“And you?” Selene asked, the first direct question she’d ever asked them both. “Do the two of you have ambition?”
Antyllus paused, struck by the question. He honestly didn’t know how to answer it. “My father’s been a consul. There’s only one chair higher than that, and it’s occupied by someone I feel personal loyalty towards,” he answered, shrugging a little. “Do I want to add dignitas to my family’s name? Of course I do! But there’s ambition, and there’s reality. Your brother’s god-born. Anyone whose ambitions flare up so high that they feel they must become Imperator while he holds that title? Deserves to be burned by the flames.” He gave Tiberius a quick glance. “You’re very silent on the subject.”
Tiberius snorted. “My mother has put me off the topic of ambition, honestly. I’ll stick to gloria.”
“Some would say that gloria is worthless if you don’t put it to use,” Antyllus pointed out, wanting to poke Tiberius. “What’s the point of covering yourself in fame, if you don’t live a public life?” First gloria, victory in battle, demonstrating that you’re a man of courage and virtue. Then public service in which you get to change things that need changing. Ideally, anyway. Though quite a lot of that public service winds up as a naked power grab, and large sums of money change hands to ensure that some things never change at all.
“I’m still working on that part,” Tiberius admitted, shrugging. “Maybe the point of gloria is just that, for some people. Maybe winning is enough, and maybe virtue is enough, on its own merits. Without trying to turn it into coin or power.”
“Easy to say for someone who has both,” Antyllus pointed out, grinning, perfectly aware of how much money and influence his own family possessed. “And of course, that money and power goes to improve the position of your family. So that the next generation can improve, and the next, and the next.” In theory. And that’s the dignitas of the family, all over again.
Selene swung her head towards him now, confusion written in her expression. “But I thought you wanted to avoid the usual career path of politics. And be an . . . ambassador. A governor. Something like that.”
Antyllus chuckled, taking a seat on the bench beside her. “I do. I’m just pointing out that Tiberius here can cover himself in gloria all he wants. But fame is power. And sooner or later, someone will expect him to use that power—or they’ll find him useless, and try to remove him.” After all, we can’t have someone sucking up all the fame like water through a hollow reed. There will be none left for everyone else. He laughed outright at Tiberius’ dark look. “So, Selene, where do you want to go in this vast city? Surely, after the investiture ceremony tomorrow, you could get your brother’s permission to explore. At least a little.” Under heavy guard, if the people in this city have become agitated due to the mess at Thebes.
“I don’t think that’s necessarily a good idea,” Tiberius said sharply, clearly thinking along the same lines. “It would be better to get an idea of the locals’ mood first, before running around to see the sights.”
Antyllus glanced at Selene, and felt a tinge of hope as she said, hesitantly, “I would like to see more than just the roofs of the buildings. I can ask my sister to ask Caesarion. When she’s less busy.”
She won’t ask Caesarion directly. But she also didn’t curl up into a ball of fear, either. That’s progress.
Chapter VI: Shadows
Damkina heard the tap at the front door, but continued working in her study, knowing that her servants would attend to whoever it was. Here, in the privacy of the unassuming house she’d purchased in the Hellene district of Alexandria, she did not wear the concealing veil across her face or the heavy hat to cover her long, dark hair as she crouched over a bench. Her fingers twisted gold wire with just enough magical power to melt the gold as she dripped it, drop by drop, into the script she’d already cut into an amulet made of cold, hard iron, wrapped around a cabochon ruby.
The words and symbols on the amulet were protective in nature, designed to keep out the intrusive tendrils of a spirit’s thoughts. But it was the crystalline matrix of the ruby that would hold the charge of power she’d place in it. Every time a minor spirit tried to touch a human who wore this talisman, a little of that power would dissipate, unfortunately, requiring the device to be recharged at some later date. A powerful spirit might be able to overcome the device’s effect entirely. But it was a layer of protection that most people didn’t have, and given what a spirit could do? People aware of the danger would pay dearly for such a relic.
