Rome took that augury, and rebuilt both cities in the shadows of Vesuvius. The eruption did encourage a great development in natural philosophy, and caused people to question why the gods had warned of the eruption, but had not prevented it. The only explanation offered by Stoic philosophers was this: that the eruption may have been necessary to release tensions and gases in the earth. And modern natural philosophy has born that supposition out.
—Aetius Fulvius. The Natural Philosophy of Plate Tectonics, p. 129, University of Neapolis Press, 1959 AC.
______________________
Maius 17-18, 1960 AC
Adam was mildly surprised that evening, when Sigrun turned on the far-viewer in their apartment in Rome. It was a ley-powered model, and, as such, a rounded orb of glass atop a stand. She clicked the dial through the stations—Rome had dozens—and then curled up on their couch, a mug of tea in her hands. “Somehow I don’t think you’re in the mood for The Menaechmi Return,” Adam said, standing behind her. The modern take on the Plautus original was a long-running comedy series, which relied heavily on the plot device of twin brothers, perpetually mistaken for one another, for its humor. This usually involved their wives and lovers not being able to tell one of them from the other, so one brother usually had to keep someone occupied, whilst the other was off trying to swindle a merchant, or something. There was a parasite character—a poor cousin—who fawned on them, and usually attempted to bad-mouth one to the other in an effort to gain access to their bank accounts. Sig had opinions about comedies and dramas that relied on everyone in the story being stupid in order to work.
“Definitely not,” Sigrun replied, quietly. “Execution.”
Adam blinked. Neither of them usually specifically tuned in to watch executions, or even gladiatorial fights that were conducted with condemned prisoners. He settled in on the couch beside her, and put a hand comfortably around the nape of her neck. “What’s the occasion?”
“Murderer from Nova Germania. Considered himself a hunter, if you can believe it. Drove from town to town, finding women to rape and kill. Fifty-two known victims over fifteen years, they say. He made his way back to Europa five years ago, and continued his hunting in Rome.” Sigrun’s neck muscles felt like iron under Adam’s fingers, her body singing with tension.
“Got caught, did he?”
“Oh yes. They had him on the evidence here, and that would have been enough to condemn him . . . but then he started to confess to more and more. Bragging, if you like.” Her eyes were cold and distant on the screen, which showed the main arena of Rome, with a timestamp that indicated that the film had been taken earlier today. “He confessed to all fifty-two, and ten more here in Europa. He kept trophies. Locks of hair. Blood-smears. He could use them, I suppose, to confuse a spirit hunting for him, but mainly, they say, he kept them for . . . enjoyment.”
Adam’s stomach turned. “So . . . drawing out the bowels and dragging the body with four horses?”
“No. The magistrates noted in their decision,” Sigrun let her head loll back on her neck for a moment, “that Rome has had a law on the books for over two thousand years that states that if a wife is raped, her husband has the right to rape the male who did it in return. They also stated that this law hasn’t been enforced in a few centuries, and that lining up . . . sixty-two injured fathers and husbands and lovers could take a while, and that there would be health risks to the men, unless they used a stick, instead . . . .”
“ . . . Can I say that I’m glad that isn’t what’s being shown on the far-viewer right now? Not that it wouldn’t be just, but I’m not sure I’d particularly want to watch.”
“Certainly. The magistrates opted for poetic justice instead. They said that since the man thought of himself as a hunter, he should be hunted in turn.” Sigrun pointed at the screen, where a prisoner wearing nothing more than a loincloth, was shoved into the arena. No manacles. No chains. Just him. And, unnervingly, silence from the crowd. No roar of approval. Nothing.
The charges were read out. The condemned was given a chance to request mercy. The magistrate present looked out at the crowd, and received no acclamation. Everyone present was there to see this man die. The cameras panned out . . . and the lions emerged from their dens in the pits, racing up the stairs into the arena proper. Six of them, all females. Poetic justice, indeed.
