by Ilana Waters
“Where do mortals come from, besides other mortals?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, then, I suppose the simplest explanation is that, thousands of years ago, our kind were just ordinary mortals.” Her eyes lingered on several naked bodies on the bedroom’s mural walls. “Through the years, we learned to channel and control our energy to work with the forces of nature. We helped humanity survive, served the earth and her cycles. On the surface, we seemed capable of impossible tasks.
“But they were really not so far away from your modern hypocausts, or aqueducts.” She pointed to a mural depicting Rome, with its stone monuments and temples. “It wasn’t long before these abilities were passed down to future generations, although certain witches acquire them on their own.”
“On their own?” I dipped my hand into a bowl of dates.
“It is possible for a mortal to become a witch—”
“Usurp our power?”
“No, not like that. A year and a day of study are required, a three-day fast—”
“That’s all?” I popped a date into my mouth.
“And the initial transition is complete,” Sabine sighed. “The decades of further practice, study, and potential proficiency come later—if they come at all.”
“But where does the magic come from? The power?”
“I’ve no idea. It’s like the air, the sea . . .” She motioned with her hand. “Where does anything come from? Or the gods, for that matter?”
“The way you speak, I’m beginning to think we made them up.” I pointed my finger at a date. It rose from the bowl and traveled to Sabine’s lips.
“Better not let the priests hear you say that,” she said. “They’ll behead us both for blasphemy.” But her smile told me she didn’t entirely disagree. She opened her mouth; in went the date. “Though you Romans . . .” She chewed thoughtfully.
“You Romans?”
“Though Romans do have religious leanings similar to witches’.” She swallowed the rest of the date. “There is the gods’ right hand, Fate. There is the All, a powerful culmination of deities. From the All sprung forth Hecate . . . Aradia . . .” She took the bowl from me, her finger twirling the air above it as she mindlessly stirred the dates. “Yes, we, too, worship gods of our own. At least, we used to worship them.”
“And you do not do so now?” Gently, I moved the bowl from her hand to the table and rubbed her shoulders. “Or are you too busy enjoying pleasures of the flesh?” I breathed in her ear. She did not answer, and I did not care. I had no idea if the gods were just another children’s story told to while away the decades. There were other, more gratifying ways to spend the time.
What I did know was that we existed in a transparent, yet impenetrable world that stood parallel to the world of mortals. Witches and humans, moving side by side, rarely able to cross over. It was as Sabine herself had said, or almost said. We were the closest things these creatures had to gods on earth. For all I knew, we were gods. There was no one to tell us otherwise.
“What if we just declare ourselves gods to mortals one day and see what happens?” I asked her once. “A quick demonstration of our powers would provide ample proof. If we are not gods, then perhaps we are descended from them, as so many Roman emperors claim to be. Stranger things have come to pass.”
“Yes, and deadlier things.” She leaned her head on my shoulder, laid her hand on my heart. “You are too young to know, Titus. There were times in the past when our kind tried this—without success and at great personal cost.”
“Yes, yes.” I rolled my eyes. Though I did not yet have her years, I was tired of Sabine holding that against me, saying I couldn’t understand this or that. Was I not the youngest, most accomplished general in the history of the empire? Had I not done in a few short years what had taken other men hundreds to do? Was I not a formidable companion and lover, as evidenced by the highest-ranking woman, second only to the empress, claiming me as her own? What more was there to understand?
“Perhaps it’s time for it to be undertaken again.” Holding her to me with one arm, I stroked her shoulder with my thumb. “By a pair whose knowledge and abilities far outweigh those of their predecessors.”
She raised her head to look at me. “And you think we are one such pair? No, Titus.” She lay back down. “As much as I wish it could be, most mortals would not recognize or accept a god in their presence, even if proof were assured. You have already seen what they do over the most minor incantations, the simplest of spells. No, leave well enough alone, Titus.” She turned to one side, her back to me. “Just leave it alone.”
