by Cass Morris
The hapless lad ran from the room, tripping over his own feet as he went. Latona thought about chastising Merula for her harshness, but could not quite summon the energy. It hardly mattered, anyway, for Merula’s rancor had alerted Aula to her presence. “Merula, dear,” came the sweet voice, preceding Aula into the atrium. “I’m not sure what Urco did to incur your wrath, but it’s a bit uncouth to reduce the lad to tears, whatever the—” As she rounded a column, her voice trailed off. She had caught sight of her sister. “Latona? My darling, what’s . . . what’s the matter?” Her eyes went from Latona’s face to the chest Merula was toting.
“As it happens,” Latona said, “I suspect you’ll be pleased.” She looked to Merula. “To my old bedroom, if you please.” And back to Aula. “I’ll be resuming occupancy, full-time. I hope no one minds.”
“Minds?” Aula’s face split in a wide grin. “You’ve actually done it! You have, haven’t you? Please say you have.” At Latona’s nod, Aula broke into a squeal. “Then I’m ecstatic! Oh, my honey, you don’t know how long I’ve been wanting—well, better late than never, I suppose, but all the same—” Her face volleyed suddenly from delight to a mildly disconcerted frown. “Oh. Dear. Father.”
“Yes,” Latona said, rueful. “Father. Is he in?”
Aula shook her head. “Dining with Rufilius Albinicus tonight.”
Latona’s lips quirked up. “And he left you at home?”
Aula’s mouth returned the smirk. “With Young Rufilius in Iberia with the Fourteenth, there’s not much of a reason for me to go, now is there? Much though I admire and respect Old Albinicus, of course.” Aula reached out and seized Latona’s hands. “Come on, dearest. I’ll fetch Alhena, and you can tell us all about what finally persuaded you to shuck off that useless crustacean of a husband.”
* * *
Latona had both her sisters at her side when she told the story to their father. Not that much explanation was needed, once Aulus inspected the red mark on Latona’s cheek. It would be bruised and purple upon the morrow; Latona wondered if Rubellia could teach her a charm to cover it. That was one discipline of Venus she had not yet tried.
“Oh, daughter. I am sorry.” He shook his head. “I had come to realize that Numerius Herennius was not quite the exemplary match that I had hoped he might grow into, but that he would resort to . . .” The words seemed to catch in his throat; Aulus appeared unwilling to put name to the abuse. To his credit, he did not ask what Latona might have done to provoke Herennius to hit her. The Vitelliae had never considered that the legal right to beat one’s wife justified the moral failing of actually doing so.
When she expounded further, about the farm taken in trade for her chastity, Aulus actually hung his head in shame. “I am sorry,” he said again, huskier this time. “I . . . judged him ill.” Latona only nodded, not wishing to make him feel worse, but unwilling to exonerate him from responsibility. “Will there be trouble?”
Latona shrugged. “I doubt he’ll raise any objections, lest I should publicly proclaim him a wife-beater and a panderer. Getting divorced is bad enough without creating an immense scandal out of it.”
At the word “scandal,” Aulus winced slightly. After another moment, he stood, placing his hands behind his back and pacing around the room. Alhena’s slender fingers intertwined with Latona’s, and Aula’s hand was at the base of her back.
‘He is disappointed,’ Latona thought, watching the creases around her father’s eyes and jowls. ‘But is he disappointed in me?’ A divorce was not world-ending for patricians of their status—but nor was it something to throw a celebration over, however Aula might feel to the contrary. Latona wondered if Aulus was figuring out how to explain the situation to his friends.
And then, despite her chagrin at dismaying her father in this way, Latona felt a little, rebellious surge of insolent anger rising in her breast. ‘He’s known for ages that this was an unsuitable match, but he never saved me from it before now. He could have had me divorce Herennius as soon as Dictator Ocella was dead. It would have made perfectly clear that the marriage was only for the convenience of protection in the first place, and no one could have blamed us for ending the farce once that threat had passed. Now it will look . . . well, I don’t know like what, but I’m sure we’re about to find out.’