Adam rubbed Sigrun’s neck, and they watched the lions stalk the man. The beasts had been kept hungry, and the cheers that the crowd suddenly gave forth agitated the beasts. The murderer kept turning and twisting, trying to keep them in front of him . . . but the eldest female, a wily hunter with a few scars here and there on her legs, moved in from behind and bore him to the ground, applying her teeth to crush his throat. His face was almost completely covered by the beast’s great mouth . . . and her sister lions moved in to tear at his struggling belly. Entrails. Blood. Adam could imagine the smell of the shit in the bowels. The crowd roared its approval. Blood and sacrifice, but in this case . . . I think a just one.
It was over in minutes, and the lions, to prevent them from acquiring too much of a taste for human flesh, were called away by their trainers and given fresh venison, instead. In very small letters at the bottom of the screen, words appeared: No animals were harmed in the course of this execution. “I can’t help but notice that during regular gladiatorial games, they don’t run that statement,” Adam said, dryly, and reached over to turn off the far-viewer. He leaned over and gave her a kiss. “He offended you, didn’t he?”
“To my very soul, yes.”
“You didn’t work any of the cases?”
“No. I verified that, first thing. I can grasp the heat of the moment, an instant of bad judgment, sorely repented. But making of other’s lives into toys? Playthings? No.” She made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. “In addition . . . I could see it in him. Guilt, but no remorse, if you understand. He felt none of it, though he was absolutely culpable of the crimes. The law allows mercy, if there is remorse, and recompense can be made. But I could see in him the stain.”
“Can you see the soul, Sigrun?” Adam had never quite been willing to ask her that before. He was a little afraid of what he might hear, to be honest.
She shook her head, and he felt a band loosen around his heart. “No. I know that Lassair can, though. She says you shine like a blade, Adam.”
“Blood washes off, eh?”
She leaned against him in the dimness of the living room. “Eventually. It might not feel like it, some days, but it does.”
“You always know when someone’s guilty, though?”
“Yes. Guilty of something. It shows in them. That man . . . I don’t think he actually had a soul.” She shrugged a little.
“It must be nice to be . . . that certain.” His tone was wistful.
She shook her head against his shoulder. “It is a guide, Adam. Nothing more. Once, when I was in Nova Germania, a man confessed to murder. The blood type at the scene matched his. A man leaving the scene matched his description. An eye-witness identified him out of a lineup. It seemed open and shut, and the little town where he was imprisoned called on me to judge and execute him.” Sigrun turned her head to look up at Adam. “But it was a lie, Adam.”
“Wait. The evidence was—”
“The same blood type. A man who looked enough like him to be mistaken in the dark by an eye witness who was frightened and confused. The man had a son, Adam. The son killed a man in a fight over his wife, and his father, not wishing to see his son executed, swore to the authorities that he’d done the deed.” She shrugged. “I told him that I respected his desire to protect his family. His son. But that the lies helped no one. Including his son. Who might have been given only a term in prison or hard labor, or even acquitted, if it could be shown that the other man was the first to attack with a blade.” She shook her head again. “That was an uphill battle. I had to persuade them both to tell the truth, and show how the evidence all fit. It is not always as easy as the
valkyrie appearing and rendering judgment.” A faint, wintery smile. “However, when someone is guilty, and they resist arrest? There are advantages to being a law-giver.”
“Esh and Tren’s first report is due tomorrow,” Adam said, idly. “I wonder what they’ve found so far.”
“Knowing them? Probably either a manure pile or diamonds. Possibly both in the same place.”
“So, we’ll probably be off to Caesaria Australis shortly.”
“Good thing I didn’t really unpack from Judea.”
“Re-pack, neshama. It’s winter there. Also, pack suncream. Cuzco receives the most ultraviolet of any city on earth.”
“You are a treasure trove of strange scientific facts, Adam ben Maor.”
“I have been researching the city for three weeks.” His turn to be dry. “Besides, I know why you’ve turned down the idea of going to the beach every time we shake loose a little time for vacation. You don’t like sunburns.”
“No. They hurt.” Sigrun’s voice turned tart.
He pulled her closer. “You’ve been shot by arrows, shot by musket balls, burned half to death, and stabbed with poisoned stingers, and that’s just since I’ve known you . . and you don’t like sunburns?” Adam didn’t like the litany of wounds . . . but her objection to sunburns was like her objection to flying in a ‘metal death-trap’: Highly amusing to him.