Chapter 4
A mushroom-shaped cloud billows up from Vesuvius. People turn to each other, talking in rapid-fire confusion. Was Vulcan not satisfied with his celebration the day before? Is he voicing his displeasure?
Darkness falls across Pompeii. The volcano’s rising cloud has blocked out the sun. It is the last benevolent sun I ever see. Strange, dust-colored snowflakes begin to fall, despite the heat of the day.
Then, the screaming begins.
***
Over time, I learned about others of our kind from Sabine. Thirteen of them comprised the High Council, who tasked themselves with keeping everything orderly in the world of witches. They were just one more reason Sabine didn’t want me exposing what we truly were.
“I should be very interested to meet them.” Leaning back on a pillow, I lazily traced a finger in the air. Across from us, candlelight flickered on the wall, making interesting shadows. “You are the only other person I’ve found who has anything in common with me. Are they like the senate in Rome? Is there an emperor of witches?” I already had someone in mind for the position.
“There is no emperor of witches, Titus, and there never will be.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You wish for our present one—Vitellius—to stay the course? I confess, I rather hope he does, at least for a while. Two suicides and a murder . . . three emperors is enough in any one year.” I chuckled, raising and lowering my finger. The flame followed, making one shadow seem to cut down the rest.
“Stop that.” She pointed at me sternly. My finger froze, along with the candlelight. But I knew she wasn’t referring to the dancing flames. “I can already see your machinations at work. No witch goes out seeking the High Council, unless they are desperate. The less contact you have with them, the better.”
I put my hand down. “Why?”
“Because they exist to eliminate what they consider threats.” Sabine’s words were so sharp, one of the candles blew out, though no drafts flowed through the room. “Therefore, you want to remain as far outside their awareness as possible. Trust me, if the Council ever has reason to seek you out, it will be the beginning of your problems, not the end.” She seemed so adamant, I did not press the matter further.
As the years passed, I kept a sharp eye out for other witches, but never met any until long after Sabine and I parted ways. I never even knew her true family.
“They’re all gone now.” Sabine sat on the edge of the bed, staring forlornly at the door.
“Gone? Where?” I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind. “Where would they go when illness and injury hold no sway over them?”
“I never said that.” Her tone was a scythe. Surprised, I loosened my grip. “Illness can invade our bodies if we’re not careful, if we’ve lost too much magic. We can suffer injuries like mortals that way. And there are ways we can die, Titus. Fire. Decapitation. Certain kinds of spells. Sometimes, even by our own hands.”
Death by fire. I’d assumed as much, since several burnings as a child did not heal as quickly as my other wounds. And decapitation did not need to be clarified further. But what spells, then? And why would a witch choose to die, to make their own hands the murderers?
“Why do mortals wish to end their existence?” Sabine replied when I asked her. “We have more in common with them than you think. W
hen you live the same centuries over and over, you’ll be surprised how quickly you tire of them.”
“What sameness?” I nuzzled the crook of her neck, and slipped my fingers between her thighs. “Things are forever changing—more so now than ever before.”
“Nothing seems to change for me,” Sabine said glumly.
I seduced her out of her moodiness as I had done so many times before. Often, I swore she feigned these fits of melancholia to increase my ardor. In hindsight, I wish I had known how prophetic they were. If I knew how to read the flights of birds, or steaming entrails, they could not have sent clearer signs for me to ignore.
Over time, I tried various other methods to relieve her loneliness. “Why do we not try to find others?” I pulled my tunic over my head. Egnatius would be home soon. “Don’t you have questions you wish to ask them? Not to mention there is strength in numbers, should fearful mortals try to strike at us.”
“You are the one with unending questions, Titus, as you should be.” She helped drape my toga over me, while I enjoyed a last glimpse of her naked body. “But you forget: I am older, and long more for peace than answers.”
