by Cass Morris
Something about that wink put a flush on Aula’s cheeks. Obir reminded her a bit of Autronius Felix, always an audacious flirt, but at least the Autroniae were of the senatorial class. They might not be accepted in the stodgier houses, thanks to their plebeian background and generations-distant slave ancestry, but they were a usual component of the Vitellian social circle. A man of a crossroads collegium, on the other hand—well, there was a social gulf between them, and no mistake, yet he spoke as warmly and freely as though they were good friends. ‘Sempronius’s influence, perhaps.’ He was known to be quite friendly with his clients, whatever their origins, and perhaps that had worn off on such an amiable creature as this Vatinius Obir seemed to be. ‘And it isn’t as though he’s been disrespectful, for all his forwardness.’ Many patrician women, of course, would have considered his so much as looking her in the eye to be an unforgivable presumption—but Aula didn’t see what harm could come from it, and she certainly intended to fill her gaze with a well-built man in return.
They reached the end of the garden, where it opened out onto the north side of the Carinae Hill. Obir came to a halt, and Aula turned to face him. “Well, Vatinius Obir of the Esquiline, I give you leave to protect my sister and any other member of the family that you or Praetor Sempronius deem fit.” She weighed her next words on her tongue a moment before offering, “If ever you need anything, particularly while your patron is out of the country, stop by the Vitellian domus. My father will be happy to stand in Sempronius’s stead.”
“You are kind and gracious, Lady Aula,” Vatinius said, giving her another little bow. “I shall remember it.”
‘And I,’ Aula thought, watching him stride back between the trees, ‘would not be unhappy to see you again.’
III
The swirling waters were tinted faintly purple and smelled of lavender. No mere perfume, this, which would fade if Latona and Aula lingered too long; the pool was enchanted by Aven’s foremost Water mage, a woman called Davina, who had made a fortune from her gift. Nor was a pleasant scent the only magic at work. The warm waters had a healing effect, and as Latona sank down to her chin, she could feel the tension unknotting from her back and shoulders.
“What a lovely idea this was,” she said, leaning her head back against the edge of the pool. She and Aula were alone, in one of the bathhouse’s private chambers, having already traversed the larger public rooms of warm, hot, and cold water. Those baths, too, had enchanted waters, but of less intensity. Latona had never asked Davina about it, but she assumed it was easier to sustain magic of higher intensity on the smaller pools.
“I do have them occasionally,” Aula tittered, fluffing at the damp copper curls piled atop her head. “I’m just glad Davina had a private room available. I don’t know that I could’ve taken much more of Crispinilla’s wittering.” The Vitelliae had, as was common in the baths, run into several women they knew in the public rooms. “I don’t know why she thought we’d be impressed with her brother’s letters from Cantabria. As though our own brother hadn’t been in the very thick of it over there for the past year! Proculus’s legion hasn’t even been met in battle yet.”
Latona knew that well enough even without Crispinilla’s boastful report. Sempronius’s latest letter indicated they had, at last, begun their trek into the interior of Cantabria, but they did not expect to meet resistance until they were much further south. “She just wants to feel important,” Latona said. “You know she was jealous as anything for all the attention Gaius’s letters got last year.” Their brother had been, though a thousand miles away at the time, a primary force in motivating the governing bodies of Aven to vote in favor of supporting their Iberian allies against the suddenly rapacious Lusetani.
“So—” Aula began, in a high and too-casual pitch that immediately had Latona arching an eyebrow. “You’ll simply never guess who I ran into while shopping the other day.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” Latona allowed. “Do you mean to tell me, or would you rather make a game out of my guessing?”
Aula giggled. “No, I’ll tell you. A most interesting man, really. I wish I could get away with inviting him to a dinner party sometime, because I’d love to hear his life story, I’m sure it’s fascinating.”
“Aula.”
Aula’s pretty lips curved in a sly grin. “Vatinius Obir, of the Esquiline Collegium.”