“They hurt, and they do not heal as well as you might suppose. It is not as if I were in a battle with the sun.” She paused. “This time.”
“Tell me the truth. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if we sat on a beach, would you?”
Another pause. “Likely not.” She slanted a glance up at him. “Nor would you.”
“Oh, yes, I would.” She held his gaze for a moment, and he gave up and laughed. “You got me. I’m not good at just sitting and doing nothing, I guess.”
“It’s all right.” Her tone was gentle. “That’s because we’re building something, Adam. We’re building our life together. What do normal people even do on vacations?”
“. . . I don’t know. Other than sit on beaches?”
“Besides that, yes.”
“I’m thinking. Ah . . .” He paused. He was really having a problem coming up with activities. “Go swimming in the sea. With those new compressed air tanks?”
“I have no interest in drowning myself for pleasure. But I enjoy your aerobatics lessons on weekends.” Her lips quirked a little. He could just see it out of the corner of his eye.
“So do I.” Adam grinned at her. “It fulfills a childhood fantasy, and it serves a purpose. I’m checked out on fixed-wings and small ornithopters now. If we ever need to go somewhere quietly . . . I can get a team in. ”
“So practical,” Sigrun chided. “You were the one telling me that I have no concept of how to relax. So, tell me, what else do people do?”
Adam sighed. He was running out of ideas. “I honestly don’t know. Wear costumes at . . . what’s the autumnal equinox celebration in Gaul again?”
“Samhain. That custom originated to keep the bad spirits at bay. Masks. Like blood can mask you from a spirit, or salt water.”
“Yes, but these days, people seem to want to wear costumes a lot more. Like that one girl my mother wanted me to marry. The one who ran around dressing like a geisha. Wonder what Minori would have thought of that. I should ask her, just to watch her wince.” Adam gave Sigrun a sidelong glance. “So . . . do you ever just want to be someone else?”
Sigrun’s her gray eyes warmed a little. “I used to wish that. All the time. But, when I’m with you, I am the person I want to be. A human. Costumes are for children. For people who are still . . . experimenting with their identity, who aren’t sure who they are, or who they want to be.” She kissed the palm of his hand, lightly. “I did not dare to dream, until I met you, that I could ever be anything other than a weapon in the hands of the gods. You let me be more, Adam. You share your humanity with me. I don’t need a costume, and I don’t need to pretend. Together, we just are.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes . . . we are.”
It was one of the most powerful declarations she’d ever given him, and he didn’t know what to say in return. He shared the emotions. Felt them deeply. But Roman civilization had never much prized romantic love. Distrusted it, on many levels. Latin had a word for immoderate, unbalancing love-for-a-wife: uxorious. The Gauls, yes, had many a tale of passion and darkness. Drustan and Eselt, for example, was a tale out of the oral tradition of storytelling in Gaul. It told of a young princess, Eselt, who had been promised to a king, but fell in love with the king’s nephew and became his lover, in spite of being forced to marry the aging king. The cycle of stories about them, about passion and the conflict between desire and duty, was deeply ingrained in Gallic culture. And in Judea, the endearment neshama, or soul, reflected the belief that in marriage, two people’s souls were joined. That they truly became soul-mates, in a sense. Adam couldn’t quite put it into words right now, but in his eyes, she was his other half. That even if she didn’t realize it, she brought light into his life. It had been a pretty bare existence before she’d come along. She brought both a sense of certainty with her, and a sense of wonder about things he took for granted. She adored his parents, and gave forthright advice to his sisters. He just hoped he was conveying some of it by the way he was holding her, the pressure of fingers on skin. That he hadn’t known he was poor until she’d made him wealthy with nothing more than herself.
Quiet evenings like these, he cherished. Because he knew they wouldn’t last. And this one passed all too quickly. The phone rang at six antemeridian, and Adam answered it, still half asleep. “Ave.”
