Back in the here and now, Livorus gave Adam a spare glance. “It is perhaps for the best that if the news media fixated on anyone, that they did so on you. They haven’t turned their eyes towards investigating what I was doing there that night. They have not examined the records of any of the other lictors. Best not to have the whole team’s capabilities exposed at once, I think.” He paused. “If you’d take a bit of advice from one who has seen a bit of the world?”
“If you’re about to tell me that I should appreciate my family for who they are, Sigrun has already told me so, sir.”
Livorus’ lips quirked. “Sage advice, but no. On the contrary, I had the opportunity to observe your family at length.” Livorus paused. “You have a story, in your faith, I believe, about Cain and Abel? And Cain was the elder brother, who hated the younger, for that he was favored?”
Adam blinked. “Ah . . . yes?”
“Your brother is an envious man. And I will tell you why. Because nature has favored you with intelligence as well as with physical gifts.”
Adam stared at the propraetor, whom he respected more than almost anyone else in the world, other than his own father, and shook his head. “He’s not Cain. He’s not going to kill me.”
“No. But he will continue to cut in a thousand little ways, until you make an end of it.”
“Eshmunazar said almost the same thing.” Adam glanced at Kanmi.
“I certainly did.” Kanmi’s expression didn’t change.
“Eshmunazar has been much in the world.” Livorus leaned back. “Your brother envies you, because you have breadth and depth and scope, my boy. He’s intelligent enough, in his narrow way. He has found his appointed row, and plods along it like an ox. If you’d take my advice? Surround yourself with people who are of your own intelligence, or better. Enrich yourself with them. If you spend your time with those who are too far below you, well, they might well be good-hearted people. You may even enjoy yourself. But inevitably, you will come to realize how limited they are. You will reduce and limit yourself to their level, or else risk being considered a snob. You risk becoming embittered, and you yourself will never be challenged, stimulated, or able to grow.” Livorus clapped his hands lightly. "And by that same token, those around you, who are that limited in scope? Will envy and despise you and seek to tear at you with words and deeds, because they know they cannot match you. That, my dear boy, is your brother's problem."
A quick shake of his head. “What can I do about that, sir, beyond avoiding him?” I would have thought being on the other side of the world was far enough.
“Don’t tolerate it. Even by so much as a word. The next time he sinks a dagger in your side, return the blow three-fold.” Livorus shrugged, and picked up a paper from in front of him. “Was there anything else?”
Adam blinked. “Ah . . . yes.” He braced himself, and glanced at Kanmi, wishing that the other man was anywhere else for this, but asking Esh to leave, lowering the propraetor’s protections for a personal matter? Inappropriate. “I wished to ask your permission, sir, to, ah, court Agent Caetia.” It was a matter of manners and propriety to ask; Sigrun wasn’t Livorus’ daughter, but anything that involved the team of lictors, was, perforce, Livorus’ business.
He had to give Eshmunazar credit. The technomancer didn’t laugh. Didn’t even change expressions. Livorus lifted his head, his eyebrows rising. For an instant, Adam almost thought he’d surprised the man. Then he read the amusement there. “And if I were to say no, ben Maor? Would informal courtship then ensue?”
“No, sir. I would begin the necessary process of removing myself from your personal guard.”
Livorus nodded, placidly. “Well, we cannot be having with that. I am quite satisfied with everyone’s job performance. So, by all means . . . court. Woo. But know this.”
Adam blinked and looked up in surprise as the propraetor grinned at him ferally, and went on, “Had I not been wed to my dear Poppaea six years ago, when Sigrun first came to my guard? You would not have stood a chance, ben Maor. I would have swept her off her feet.”
Adam knew perfectly well that the propraetor was, in some senses, jesting . . . but there was a hint of wistfulness in his tone, as well. Divorce among Romans was accepted . . . but Poppaea’s family was powerful in political circles. Livorus couldn’t divorce her, not without offending them. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”
“Do. Now, as to the rest of my schedule for the day, the morning is all correspondence, I’m afraid. There is the meeting with the Chaldean and Median envoys, as I mentioned. The governor is insisting on a dreadful formal banquet at six . . . .”