But at long last, Aulus came to rest in front of her. He placed a hand gently on each shoulder and kissed Latona upon her brow. A blessing Latona wished she did not need.
* * *
Rabirus had seen Durmius Argus before, many times. Members of the Augian Commission were frequently on hand in their black-bordered togas when the Senate met or during legal proceedings, to ensure that no magical tampering took place. Yet the man’s face had never impressed itself into Rabirus’s memory, and looking at him now, Rabirus struggled to find anything notable about him. Dark hair, middling brown eyes, neither tall nor short, neither slim nor sturdy, with a vaguely amiable smile and an utterly forgettable air about him. Rabirus wondered, first, if he cultivated such a nondescript presence, the better to achieve his goals without attracting undue attention, and second, if it was magical in nature, a subtle charm nudging observers’ eyes and thoughts away.
That thought put a crease in his brow. Rabirus little liked being manipulated.
“Praetor Rabirus,” Durmius said. His voice had an oily quality. “How good of you to cut your travels short on my behalf.”
‘He speaks as though I had been taking a pleasure cruise around Crater Bay, not leading legions on the other side of the Middle Sea.’ But Rabirus swallowed his annoyance. “Your messenger was most persuasive.”
“Please, do sit.” Durmius sank into a curule-style chair, and Rabirus did the same. They were ensconced in his study, with a slave standing outside the door but none within. Durmius folded his hands across his slightly rounded belly, fingers interlaced. “I imagine my friend Publius’s message came as quite a shock to you.”
“I confess, I had not anticipated finding a devotee of Discord among the mages of the Augian Commission,” Rabirus said. “I had not thought any of your talents ran to Fracture.”
“Nor do they,” Durmius explained. “Not all of Lady Discordia’s followers are blessed with her talents, any more than all those who honor Jupiter or Juno are Spirit mages. That is my gift, incidentally, and I love the god who gave it to me no less for also appreciating Discordia’s place in our world.” He spoke of it so reasonably, as if it were ordinary thaumaturgical discourse and not consideration of dark magics and banished cults. “No, my role is not in working Discordia’s will directly, but in providing some cover for those who do.”
“There are many who would say,” Rabirus began, carefully, “that such use of magic is anathema to the gods’ blessing. A perversion of sacred purpose.”
Durmius spread his hands wide. “Is not Discordia a goddess as well? Does she not deserve her due?”
Rabirus had no easy answer. There was a logic in that, to be sure. “And how have you served the goddess among the Commission?”
“A few of my fellows have been convinced to see the truth of our world,” Durmius said. “Our job is so much more than petty quarrels about misplaced curses, you know. More even than keeping magic out of the Curia and the Forum. No, our sacred trust is to do whatever necessary to ensure the gods continue to bless Aven. Recent generations have forgotten this, doing only as they are told by the mandate of the Senate.”
“Have they?” Rabirus drawled. “And have you noticed ill effects on the city?”
“Oh, certainly, Praetor.” Durmius looked quite sad. “But it has come on so slowly, you see, most of the populace has not. Think back to the days of kings, and before that, the days of legend. Was not magic so much stronger then? Mortal men could work wonders. Our gifts now are so thin and weak by comparison.”
“And you believe Discordia can . . . what, restore the greater magics to the world
?”
“Chaos itself has been said by some to generate magical potential, as perhaps it did in the dawn of the world,” Durmius said, “but I believe the greater power is in drawing the gods’ eyes back to us. We must be worthy of their regard.”
Rabirus nodded. This, he could understand. “Aven has deviated far from the intentions of our noble ancestors.”
For the first time, Durmius’s smile became more than bland, taking on a self-satisfied edge. “We are correcting the course, Praetor, as we must. As I believe Publius told you—we can call upon Discordia to help us unmake what needs destruction, and then we may profitably build upon a stronger foundation.” Then the satisfaction vanished, and his thumbs waggled circles around each other. “But not all the Commissioners are stalwart enough men, I fear. Some have had to be . . . encouraged to look the other way.”