Of course, Damkina had no intention of asking coin for this item. She’d wear it herself, the next time she opened her grimoire to entreat a spirit capable of hunting humans to do so for her.
A tap at her study door now, and as she acknowledged it, it swung open. Ehsan, her guard, loomed there, and then raised his hand, making a series of gestures. “Visitors? Unless they’re my existing contacts, send them away. I’m busy.”
Another gesture or three as a scowl crossed his scarred face. Her expression tightened, and then she set her work aside, covering it with a cloth. Put her hat back on her head, and covered her face with her veil. “Very well. If they’re so insistent, I’ll see what they have to say.” The finger-language Ehsan used was very limited, unfortunately. She frequently wished that she’d found him before . . . everything. But that was a foolish wish, and she knew it.
Ehsan escorted the visitors into her study, and stood there, looming once more by the door. She sat in her chair, as regal as any queen, not rising as the two Egyptian men entered. Studying them. Listening to her spirits as they, too, investigated the men. “Lady Damkina—“ the stout one began in Hellene.
“Magus,” she corrected, raising a finger. “You have come to my house for assistance in some matter. You will address me as Magus Banit.” This demand usually had the additional benefit of throwing people off-balance.
He paused, looking irritated, but concealed it rapidly. “Magus, we are merchants. Of enough means to make it worth your while if you were to assist us in an endeavor of some . . . sensitivity.”
Educated inflections to his Hellene. Upper Egypt accent, not Lower. He doesn’t spent much time speaking this language, but speaks it well. Damkina’s eyebrows arched slightly. “And what would this matter of such sensitivity be?” she asked quietly.
They exchanged glances, and the thinner of the pair replied, hesitantly, “We have a former . . . business associate . . . who has cheated us of substantial sums of money.”
“Are there not courts to handle such matters?” Damkina asked. If she’d thought for an instant that they were telling the truth, she’d have already been bored and sent them out the door dismissively. Of course, they weren’t. She could see ink-stains under their well-manicured nails, not dirt. The smell of incense clung to their skins, not spices or tanning agents. And her spirits whispered to her, They are both bound in service to some greater spirit or god. Their souls are hidden from our sight.
An awkward glance between the two men, and then the stout one offered, “He has bribed the courts to rule in his favor.”
“Of course he did,” Damkina murmured, and one of her bound spirits whispered, Lie! in her ear. “Gentlemen, my time is valuable. Please, reach the culmination of your argument.” A tiny, dismissive flick of her left hand, and she watched the ire rise in two sets of eyes. They don’t like my tone. They’re either unused to women in authority, or are of sufficient rank that they’re unused to anyone treating them cavalierly.
“To be blunt, then,” the stout one said, running a hand over his shaved head—no wig. A merchant of such supposed wealth would wear one. His hand has lighter bands of skin on his fingers, showing he recently wore rings, which he stripped off before entering my house—“we seek vengeance, Magus.”
“Hire an assassin,” she suggested shortly. “Knives or poisons are wondrous tools of vengeance.” As well I know. She turned back to her work, and felt, rather than heard, one of them step forward. Heard Ehsan’s warni
ng grunt, and lifted her head, watching as the stout one sagged back to where he’d just been standing a moment before. “Was there something more?” she asked, her tone sharp.
“Our associate has . . . protections,” the slender one said carefully. “Magical ones. An assassin armed with only a blade or poison will not be successful. Hence our desire to find . . . magical means.”
Now, she was more interested. “Does your associate employ food-tasters?”
“Spirits guard his food, yes. And not only does he have human guards,” the slender one’s eyes flicked towards Ehsan, “but there are rumors of magical ones, as well.” He shrugged. “A trinket, however? A gift of a ring, perhaps, sent to him, which, when he puts it on, turns him to stone? That would be most fitting. A statue of himself.”
She snorted under her veil. “Such objects exist, yes, but they were made when Babylon was young.” When we of the Magi had gods to call on for their power. “I could make one that would cause the blood to congeal in your . . . associate’s . . . veins. But I do not think that you could match the price I would charge to create such an object,” she murmured, enjoying herself now.