“Ben Maor? Eshmunazar. Have I got a story for you.” Kanmi’s tone spoke volumes. Ire and agitation and tension sang in it, and Adam sat up in bed, reaching for the light . . . and for the foolscap notebook and fountain pen on the nightstand. They’ve got something. “My end of the line’s secure. You’ve been swept for bugs lately?”
“Yes. We should be clear. Go ahead, Esh.”
“All right.” A pause, while Kanmi clearly collected his thoughts. “We’ve found and released, more or less by accident, one bound entity,” Kanmi began, irony mordant in his voice. “Matrugena suggests that there may be a dozen spirits bounds and possibly even another entity bound in the same location.”
Adam’s brain shut down for a moment. “By entity you mean . . . .”
“Yes.”
“Bound how?” He still had trouble accepting that raw technology and magic had managed to contain Tlaloc, but the god had been weakened by loss of belief, loss of sacrifice, and had been in an avatar at the time. Apparently, these things mattered.
“Lines on the ground. Ley-lines in the earth. Matrugena’s alternating between being impressed at the spell-work and mad enough to chew through an iron bar at the moment.”
“You say you released one? Isn’t that a little . . . unilateral?” They’d been specifically directed not to be hasty or arbitrary.
“Asha got her toes stuck in the same trap with it. Hold on and let me tell this from the beginning. It won’t make much more sense, but it’ll make some.”
By the end of the conversation, Sigrun was already up, dressed, and packing, and Adam was staring into space. “Esh, that doesn’t make sense. Up in Nahautl, it was being done to avoid using the ley-lines, as much as possible, anyway. It was supposed to be ‘home-grown’ power, that didn’t rely on foreign-trained ley-mages—”
“I know. We know. We’re missing pieces, and we’re working at the end of a very long fishing line here.”
“All right. I’ll see what I can do to help with that. Don’t do anything else unilateral till we get there.”
“Oh, and when you get here, we can be as unilateral as we want?” Kanmi’s tone was acerbic.
Adam suppressed a grin. “Not saying that, but let me run it up the chain and see what we’re even permitted to do,” he replied. “Fortunately, i
n this case? It’s a really short chain.”
It was, too. At the moment, on this topic, Adam reported to Livorus, and Livorus reported directly to Imperator Caesarion. The propraetor and the emperor weren’t taking many chances with letting information get out of their hands at the moment, largely because they’d seen so little result from the rest of the Praetorians. Adam wasn’t sure that was entirely fair to the rest of the Guard, and knew there’d eventually be hell to pay for the fact that the Imperator was skirting the entire chain of command. He was a lictor, and the ranking head of Livorus’ detail, but he was hardly the commander of the Praetorians. Not by a long stretch. The current commander wasn’t going to enjoy having been circumvented.
On the other hand, an issue like this was hardly for public consumption.
As Adam helped Sigrun pack, he asked, quietly, “Five years ago, you had to report in on all this to the Odinhall. They took it out of your hands after the whole . . . entity business . . . and gave it to someone else. Who was that, again?”
Sigrun began to lace up the sides of her suitcase. “Reginleif. She’s a god-born of Loki. One of my instructors at the Odinhall.”
Adam frowned. “Did I meet her at the wedding?”
“No. She wasn’t there. I assumed she had much work to do, because of what we’d stirred up.”
“And in the past five years, have they told you anything about her investigations?”
Her movements were jerky now. “No. Not a word.” Her voice was taut, and he thought he knew why; she thought this meant that they didn’t trust her.
Adam reached out. Put a hand on her forearm. “Do you need to call them? Inform them of what’s going on?”
Sigrun grimaced. It was decidedly odd to see indecision on her face. Usually, she knew what course of action she’d take, within seconds of being presented with a choice. “If I do,” she said, slowly, “there is a fair chance that they will forbid me to go with you. Which will put me in direct conflict between the orders of Rome, and the orders of the Odinhall. And that would pit my loyalty to you and Livorus and the others against my loyalty to the gods.” She turned, and faced him, her head tilting to the side a little, her gray eyes dark, for the moment, in the dim light coming in from the hallway. “I think, perhaps, that there is little information I can give them until I’ve seen and assessed the situation for myself.”
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 98