“Bribery?” Rabirus asked, almost glad to find such petty corruption in a man so aglow in ideals.
“Among other things,” Durmius answered lightly. “But as we have become more . . . active . . . we’re attracting more attention, and I must confess myself unequal to the task of tending to all of it. This is where you can help us: in diverting public attention away from Discordia’s servants, and in casting our actions in a light that will help to clear the path for a grander future.”
A simple enough charge. “I shall encourage the people to think of it as when a fire destroys a building. Though we may mourn the loss, it is an opportunity to create something stronger upon the ashes.”
“Just so!” Durmius’s cheeks lit with pleasure. “Just so.”
“But, Commissioner,” Rabirus said, “if I am to protect your—Discordia’s—servants and their actions, I must know more of these people and what they are doing.” He sat forward a bit, his elbow on the lacquered edge of his chair. ‘And I would have some leverage over you, friend Durmius, if you’re going to hold Pinarius Scaeva over me.’
“Certainly, certainly.” Durmius reached for a small bell and gave it a sharp ring. “I cannot give you the names of all Discordia’s servants. Even I do not know them all. Safer that way.” His eyes glinted; it had been the mandate of Ocella’s court, as they both knew. “But I can introduce you to one for whom I have great affection, and she can tell you more about her efforts.”
“She?” Rabirus asked, surprised, as the door opened, admitting a young woman. Durmius rose to greet her, and Rabirus decided to err on the side of showing her the same respect.
The girl looked perfect. Too perfect, a woman carved of alabaster stone. Her garments were pure white and sat on her with such precision that she might have been an unpainted statue. Even when she moved, her steps were so small that her gown hardly seemed to ripple.
When she raised her eyes to Rabirus’s face, though, he knew in an instant that no one who saw this woman could ever forget her. Her gaze had an intensity that startled, a world apart from her brother’s pleasantly bland aspect. ‘Ocella had eyes like that,’ he remembered, as the hairs on his forearms stood on end. A vibrant blue, shocking as lightning, cold as ice.
“Praetor Rabirus,” Durmius said, placing a hand against the young woman’s back, “it is my great honor to introduce my sister, Anca Corinna.”
Rabirus’s first thought was that Durmius had handed him too great a prize, revealing his own kin as a Discordian. The second was that if he was willing to do so, he must feel very secure indeed. “Lady Corinna,” Rabirus said, inclining his head. “A pleasure.” He glanced to Durmius. “Her name—?”
“She’s my half sister, from my mother’s second marriage,” Durmius said, explaining why she was an Anca Corinna and not a Sexta Durmia.
“Ever since birth, I have been a fragment.” Her voice had a slight musical note to it, though the effect was more unsettling than pleasant.
“She is a Fracture mage of rare ability,” Durmius said proudly. “And quite a fine poet.”
Corinna cocked her head, drawing nearer to Rabirus. “We’ve met before, you know.”
“Impossible,” Rabirus replied. “I would have remembered.”
“No,” Corinna said, “but I do not blame you, for I was cloaked and hooded then, being smuggled on and off Capraia.”
Understanding dawned. ‘One of Ocella’s girls, then. Or one of his pet mages. Or both.’ Ocella had hated the Discordians, banished them from Aven. Had he known the girl’s divine loyalty, he would have thrown her off Capraia’s highest sea-cliff. ‘But I had no notion of Pinarius Scaeva’s affiliation. Ocella could have made use of this girl for his own purposes and never been the wiser.’
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance now,” Rabirus said. “Your brother tells me you can illuminate my understanding of your . . . efforts.”
Corinna moved to a chair and folded herself neatly into it. “We had much to practice, with blood and bone.” Durmius smiled indulgently, as though his sister had not opened with a thoroughly disturbing statement. “But it’s become easier, to invite the lady in. Listen as you walk the streets, and you will hear her at work.”
Rabirus’s gaze slid from the young woman to Durmius. ‘Does he think this an adequate explanation?’
“No doubt your friend Buteo has informed you,” Durmius said, “of the troubles the city has had since midsummer.”
