Bastet covered her face with her hands for a long moment, and, distantly, Kanmi looked at the clean, smooth lines of her fingers. The way her skin turned just a little lighter on the palms. He’d always loved nibbling along that line of demarcation. Just one of the many ways she was beautiful to him. But the cold certainty that churned in his gut said, Caetia’s mad sister was wrong. This is how the world ends. My world, anyway.
Bastet looked up. “We have all these things because of my job, too.” Her tone was defiant. “And it’s not good for the boys, that you’re so often away. So . . . get that security job with a ley-engineering firm. Do something like that.”
Kanmi sighed. She’d just shifted the whole basis of the argument. It was easy to see, when you were completely dispassionate. Before this, it had been danger to him. Now it was, it’s bad for the boys. A guilt tactic. “I would be away from home just as much, going from one ley-plant facility to another. There would be no difference for the boys.” He paused. “And, let me point out, that you are away from home just as much as I am. You work forty-hour shifts at the hospital sometimes, come home, sleep, and when you wake up, it’s the middle of the night, and the boys are in bed. They see their pedagogue more than they see you. So do not you dare try to tell me that I am a delinquent father.” He met her eyes. “My job is just as important as yours.” He didn’t want to say it out loud, but, to his way of thinking, his job was more important than hers. There were, literally, millions of doctors in the world, and every one of them thought him or herself a little god. There were about three hundred and twenty thousand Praetorians in the world . . . or about .03 percent of the billion people in the Roman Empire. Of all of them, only twenty thousand were lictors—the rest handled Imperial-level jurisdictional issues that local gardia couldn't, pursued counterfeiting, espionage, and counterintelligence tasks, and so on. Of those twenty thousand lictors, only about fifteen hundred were sorcerers. Kanmi was in a highly elite group. And serving Livorus was as high as he could currently go, without the headaches of being a bodyguard to the emperor, himself.
He looked up and met Bastet’s eyes. “Let me put it to you this way. I will quit my job for the sake of our sons the instant that you quit yours, and then we can decide what in Baal’s name we’ll live on, besides begging in the streets.” Kanmi paused. “Or, we can both realize, here and now, that the argument is stupid.”
Bastet flopped down onto a chair across the room from him. She was keeping ten feet of space between them at all times. “So, if you won’t quit the Praetorians . . . get a desk job with them. You look through reports all the time anyway.”
“Bastet . . . I’m thirty. This is just the start of my career. Sorcerers aren’t like most soldiers. When the knees give out at forty, when arthritis sets in at fifty . . . other soldiers retire. A sorcerer just gets better. And we only get better through experience.” Kanmi felt his eyes narrow. “You want me to sit at a desk? You want me to be a paper-pusher? No. I can’t do that. That’s not who I am.” Not right now, anyway. Give me thirty years or so.
“You won’t even compromise.” Her voice scaled upwards into a wail. “What kind of marriage is this, that you won’t compromise at all?”
Not a very Roman one, because if it were, this wouldn’t even be a discussion, Kanmi thought, but didn’t say out loud. If I were Roman, you'd have been told that this is life, and that you can either deal with it, or get a divorce, and give up your children. He set his hands down on his knees, and said, with care and precision, “I won’t compromise who and what I am, no.” He looked at her steadily. “I love you. I love the boys. I’m not going anywhere. But this is who I am.” His stomach twisted. All the things he shouldn’t have to say. That should have been obvious to her for years. “Take it or leave it.”
Bastet just stared at him for a long moment, tears in her eyes. And then she left the room without another word.
Gods, Kanmi thought, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. This could have gone better.
___________________
Maius 9, 1955 AC
Adam tapped on the door of the propraetor’s temporary office in the governor’s mansion. He was just about to go on-shift again, and wanted a few moments to speak with Livorus before officially starting work.
“Enter!” Livorus called through the door.