“We are prepared to offer a full talent of silver,” the fat one suggested. He doesn’t bargain often. Ah, well, I already knew he wasn’t a merchant.
“I do not trade in gold or silver,” Damkina said, smiling behind her veil as she saw their looks of consternation. “I trade in knowledge. Information and secrets. Influence, too. As you are but humble merchants, you have nothing that interests me. Good day.”
Ehsan started to push them out of her study, but the fat one blurted, “And if we were to say that we weren’t merchants?”
“Then I would say that was the first truth you’ve spoken since entering my house. Go back to whatever temple you come from, priests,” Damkina turned back to her work, her tone supremely bored now—carefully so. “I am not in the business of murdering high priests so that their acolytes may move up the temple hierarchy.”
“It’s not for a temple elder—“ the slender one blurted, and then the fat one seized him by the arm and hustled him out, whispering in Egyptian as they left.
Ehsan gestured at Damkina, and she pursed her lips behind her veil. “Have one of our men follow them,” she told her bodyguard. “They seem inept, but even the foolish occasionally blunder into success.” I do wonder who they want dead so very badly.
That night, she spent long hours at the Library, only to be alerted by her spirits that something was deeply wrong. When she and Ehsan hurried back, they found the bodies of her servants on the floor, bodies twisted and distorted in death. Huge welts had appeared on their hands and feet, and their faces were locked in rictus grins. Shaken, Damkina lifted her skirts and hastened deeper into the house.
Her study, warded as it was, had been forced open. And as such, the slender half of the pair that had visited her that afternoon lay dead across its threshold, a smell of cooked flesh permeating the air. Beyond, all of her scrolls lay in a wild, tangled mess on the floor, having clearly been rooted through. “Is anything missing?” Damkina asked her spirits, urgently. And then she spotted the open chest, and dug through its contents, her mouth drying with fear.
One cuneiform tablet was, indeed, missing. Along with the more modern partial translation on the scroll she’d tucked beside it. Damnation. “We’ll need to alert the local guards that someone broke into my home and stole items of value,” Damkina told Ehsan. Not that he could reply, beyond repeated gestures that asked why she was so distressed. She swallowed. “And if our foolish priest survives summoning the creature whose Name he stole? We will very shortly know who his target is. And may have to intervene.” She hissed between her teeth. “They had enough power to kill all my servants,” she told Ehsan, her voice empty as she thought it through. “They weren’t just looking for an easy way to reach their target. They wanted a way that reeked of Magi involvement. And not their own."
Alexandria had had a fire brigade for decades, and that fire brigade doubled as a sort of night’s watch. Damkina had heard that the last Imperator, Caesar, had been so inspired by the system, that he’d set up a similar one in Rome, and given the Egyptian brigade a Roman name, even here in this ancient city: the Vigiles. But many people also called them the gardia. They were highly effective at putting out fires. Occasionally helpful in finding lost property. And mostly incompetent to deal with sudden, violent death, unless they happened to have witnessed it as it was occurring.
Those tasked with putting down sedition and riots and dealing with violent crime were the more militarily-organized Urban Cohorts. Who again, were more apt to meet violence with violence, than to investigate its causes. Still, they arrived. Stared wide-eyed at the disfigured bodies of her servants, and the cooked intruder. Wrote down her story, frowning intently in the way of men who did not often set pen to papyrus. And then left, taking the bodies with them.
Only then did Damkina sit down at a table, put her face in her hands, and weep, shaking with both anger and grief at once. And she felt Ehsan’s large hand on her shoulder. Offering her what little silent comfort he could.
Finally, she looked up at him. “For so much effort, it must be a very important death that they wish,” she said, testing the idea out loud.
Her guard nodded, and picked up a wax tablet and a stylus. And picked out, in the modified cuneiform currently in use in Chaldea, The Imperator of Rome came to Alexandria today.