“Maybe these others would help you find both.” And how can I forget your age when you work so diligently to remind me? That last thought I kept to myself.
“And what if one of them—or more than one—grapples for power with you?” She dangled my sandals between her fingers, just out of my reach. I grabbed for them. They floated higher in the air, above my head. “Attempts to take your place as the general of the divine band you see yourself leading?” Her tone was half-teasing.
“That is one question you can answer yourself.” I used my own magic to overpower Sabine’s, and pulled my sandals down. “You’ve seen what happens to those who cross me.” Whether she asked because she believed such a thing was possible, or because she knew the mention of it would silence me, was anybody’s guess. Perhaps it was a bit of both. From then on, I rarely broached the subject.
There was another reason. In my folly, I thought Sabine had no desire to seek out other witches because she had found me. What other magical companion could she possibly want, now that she had her one true mate? Did I not cater to her every desire, fulfill her every need? It seemed I did not.
Yet, she more than met mine. Oh, I had other bedmates, of course. I was fairly certain Sabine did as well, though I never delved into the matter. Some things are best left unknown. I was often away on campaigns for months at a time, and Sabine was a passionate woman. It was one of the things I loved most about her.
And, over time, I was able to hone more than my sexual prowess with Sabine. She taught me thousands of spells, and my magical abilities increased a hundredfold. I was then able to channel this power into my campaigns. She tutored me on how to speak to the trees so that they’d listen, would fall easily for my armies. Taught me to make the ground inexplicably swell up under an enemy’s camp. It was true what Sabine said: I probably could have conquered adequately without her. But with her . . . well, together, we were far more formidable. Yes, Rome owed much of its expansion to Sabine and me. But her part was always in the shadows, mine in the limelight. I wonder now if, perhaps, she resented it.
And if she was bothered by other things, such as the force I used during my campaigns, she said nothing to me about it. Perhaps her respect for life was superseded by the need to be with a kindred spirit, to be near one of her own. Then, there was the undeniable sexual attraction between us.
But there was something I failed to see: her pulling away. Not from me. Not at first. But later, she began to withdraw from the connection we felt as witches to all things. Perhaps the rustling of the leaves fail to stir her as it once did. Or the whispers on the wind grew fainter, till she could no longer hear them. Until everything seemed futile, pointless. Slowly, she was growing pale, colorless, no longer able to drink from the rich fullness of this life.
But, for years, I went on, happily oblivious to this. Despite my frequent trips abroad, I visited Sabine and Egnatius so often, Pompeii became my second home. I was also a frequent guest at Sabine’s country villa while her husband was away. There, we were safe from the noise and gossip of the city. With slaves preoccupied by the constant farming done on such estates, we could be left alone as we wished.
We made our own sacrifices to the gods—if there were any—on altars of need for each other. And when our devotions were complete, we lay in one another’s arms, looking out from her bedroom windows onto the vineyards. So many grapes to be made into wine. So many hours of pleasure to be enjoyed.
For a long time, I was satisfied. It was wonderful to finally find a lover who could keep up with me—in mind and body. Whose tastes so perfectly matched mine, and who needed as little sleep as I did. It seemed fitting I should fall in love in Pompeii. After all, Venus was the reputed protectress of the city.
Apparently, she was asleep at her post the day Vesuvius woke up.
***
It will come as no surprise to the reader that Sabine did not marry for love. How could she, when she had not yet met me? Very few people wed for emotional reasons in those days, anyway. No, Sabine’s marriage was pure politics, like the unions of most other women of her class. Divorce was all but out of the question, it was employed so infrequently.
Besides, it would be Sabine’s reputation that took the hit, not Egnatius’s. With no family to go back to, and few male prospects who’d bind themselves to a “disgraced” woman, Sabine would have no means of support. And, as enterprising as she was in other matters, I did not envision her wandering the streets like a beggar. Or, as a less sophisticated kind of vendor, plying her trade to keep herself fed.