___________________
Maius 23, 1955 AC
A busy two weeks had ensued. With Sigrun back on her feet, they continued to make the trip look like a mindless photo-op tour. Sigrun, for her part, did her best to shoulder her share of the load as quickly as possible, so as not to leave them on a three-part shift any longer.
There had been changes, even in the few days she’d been in the hospital, chafing to be released. Trennus carried with him a sense of radiant happiness and surprised joy that clung to his skin like the smell of smoke. Of which there was always a faint hint around him now, like incense. Sigrun did not know what to make of this.
Kanmi, in contrast, had sunk into himself in a more grim and cynical mood than ever. Every off-duty hour found him in a break room, going through his lists of names. Often, Himi and Bodi were with him, drawing on the backs of the papers; just as often, Bastet took the boys off to tour the main attractions of Jerusalem. They weren’t permitted in the Temple, but they could take pictures outside, for example. Sigrun didn’t, again, know what to say to her friend. Black depression swirled around him as clearly as effervescent joy followed Trennus around.
And then there was Adam, and Sigrun was hard-pressed to keep from smiling, herself, whenever she thought of him. Nothing at all, while on duty, of course. They were both too rigidly trained for that. But every time they went off-shift, Adam had politely asked her to do things with him. Go for a walk in the Garden of Gethsemane, or tour the ruins of the Antonia Fortress, which dated from the time of Herod. Pass through Old Town, with all the tiny shops and stalls, and eat dinner at this restaurant or that, which happened to overlook the aqueducts or the Pool of Bethesda. These proved to be lovely, if brief respites from the workday . . . workdays that included providing testimony to Imperial and Judean Intelligence about the events at the convention center.
To their surprise, they actually got some information out of JI and their fellow Praetorians. Two of the people involved, at least, had been workers for the local utility company, and they were caught trying to flee the province. A handful of others, the ones who had been tasked with planting the containment bottles, which had had blasting caps taped to them, connected to wireless transceivers . . . most of them were dead inside the convention center. One of the men, who had been heavily mauled, survived to make a confession. He was Judean, himself, and had been turned by a Persian agent two years before. Debt and alcohol, apparently, had been the handles used to control him. But it had seemed such a small thing. A bottle, which had felt empty. Put in a recycling bin, and it might crack, considering how small the blasting cap was. Surely, nothing bad could come of that. And what was that small task, in the face of having another debt canceled?
Sigrun also noticed that the staff at the governor’s continuously mentioned the unseasonably mild weather, which included daily gentle rains that the locals seemed to find highly unusual. Two gardeners eating lunch in the staff kitchen one day, spent the entire hour exclaiming over the fall-only flowers that were sprouting buds, as well as early spring flowers, which had already dropped their seeds, coming back into bloom. It isn’t natural, they complained, but we’ve had photographers come by to take pictures for magazines three times already. She wondered if it was attributable to the unseasonal rains, or if Lassair had something to do with it; she occasionally saw the phoenix perched on branches in t
he gardens.
For her part, there were other novelties than the weather and out-of-season blooms. Sigrun wasn’t quite used to putting out her hand to have it clasped. And while she and Adam couldn’t precisely walk hand-in-hand in public—they both were all too aware of the need to stay alert—whenever they happened to have the chance to eat lunch together, Adam did tend to twine his fingers with hers. And she could feel her eyes widen and a flush touch her face every time, as if she were a foolish schoolgirl.
And very close to the end of their visit there, Adam took her back over to his parents’ house, this time as a guest, instead of as an emergency stopover for themselves and their protectee. “I think stopping there on business was less nerve-wracking,” Sigrun told him, shifting in her seat in the motorcar. The neighborhood was still a mess, and she winced at the sight. At least two houses had sustained substantial structural damage, and were cordoned off with crime-scene tape. The fire hydrant was still capped, and the cobbles were missing in patches. Various neighbors had definitely seen them pull up, and Sigrun could see curtains twitching at windows all around the block. Oh, gods, she thought, in resignation. This cannot possibly go well.