Latona remembered him. His men had helped Galerius Orator and Sempronius put down the riot that had erupted on the Esquiline Hill just after the Dictator’s death the previous year. Latona felt sure enough of their Popularist loyalties to have summoned them when a fight had broken out in the Forum—a fight spurred by a Discordian curse that had netted Autronius Felix in its power, though no one had known that at the time. The older brother ran the collegium alone now; his brother had died before the elections—murdered, it was said, during an assassination attempt on Sempronius Tarren. “I know of the man,” Latona said, carefully, “but I had no idea you were acquainted.”
“We weren’t.” Aula’s eyes, mirrors to Latona’s own, crinkled impishly. “Tell me, what on earth did you do that Sempronius decided he needed to tell an entire collegium to be watchful over you and guard your welfare?”
Latona blinked a few times. “I should have known,” she drawled after a moment. “‘Come to Davina’s with me,’ you said, ‘my treat, a private room, oh and let’s give Helva and Merula a treat, too, and send them off to enjoy their own baths once we’ve settled in here.’ Of course you had a reason for it.”
“I am hurt, hurt,” Aula said, clutching a hand to her chest, “that you think my generosity had any premeditated ulterior motives.” But there was a grin twitching at the corner of her mouth and a laugh caught in the midst of her voice, giving her away. She splashed water in Latona’s direction. “Come on. Tell me.”
Latona shrugged, her shoulders sending ripples through the water. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
A bigger splash, this one sending a bit of floral-scented water up Latona’s nose. As she sputtered, Aula chided, “I’m sure you do. Now talk, or I’ll hide your clothes until you do.”
Latona wiped at her face with the back of a hand. “Beast.”
“Obir said he was told to be alert for dangers to you. I think I deserve to know if there’s some genuine threat to my beloved sister’s well-being.”
It was the concern threading through Aula’s voice that tugged on Latona’s conscience. She reached out with her Spirit magic and was answered by the clarion ring of sincerity beneath the playful cover.
She could have continued to demur. She didn’t know, for certain, what had prompted Sempronius to make such a request of his client. But denial would be disingenuous.
Latona drew herself up slightly, sitting more solidly on the bench rather than letting herself slump into the salubrious waters. Where to begin? “You remember the day of the fire, by the Aventine docks?”
Aula shuddered. “I’m not likely to forget that. You running off to use your magic to help the brigades.” One look at Latona’s face, and Aula went ashen. “That wasn’t all that happened, was it?” Latona shook her head. “Sweet Juno.”
Latona had trouble forcing the words off of her tongue. It was meant to be a secret; no one but she, their younger sister Alhena, Sempronius Tarren, and his sister Vibia knew what had happened in that warehouse. But she could no longer look at Aula’s imploring eyes, feeling the surge of sisterly protection emanating from her, and hide the truth. So she told the story of the Aventine fires and her part in quelling them: how she had not just assisted, but been able to extinguish whole buildings at a time. How she had taken the energy into herself through Fire, then transmuted it to Spirit, which she could spin back out to help others when their energy or vigor flagged. How she had poured out so much of herself that way, with so little regard for the toll it took, that she became easy prey for a Fracture mage who siphoned her power, knocked
her unconscious, and dragged her into a warehouse.
The tale did not come easily. Love for her sister warred in Latona’s heart with her awareness of her sister’s flaws—chief among them, a propensity for gossip. Strangely, the pallor that had come over Aula’s skin was reassuring. She was less likely to chatter if she was truly afraid. Still, Latona felt it important to underscore the severity of the situation. “Aula, if I tell you this next part, you must keep it locked between your teeth and lips, I mean it.”
“I promise,” Aula said, her big eyes serious. “Latona, I know I’m a frivol, but I can keep my mouth shut when it matters.”
“I know you can. I’m sorry. It’s just—” A sigh. “This could be dangerous, in more than one way.” But she drew a deep breath, and told Aula what she had learned in that warehouse of Rabirus’s role in orchestrating the Aventine fires—and of the attempt on her life made by Pinarius Scaeva, secret devotee of Discordian magic, the dark side of Fracture that ripped and tore and devoured, rather than maintaining a fragile balance in the world.