“Fights and accidents, he said. And hauntings.”
“All for Discordia,” Corinna’s lilting voice confirmed. “Curse dirt—”
“A trick we borrowed from your friend Scaeva,” Durmius interjected.
“—and little charms, to weaken wood and stone. But the doors, the bronze doors, those are my favorites, I must confess, sir.” Her face lit with pleasure; Rabirus was put in mind of a death mask in a lararium, shining with a flame behind it. “They open the way for the fiends, and they delight, oh, they delight in this world of ours.”
“Lemures,” Durmius explained. “Among other such spirits. They disrupt common lives and foment terror. It’s been useful in certain neighborhoods. I think by the time of the elections, we may have driven some to utter chaos.”
“They are so hungry,” Corinna said, and it took Rabirus a moment to realize she meant her fiends and not the people of Aven. “Ever so hungry, and so grateful for the chance to feed—” Her expression darkened so swiftly that Rabirus took a step back. “But someone keeps closing the bronze doors and sending them back.” Her hands curled into claws, pressing into her thighs and marring the marble perfection of her appearance. Swift as a summer storm, tears sprang from her eyes, and her breath came hard and shallow. “I hate her, I hate her, she closes every breach she finds, she sews the world back together.” Corinna shook her head, forcefully enough that dark locks of curly hair slipped free of their pins. “She wants broken things put back together, she doesn’t understand!”
“Ssshh, shh, shh.” Durmius dropped to his knees in front of his sister, catching her hands before they could rend her garments. “Easy, my dear. You’ll have your chance.” He sent an apologetic look over his shoulder at Rabirus. “Forgive her. Fracture magic takes its toll on the mage more than many elements, and she’s been working ever so hard lately.”
The contrast between the polished lady who had entered the room and the increasingly wild-eyed waif in the chair was alarming, true, but Rabirus had fixed upon her words. “Who?” he asked her. “Who has been stymieing your efforts?”
Corinna sniffled, her body starting to rock in the chair. “The golden one,” she said. “She brings others, one of them a traitor to our gift, others bright and dark, but it’s glitter-gold behind it all, glowing with such horrible shine. I hate her!”
“But who is it?” Rabirus demanded, even as suspicion began to well in his mind. “Do you know her? Who is she?”
“Oh, I know her,” Corinna snarled, her voice dropping low and losing its musicality. “I know her of old, and so do you. She was there, there, there on the
island, though she did not shimmer so then. Now she’s all ablaze, the Spirit mage.” Corinna’s eyes flared wide as she pronounced the name as though it were a death sentence: “Vitellia Latona.”
XLIV
Fortified Camp of Legio X Equestris, Central Iberia
Sempronius did not often dream.
He had never been sure why. Some Shadow mages had a particular talent for it, walking through the curtains of the sleeping world with deftness, but it was not a gift that had manifested in Sempronius. Sometimes he thought it was because all the imagination in his soul was bent to a purpose: to the dream of Aven, the glorious city and nation-center that he knew it could be. Perhaps, with so much of his cerebral capacity dedicated there, none was left over for Morpheus to play with. Sometimes he wondered what he was missing out on, if there was some glorious world that others entered that he could not. But the waking world was enough to be getting on with, and so most of the time, he was glad enough to rest without mental distraction.
And, if he did not dream, nor was he often visited by nightmares. For that, he was more grateful than ever, knowing the lingering effect the akdraugi had visited on so many men, particularly those who had been barricaded inside Toletum for months. The legions’ healers had been taxed to their utmost, trying to find succor for men who still woke with horrors, long after their last encounter with the akdraugi. The legions had encountered no such eldritch terrors since Toletum. Sempronius feared the Lusetani were regathering their magical strength, but in the meantime, they had encountered only warriors of a mundane nature and chased them all around Iberia’s central plateaus. The men fought without breaking, but in the night, some of them woke howling. The healer-mages tried to purge internal demons; the healer-priests beseeched Asclepius; the healer-surgeons threw up their hands in despair, for these horrors were nothing they could cut out of a man.