Adam moved in, nodding to Kanmi, who stood behind Livorus’ desk, looking out one of the high, small windows in the ancient fortress’ outer walls. Real glass in the old arrow slits, oscillating fans instead of air conditioning—the building was far too old to be retrofitted for that, unfortunately; the walls made of thick stone—and antique furniture that dated back to the rococo excesses of the Latter Decadent Period, certainly. Livorus looked up from the desk, the legs of which had been fashioned into depictions of Eros, and the sides of which had been carved into acanthus leaves and scrolls. “Ah, ben Maor. What can I do for you?”
“A moment of your time, sir, if I may?”
“You may have two moments, but not three. I really cannot spare a third.” Livorus set his pen down. “I trust our valkyrie will be returning to duty soon?”
“The doctors say she’ll be allowed to stand today if her current rate of healing continues, and they’ll release her when she can walk from one end of the room to the other without the heart monitors setting off alarms.” Adam shook his head. Even after knowing her for close to two years now . . . the rate at which Sigrun healed was uncanny. If it’d been me, assuming I lived, I’d be in the hospital for weeks yet.
“Good,” Livorus murmured, and looked back down at the dispatches. “Then we can return some of my wife’s lictors to her shortly, and we can be about our business here.”
Adam nodded. He didn’t quite know how to broach the topic, so he avoided it, for the moment. “The Chaldean envoy, sir? She’s recovered?”
“Yes, Lady Erida is in seclusion at the Median consulate. Both she and Lord Maranata are being pleaded with by the Persian ambassador to come out and meet with him.” Livorus’ smile was thin. “They’ve told him to come inside and speak with them on their own turf. During our scheduled meeting this afternoon, I must offer Lady Erida my official condolences on the loss of one of her brave bodyguards during the . . . unfortunate attempt on her life.” Livorus’ tone held mordant irony. “They have a subsequent meeting with the Persian ambassador scheduled for two postmeridian. I would give much to listen in on that conversation. Especially since supposition now is that the late, unlamented Abgar was Persian Intelligence, and had infiltrated the home of Lady Erida’s father almost ten, fifteen years ago. Worked himself close to the family. Professed his attentions to her, and then attempted to murder her.”
Adam grimaced. “I don't actually see how Persia would profit from this.”
“Do you not?” Livorus’ eyebrows rose. “Suppose that Abgar, in the course of events, discovered that Lady Erida—a high-ranking member of the Magi—intended not just to defect, herself, but intended to take her entire country with her. That, in fact, many of her fellow nobles and Magi supported her and the Satrap in this intention. Killing her might be a solid method of warning people against rebellion, but it might only stiffen their resolve. Make of this pretty young woman a martyr. Now, if it looked as if Rome, or at least its cat’s-paw, Judea, lured the rebels here, only to kill them?” Livorus’ brows arched. “If they made it appear that Rome and Judea could not be trusted, could never be trusted, and were clumsy in their attempt to frame Persia for her death . . . the more confusion the better, really. Enough to make people argue and debate and point fingers. To sow suspicions everywhere, and keep Chaldea, Media, and the Magi paralyzed with indecision and fear for another twenty or thirty years, not knowing whom to trust? The status quo, even if it is abhorrent, is at least known, my young friend. To put your trust in an uncertain future is a leap of faith. And most people do not have the courage to make it. It is a very good thing that Eshmunazar actually was deadening sound—including radio waves—leavi
ng the area. And was able to register when our would-be assassin transmitted his signal. It forced Abgar into improvisation, instead of following the neat steps of a plan.”
Kanmi looked out the window, and put in, his voice distant. “My guess is, once the attacks began, he'd have tried to move Erida away from everyone else, telling her that he thought that this was all a double-cross. She might well have believed him. And once he had her away from the scene, he could have killed her at his leisure, probably using a Judean-made gun, and left the body for the alu at the scene. He could have even shot himself with the same gun, for authenticity. Whether or not he’d have actually killed himself to sell the story . . . depends on how strong his motives were.” The sorcerer’s expression never wavered.
Adam grimaced. Put that way . . . it sounded plausible. “I assume the local Praetorians are looking for Abgar's accomplices? The ones who planted the alu-bottles with their small detonators, and cut the power to the convention center.”