Fury swiftly replaced the concern on Aula’s face. “Rabirus set the fires? And set that—that beast on you?” She stood abruptly, propelled by her anger, water streaming off her ample curves in violet-tinted rivulets.
“And set him on Felix earlier in the fall, we fear,” Latona said. “And was likely responsible for the poisoned arrow that hit Sempronius on that hunting trip.”
Aula sat again, sloshing water over the side of the pool. “I can’t believe it. I mean, of course I believe you. It just seems incredible, that he should stoop to such depravities over—” A mirthless laugh bubbled up in her throat. “Over a praetorial election!”
“I hardly wanted to believe it, myself. He thinks it a far more dire issue than a simple election. He thinks he’s fighting for the soul of the nation.” Latona gave a little shiver, remembering how vulnerable she had felt, kneeling on the floor of the warehouse, kept prone by Scaeva’s magic, as Rabirus made his mad devotion to ancient customs so clear. “The worst part was . . . he knew it was me he was coming for. Scaeva had worked out my magical signature from other things I’d done in the city.” Aula nodded slowly; Latona knew she was on the verge of outstripping her sister’s knowledge of magical workings. Aula had not been blessed with magical gifts as her two younger sisters had, and she had turned her natural cleverness toward understanding political machinations rather than thaumaturgical mysteries. “He told Rabirus how I’d thwarted him. Suffice to say, Rabirus was . . . displeased to have been outmaneuvered by a woman.”
Aula’s lips twitched slightly. “The more fool him.”
“Yes, well, he made some unkind remarks as to the nature of my reason for protecting Sempronius.” Latona crinkled her nose. “None of which were true at the time.”
“At the time?” Aula squealed, her face transforming in an instant from pinched concern to effusive interest. “What do you mean, at the time?”
“Do you want this story in the proper order or not?”
“Not!” Aula said with glee. “That part sounds far more—”
“Aula.”
“Fine. Go on.” Aula was fairly wriggling in anticipation, but then her expression turned serious again—a reminder that she was not a frivol, whatever aspect she might put on for society’s sake. “But, my honey—Rabirus knew about Ocella—he didn’t—”
Shaking her head vehemently, Latona said, “No. No, he seemed to consider it, then to determine that I was soiled goods.” Latona gave a self-deprecating smile. “Or perhaps he merely surmised there would be no wooing me over to the Optimate cause. But then he made threats against Alhena.” Aula gasped, squeezing Latona tighter. “I’m afraid that’s when I quite lost control of myself.”
“And no wonder! What did you do?”
“Tried to bite him.”
Another laugh, though not jovial. “Quite rightly, too.”
“After that, he left me to Scaeva’s mercies. And he was . . .” Another shudder moved Latona’s shoulders. “He enjoyed it, Aula. He had me in the palm of his hand, an insect to squish at will, and he was rejoicing in that power. I could feel it . . .” Her hand came up to her chest, pressing hard against her breastbone. “Like a fishhook, sent into the core of me, and I could do nothing but dangle.”
Tears were clinging to Aula’s eyelashes. “Oh, my honey,” she sighed. “That must have been . . . I can’t even imagine.”
Latona had no words to comfort her sister, and so determined that the best course of action was to keep talking. “He meant to kill me. I’m certain of that. He said as much, that he would drain me of everything I had, everything I am . . . and he could have. I had no strength left to defend myself.” Latona could still feel it, the cold chasm seeping deep in her chest as her magic flooded out of her, taking her very essence along with it. “Perhaps because he was so certain he would kill me, he revealed that he was no mere priest of Janus, but a devotee of Discordia.”
Aula’s cheeks were damp now, but Latona could see her mind working behind her eyes. “Discordia.” The cult had been banished from the city several times over Aven’s history, most recently by the Dictator Ocella, but they always seemed to creep back. “Do you think,” Aula began hesitantly, touching her lips as though fearful of letting the words past them, “that Rabirus knew?”