Yes, I could have married her myself, and would have. But it would have meant ending my association with Egnatius, something that would’ve benefitted neither Sabine’s ambitions, nor mine. And, as we were both immortal, I assumed we had plenty of time to come up with an alternative solution. He would die, eventually. And, if he had trouble dying, I had no reservations about helping him.
Let his esteem grow, his wealth and power build. They will make fine cushions for Sabine and me to lie upon when the time is right.
Sabine had a fair hand in plumping those cushions herself. Egnatius easily won election after election, no doubt due to the part she played in his campaigns. Even when he lost, he was never out of power for long. Her beauty and charm effortlessly put people at ease, winning converts to her cause, or laying waste to an opponent’s. Though how much of this was due to her natural charisma and how much to her magic, one could only guess. Her powers were useful for other things as well. Ensuring one did not bear children from an oafish husband, for instance.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll divorce you for barrenness?” I asked. Her appearance put her a bit past the ideal childbearing years (gods only knew her true age, as I’ve said), but it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. I was surprised the subject of divorce hadn’t come up between them sooner.
She laughed. “I am far too valuable to my husband’s career for him to do that. He may want proof of his virility, but he wants a consistent political position more. Besides, if he desires a son so badly, he can adopt one.” She was right, of course. To carry on their name, wealthy Romans would often adopt sons if the fates awarded them none of their own.
“And do you use that same magic on our union to ensure there is no bounty there, either?” I asked.
“Well, it would be unwise if there was. What if they took after you? How would I explain a pale-faced, yellow-haired girl or boy to Egnatius? He and I are both so dark . . . a lighter offspring would raise suspicion. Besides,” her voice deepened, “I’m sure he’s had a child—or a whole gaggle by now—with his whores over the years.”
As the proconsul’s wife, Sabine had enough responsibilities without the added chore of raising children. There were parties and banquets, and guests to flatter, charm, and entertain at each. When she was fulf
illing these obligations, I could not monopolize her for long, which rankled me. How we passed our entire first night together, speaking for hours sans interruption, is beyond me. Perhaps the gods arranged it. Doubtful, but perhaps.
At least I was a frequent guest at these gatherings, being all but chained to Egnatius’s side by politics. But I didn’t mind the tether, if it allowed me to be close to Sabine. Pompeii became my home as much as Rome, if only because Sabine was there, and my heart's fascination with her.
Often, the banquets held by Egnatius and Sabine were too large to accommodate the nine dinner guests Romans typically hosted. Instead of one large, square table, as was the custom, numerous smaller ones were spread throughout the house. I thoroughly enjoyed this, as it allowed me to admire the gifts I’d brought Sabine over the years, retrieved from my numerous travels and campaigns.
There were textiles and glassware, amber, and pottery from the north. Gold, silver, and wine from Hispania. I gave her marble from Greece, ivory from Africa, papyrus from Aegyptus. She seemed mildly pleased with the dyes, perfumes, and incense I brought from our other eastern provinces. And, of course, I supplied her with slaves from just about everywhere.
At first, I thought Sabine would be jealous of my ability to venture abroad, to move freely throughout the world in a way she could not. But she did move about a good deal with Egnatius in the course of his duties, though not as widely as I did. If anything, she seemed bored and apathetic toward these affairs.
I flattered myself to think my gifts revived her from time to time, and kept her occupied when Egnatius traveled alone. My friendship and professional association with Egnatius was the perfect excuse for such munificence. And the gifts I gave him were even more extravagant, so that Sabine’s looked trifling in comparison. If the gifts had been equal in value, it might have aroused suspicion.
“You are so good to remember my darling wife, Titus,” he said to me after I gifted him a pair of tigers from Libya. “Truly, you are second to none in generosity and thoughtfulness.” He leaned toward my ear. “Just between you and me, I’m fearful for her safety while I am gone. It eases my heart greatly to know you are so often here to protect her.”
