the topic of slavery, how it’s currently only used for debt in Nahautl, and how the Senate is now debating banning it entirely in the Empire—”
“They’ve debated that every year since 1850 AC. It’s not going to be eliminated in the next decade. Reformed further, I can see, but it’s too good a punishment sentence for criminals, and keeps them out of prisons.” Sigrun shrugged. It had been eliminated in Nova Germania and Novo Gaul when she was about eighteen, but it was such an integral part of Roman culture, that she didn’t see it ending any time soon. “Most of the rest of the world still has slaves. My former partner, Zoskales, was a sorcerer from Nubia. He said that of the four million people living in his country, fully half were slaves when he grew up. His mother was one, in fact.” Sigrun shrugged. “I don’t really like it much, but the world is, what the world is.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 24