Inside, at the dinner table, with Adam’s parents and sisters present around a table filled with braided bread and roasted chicken and other wonderful-smelling things, Sigrun sat silently at first, trying to figure out how to fit in. The others were, considerately, using Latin, and she was trying to use the fewer than fifty words of Hebrew she’d learned in two weeks’ time. More to fill the exceedingly uncomfortable silence than anything else, Sigrun offered, tentatively, “Have the insurance people been out yet to make estimates on the neighbors’ houses?”
Adam’s lips twitched, slightly. “I don’t know if any of them carried insurance that had provisions for acts of god.”
Sigrun looked at him over her cup of tea. “Not a god. Malefic spirit. Totally different category.”
Abigayil’s head swung back and forth between them as they spoke. Adam raised his eyebrows. “You’re not actually laughing. Let me guess. In Nova Germania, insurance actually does carry provisions for acts of gods, doesn’t it?
Sigrun chuffed under her breath. “No one will give payment if you take out insurance against lightning and then, in the next week, call Thor a sissy and bare your arse to the sky while standing on your roof during a thunderstorm, if that is your meaning.”
Maor ben Emmet carefully covered his mouth with a napkin and turned his head aside to laugh. “But if a house is struck by lightning?” he offered.
“It’s investigated. If it can be proved that a god-born or, yes, a god did it, and it was unjust, then payment must be made.” Sigrun had no idea why Maor started laughing again. “Justice isn’t just for humans,” she said, after a moment. “Justice isn’t justice if it only applies to some, and not all. And if god-born can be held to account, then the gods need to account for themselves, even if only to each other.” Sigrun glanced up at the ceiling. “Or so Tyr and Odin teach. A jury of peers. It’s harder for humans to judge the gods.”
Adam chuckled. “And how often is a god found guilty after being called to account?”
“Loki? Quite often. Thor, occasionally. It takes a while for such cases to work through the Odinhall, admittedly. Sometimes as long as fifteen or twenty years. But we do try to see that justice is done.” Sigrun met Adam’s eyes. “My people were always allowed to unseat kings, even in antiquity. Challenge them. Why should we not stand up before our gods, and ask them why something has come to pass? We might not receive an answer. But we’re taught to be strong in mind and body, and show respect . . . and respect will be given to us, in turn.” She hesitated, and glanced sidelong at the rest of the table. She’d forgotten that this wasn’t one of her usual forthright conversations with Adam on the topic.
Chani’s eyes had gone as wide as the dinner plates. Adam, on the other hand, had propped his chin on a fist to lean on the table and now grinned. “That’s a perspective we haven’t heard much,” Maor admitted, and adjusted the subject, deftly. “No, the insurance estimators haven’t been out yet. They need for the criminal investigation to be finished, so our neighbors are at hotels, for the time being. I’m sure we’ll be hearing about how long they were kept from their homes when they return.” His tone was amused.
Sigrun winced, and resumed her silence. There were few topics on she could really contribute; it took all the way until dessert, when the topic of the impending vote to ban slavery throughout the Empire came up. The vote usually came before the Senate every other year, and Sigrun had once told Adam she didn’t expect to see it pass in her lifetime. “No, no, change is coming,” Abigayil insisted. “You children all don’t remember it, but the year Adam was born, when Nova Germania and Novo Gaul both outlawed slavery, everyone thought that emancipation was going to sweep the globe. The Judean government got ahead of it, and signed an emancipation proclamation, making it illegal to buy new slaves, and freeing all current ones. The movement stalled out, but it’s going to happen.”