Livorus nodded. “Naturally. But this is not your concern, ben Maor.”
Like the investigation into the conspirators in Nahautl, and the diplomatic issues regarding the Ponca incident, Adam would not be involved in the process. He'd have to testify, probably at length, but the matter would be firmly out of his hands. And he found that this time, it made him twitch. Almost as badly as it seemed to chafe at Kanmi to have the investigation into the technomancers in Nahautl out of his reach. This is my home, he thought, and the notion surprised him. He'd run away from Judea for so long, and now, the thought of people meddling in his territory reminded him . . . abruptly . . . that it was his home. “Locals could have been bought,” Adam pointed out, hating the words in his mouth. “Counterintel and Judean Intelligence—”
“Will do what needs doing,” Livorus told him, firmly. He picked up a sheet of foolscap, and said, meditatively, changing the subject away from the investigations, “Yes, this afternoon's conversation between the Median and Chaldean envoys and their Persian masters will be an intriguing discussion, filled with plausible denials on all sides. They will profess that they were merely here on their appointed errands. Lady Erida may suggest that Rome does not know that her bodyguard was involved in the attack—after all, we’re putting out, for public dissemination, that he died saving her life—and the Persian ambassador will exclaim that Abgar surely only acted out of jealousy at the thought of Erida marrying some Roman noble . . . .” Livorus waved a hand in mild irritation. “Stories will be invented for public consumption, and the Persian ambassador will try to convey that his government knows, or suspects, why they were truly here. And they will either be cowed . . . or not.”
Adam grimaced. “I hate to think that everything we did two days ago was wasted,” he said, quietly. “So many damned lives lost for nothing.”
“That is what I will attempt to make plain to both envoys when I speak with them,” Livorus said, simply. “That their die has already been cast. It was cast before they arrived here. And to retreat from action now will simply result in deeper enslavement by the empire from which they wish their people to be free.” He paused. “And even if they are cowed, and do retreat? Abgar had accomplices. He must have, as you have pointed out. He was in Chaldea when the efreet bottle, the pazuzu jar and the alu bottles were stolen in Persepolis, a month ago. Possibly that ‘theft’ was arranged by Persian Intelligence itself. But he needed accomplices here to place them. Your father, I know, is already deeply involved in trying to find if there is a Persian network here that Abgar accessed or if he merely paid or blackmailed Judeans into doing small, apparently trivial services.” Livorus awarded Adam a faint smile. He’d just told Adam far more than his lead lictor had anticipated hearing today. “Something will come of all this. This, I can promise.”
Adam nodded, and shifted a little uneasily on his feet. Livorus’ gaze remained on him, a faintly amused expression on the Roman’s face. “I could not help but notice that your family was interviewed for the local far-viewer news channels. ‘Local boy makes good,’ is always a favorite staple of the newsroom.”
A quick, taut nod. “I apologize, sir. I didn’t like that they focused on me, and not on the team.” And if I’d moved faster in the parking lot, they’d never have known that we were there . . . no. They saw Livorus leaving with Tren and the rest of the motorcade. Lost cause. After Sophia had left last night, Sigrun hadn’t wanted to discuss her sister, so he’d flipped on the square, monolithic far-viewer in her room . . . and immediately, a news report featuring him had turned up. He’d winced through the whole thing. His mother had been caught and interviewed at the hospital, and had noted, “Of course we’re proud of him. We always knew he was gifted. I just wish he could spend more time at home.” His father, caught coming back from work, had had a proud gleam in his eyes as he’d said, “Adam has always excelled at whatever he’s put his mind to, and now, he does his duty, and does it well.” Chani had giggled through her interview and had mentioned how interesting his coworkers were, and Rivkah had admitted, “He’s changed. A lot. Become a little more . . . I don’t know. Thoughtful. Quiet.” Mikayel, caught outside of his own house on the other side of town, had grimaced. “Yes. We’re all very proud, I’m sure.” And then he’d turned away, telling the reporters, Get off my property.