Latona nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. I know he didn’t want me dead, he said as much. He just wanted me terrified and taken out of play, as it were. Scaeva went rogue on that. It seems incredible that Rabirus wouldn’t know about his Discordian devotion, but I cannot confirm it. Neither of them addressed it in front of me, and I lost consciousness soon after. I don’t remember anything else until . . . until Sempronius was carrying me towards the Temple of Venus.”
“He rescued you!” Aula sighed, her emotions rapidly turning toward the more agreeable component of the story. “Latona, if that isn’t the most romantic—”
But Latona cut her off. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it was Vibia who bears that honor.”
Aula’s face shifted from sentimental swoon to utter perplexity with comical speed. “What? Vibia?”
“Alhena fetched her. And Sempronius, but it was Vibia who had the power to intervene. I suppose Alhena knew that no one else could battle a Fracture mage so well as another of that element.”
Aula’s nose and lips were still curled in confusion. “I had never thought Vibia to have so much power, to combat someone capable of laying you out as Scaeva did.”
“Nor I,” Latona shrugged. “I don’t know how she overcame him, to be honest, or what part Sempronius played. Perhaps he was a distraction, or fought him physically. It would be hard to fight physically and magically at the same time.”
Aula was actually quiet a moment, considering. She cupped a bit of water in her hands and splashed it on her face. “It’s this Scaeva that Sempronius fears, then?”
“I don’t know. Something went wrong with Scaeva’s magic, when Vibia intervened, Alhena said. His mind broke. He’s being kept in seclusion now, but . . .” Latona shrugged. “Perhaps Sempronius fears he’ll restore himself somehow. Or that he has allies.”
Aula nodded. “A sensible assumption. You’d think if there were other Discordian cultists in the city, we’d know, but . . .” She shook her head helplessly, and Latona took her meaning. They hadn’t known about Scaeva. Aven held many secrets, particularly in the disarray that followed the dictatorship. Then, Aula’s eyes turned keen and teasing again. “So . . . about Sempronius Tarren and true or untrue reasons for protecting him?”
Latona felt heat coming to her cheeks, and she sank back down in the water a bit. “You can’t be but so surprised. You’ve been pushing me at him ever since he returned from exile.”
“It never occurred to me that you would actually take my advice.” Aula’s lips screwed up at one corner. “In fact, I doubt my
nudging had much at all to do with it. How did it start?”
Latona hardly knew, herself. Certainly it had not begun in the Autroniae’s garden, with Saturnalian revels chiming in the background, nor even when Sempronius and Vibia had rescued her from Scaeva, with the city smoldering around them. That was but a ripple outwards from whatever had set them on this path. So when had it been? That chilly day, standing atop the Palatine Hill after the Cantrinalia, when he had disclosed his hopes for their vagrant little city? Or when she had seen his generosity at the Aventine temple complex? ‘Or,’ she thought wryly, ‘when he demonstrated so aptly that altruism and political acumen are far from bad bedfellows?’ For much of his appeal, she owned, was in his cleverness—in that always-working mind, so swift and fierce.
But no—it went back further than that. Her heart had raced from the moment she had greeted him at her family’s feast, after Ocella’s funeral. It had heated that night on the Esquiline, when she saw him stand up against a riotous crowd.
Or further yet, to a day when they had stood together on the Capitoline, with the city in the throes of Dictator Ocella’s depredations. Latona, huddled against the cold, tangled up in her own anguish, on her way to beg Juno for guidance. Sempronius, making a final sacrifice to Jupiter before fleeing the city, already wearing his travel cloak and boots. Something had leapt between their souls in that moment, and though years passed, she never stopped thinking of him.
Latona hardly knew how to explain that to Aula, though, so she began with the moments in-between those that Aula already knew of. Aula listened, rapt, as Latona explained how their friendship had blossomed into something more. ‘No,’ Latona thought as she told Aula of the terror that had gripped her when Sempronius had been wounded at Galerius Orator’s hunting party, of the connection she had felt while healing him. ‘No, not blossomed. Nothing so gentle—nor so predictable.’ Their passion for each other had taken strong, sudden flame, like dry brush struck by lightning.