She exhaled. “Well, there could hardly be a more important death.” Damkina assessed the situation as coldly as she could. “I doubt our priest can read ancient Sumerian. Otherwise, he’d have picked the more deadly, more insidious tablet just below the one he did choose. But the one he took was bad enough, in its way.” She rubbed at her eyes briefly. “If that Name is invoked, the very first thing that anyone will do, is come looking for a Magus. I have three choices. Run. Tonight. Get as far from Egypt as we can on the fastest ship available. But that leaves my mission here uncompleted, and I have waited thirteen years for this.” Her hands clenched into fists, and Ehsan, across the table, only nodded. “Second, continue as if nothing happened, and pray to all the dead gods that having reported the attack on my servants and the theft is enough to ward off the fury of a Roman emperor.”
Ehsan snorted. She pulled back her veil, at ease with him as with no one else in the world. “I didn’t say it was a good choice.” Damkina sighed. “The last option is to find the leader of the Emperor’s guards and tell him exactly what was taken, and request that you and I be put someplace where I can be of use, if the Name is invoked.”
The gargling sound of a tongueless man attempting to laugh was harsh and horrifying. Ehsan never allowed himself the luxury in public. But Damkina was so used to the sound, she didn’t even flinch. She watched his hands sketch out a message on the wax tablet, and sighed. “Yes. I wouldn’t believe us, either. But half of the last seven Parthian rulers of Persia have owed their thrones to Roman intervention. Our dear Parthian overlords would, if we fled to Chaldea, simply hand us over at Rome’s request, regardless of our innocence, in the name of maintaining good ties. Not that we can go to Chaldea.”
You can, he wrote.
“But you can’t. Returning home isn’t an option for you. They’d all know who you were. And what you were supposed to become.” She sighed. “So this is the only option I can think of that doesn’t involve half the Empire chasing us down, or both of us being tortured to death, old friend.”
He scratched at the tablet again, and Damkina read the words there, and simply nodded.
At least here, death would eventually end our suffering.
Standing at the Palace gates near sundown was something of an exercise in futility, at first. Finally, a guard emerged to tell them to leave, and Damkina drew herself up to her full height—all five feet of it. And announced, “I am a member of the Chaldean Magi. I have information regarding a potential threat to your Imperator’s life. I would like to speak to someone in
charge.”
They didn’t believe her at first. She had to bid half her attendant spirits to materialize before the first guard hastened off to find his superior. Then his superior’s superior. And on down the line, until, near midnight, she and Ehsan found themselves in a room of the palace clearly usually apportioned for storage. Shelves of oil and the musty smell of grain in sacks. A prized feline prowling among those sacks, looking for mice.
Finally, two men entered—one clearly Roman and much older, his curling hair nearly iron-gray, though his sardonic eyes were clear and sharp. The other didn’t appear Roman at all. Oh, Romans could have blond hair as this one did, but he was at least Ehsan’s height, and his face lacked the prominent aquiline nose of a Roman. “You claim to be a member of the Chaldean Magi, and you believe there’s an imminent threat to our Emperor?” the older man said, raising his eyebrows. “I’d have thought you’d cheer on any assassination attempts.”
“When Rome convulses in civil war,” Damkina said sharply, “our current Parthian overlords will immediately take arms and hasten to the borders to see what they can carve away. They demand magic of the Magi—but we have yet to give them what they most desire. The Immortals.” She snorted. “They aren’t kings. They’re a drop of oil in a hot pan, there, and then gone again. The Seleucids were kings—though nothing is left of their lineage but the daughters that the Parthians married at sword-point. But your Emperor is descended from a man who called our Seleucids brothers, once.” She shrugged.
The younger man smiled grimly. “Perhaps our Emperor should send his brother to Persia, then, and give you a new king.”
She shrugged again. “We had hundreds of years of prosperity under the Hellenistic kings. I don’t know how another one could do worse than our current masters.” Damkina sighed. “But that is neither here nor there. Two men came to my house today to try to buy magic from me, to assassinate someone they called a former business associate. They weren’t merchants, however. Their hands were soft, and ink-stained . . . .” She led them through the whole story. And she thought she saw recognition in their eyes at her description of the stout priest.
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