Sigrun grimaced. “I, ah, actually remember it fairly well,” she said, carefully. “My father had freed my pedagogue the year before to marry her, and my sister was born the year the laws were passed, abolishing serfdom and slavery, even debt-slavery. The problem is, debt-slavery at least served a purpose. It forced people to repay their debtors in some fashion, though I don’t approve of people selling their children to pay their debts. It should only ever have been imposed on those who incurred the debts. The major problem, as debated in the Senate that same year, is what to do about slavery as a penalty for criminal action. As a result of not being able to impose labor as a penalty for non-violent crimes, we’ve had to build more and more prisons in Novo Germania. The only other alternative is fining someone, which more or less amounts to a minor tax to a rich criminal, and license to do as they please.” Sigrun raised her hands, palms up. “I’m not defending the system, but I’ve watched the results ripple through our legal system for the past twenty-six years, and as an ælagol for ten of those years, I’ve had to deal with the repercussions. I don’t see the Romans embracing any change to the current system if they don’t see a way to deal with those ramifications within the Italian Peninsula itself. They won’t tolerate lawlessness and social disorder. Nova Germania . . . we have a little more space. Social disruption, well, we take it a little more in stride. We have banishment as another option, still.” Sigrun realized she’d been talking for a while, and shut her mouth with a click.
Abigayil looked as if she’d bitten into a lemon. Maor, on the other hand, sat up, looking interested. “What do you think about stripping someone of some of their rights of citizenship as an option for the Roman legal system?” he asked.
Sigrun suddenly realized that Rivkah and Chani were staring at her as if she’d grown an additional head. “It would be a possible punishment,” she told Maor meeting his eyes steadily, “but even early patricians were usually banished from the city of Rome, proper, rather than having their rights revoked.” She folded her hands in front of her. “It’s not entirely without precedent, but it would be difficult, I think, for people to see some of the potential revocations of privilege as really punitive. How many people actually run for plebian offices? How many people in the more democratically-minded provinces actually vote in elections? Inability to own land or a house, for life, means very little to someone who lives in an apartment.” She looked around the table, and apologized, “Forgive me. The law, in any form, is one of my particular interests.” She didn’t precisely squirm; she was far too used to appearing coolly reserved in public. But she’d wanted to make a better impression this time, than the blood-soaked barbarian of the last visit. And it didn’t appear that she was.
Maor smiled. “Don’t apologize,” Adam’s father told her. “We can continue the conversation after dinner, however, at more length.”
Sigrun pretended not to hear Abigayil, Rivkah, and Chani hissing questions at Adam as she went into
the living area with Maor. Most of them revolving around how old is she, anyway? And before they left for the evening, she did take pains to go into the kitchen, where Abigayil was preparing the next day’s loaves, and asked if she could help. “Do you know anything about baking?” Abigayil asked, cautiously.
“My father’s wife made it part of my lessons when I was a child. However, I only know how to make Hellene breads. Plexouda. Pitas.” Sigrun washed her hands at the sink, and, under Abigayil’s direction, began to knead the dough for her.
“Your father’s wife? The one he freed?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds as if it’s a happy memory.” Abigayil’s tone was tentative.
Sigrun didn’t answer at first. Learning to cook and bake had been under the category of domestic education, just as Latin, Hellene, Gallic, and other variants of Gothic had been under the category of being lettered, and chemistry, biology and mathematics had been under the umbrella of natural philosophy. After a long pause, she managed one truth that she thought Abigayil would accept. “I liked the feel of the flour under my fingers. It’s soft. I liked the smell of the bread baking. It always made me feel as if my mother were still with me. I can just barely remember her baking at night, just like this. And I’d help then, too.”
No need to tell Abigayil that she’d ‘helped’ by hovering off the ground, so that her little fingers and head had been above the counter’s height. Sigrun looked up. “Now, let it rise again? Or is it time to divide and braid the loaves?”
“Let it rise again. Everything needs time to be its best.” Abigayil reached out and swept a speck of flour off Sigrun’s shoulder. “You were very young when your mother died?”
“Three. Old enough to remember her, at least a little.”
“Then you know she really is still with you. At least . . . right here.” Abigayil poked a flour-covered finger at Sigrun’s heart, and then chuckled when she left a smear on the bodice. “Here, let me get a towel.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 77