Adam had reached forward to change the channel, but Sigrun hadn’t let him. “There are worse things, Adam,” she’d told him, squeezing his fingers, “than having a loving family that cares about you.” The words had been less labored than earlier in the day, but she’d still clearly been tired. “Some of them are still learning to see you for who you are now, and not the person you were as a child. That’s . . . an ongoing process, I think. A lifelong one. But your family loves you enough to try. You should cherish that.”
He’d flicked a strand of hair out of her face. “You say that as if it’s a little foreign to you, Sig.” He paused, and shifted the rails of the bed down so he could slide, very carefully, an arm under the small of her back. He didn’t dare sit on the bed or put an arm around her. She was still far too injured for that. “Of course, having now spoken with your sister twice . . . I think I see why it would be.” He regarded her steadily, and kept his voice gentle. “She’s crazy, isn’t she?”
A tear coursed down her face. “Yes. She has good days and bad days. Today was a good day.”
That alone spoke volumes. “And your father? He does nothing about this? Your step-mother?”
Sigrun exhaled. “It’s complicated. My father loves me, and I love him. But he looks at me, and I think . . . he sees my mother. It hurts him.” Clear, simple words. “Now that my sister is grown, however, I will have nothing to do with his wife.” She paused to catch her breath. “There are well-meaning people . . . who would tell me that I should forgive her. Tolerate her, to preserve my relationship with my father, and to give him joy in his declining years. No.” A pause as Sigrun clearly struggled for words. “Medea raised me with a cane in one hand to ensure that I understood the duties and responsibilities of the god-born. Her own daughter? No one knew she was god-born. Not for ten years. She was raised human. Allowed to go to school. Treated as . . . every other child is, or should be. Nothing amiss with that, but she was . . . made much of.” Sigrun swallowed. “Dressed as a princess for the harvest festivals, every year. Every conceivable toy or doll she wanted, was showered on her. Some of that was natural. My father was older. Had more money than when I was young. He had the time to dote on her. And no shadow of sorrow over his relationship with her.”
Adam poured her a cup of water, and helped her sip it. “She was raised in a loving house, then?”
“Yes. Very. When she was ten, the visions came, and she wasn’t ready for them. No one can be, really, but she wasn’t strong. And they came early. When visions come, it is usually . . . young adulthood. When identity is fully formed.” Sigrun swallowed. “Medea threatened to cane her for speaking of her dreams at first, but when she was convinced that they were real . . . b
y me . . .” and that was guilt in Sigrun’s voice, plain and clear, “Medea encouraged Sophia to find every manner of new experience. To expand her horizons without restraint. It . . . might have been a good idea for someone older. Someone with a more secure grasp on who they are. There are days when I do not know if there is anything of my sister left besides the visions, and the ten-year-old mind trapped behind them.” She shook her head. “Oh, she’s an adult. She has lovers in plenty. Whoever she feels she should be with, at that moment. Whoever vision tells her to, I suppose, or whoever’s arms can hold the visions at bay for a while. I . . . don’t blame her that.” Sigrun looked up at the ceiling. “But I hold her mother personally accountable for much that is warped and askew in my sister. Even if I were a forgiving person, I would not forgive that, because it is ongoing.”
“And where is your father in this?” Adam asked again. “How can he look at his own daughter and not . . . intervene?”
Her shoulders slumped. “To be honest . . . I do not know. I think some of it may be genuine lack of knowledge of what’s amiss in her life. Sophia is . . . good at concealing the depth of her problems. Some of it may be a desire for domestic tranquility. He doesn’t want to fight with his wife, day after day, and never know victory, only continuous defeat. And about a child who is dedicated to foreign gods . . . what can he say? He can hardly count himself an expert, I suppose.”
“So what do you intend to do about it all?”
She managed to move her shoulders “Remain in touch with my father. Continue to fight the demons in Sophia. Care for my father in his old age. Bury him when it’s time. And, very likely, do the same for my sister, in her turn.” Sigrun reached up and actually touched his face, every movement clearly causing her pain. “You see, Adam? Your family . . . not so bad. They’re good people. Your mother has a kind heart. Though I would like to break your brother’s jaw.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 76