by David Drake
Alphena didn’t recognize every member of the entourage, though she didn’t doubt that they were all part of Saxa’s household. She’d seen at least one man working in the gardens. Several more had been litter bearers before Alphena bought the new, larger vehicle with the matched team of Cappadocians; simply by inertia the previous bearers remained members of the household, though they had no regular duties.
The escorts wore clean tunics, most of which appeared to have been bought as a job lot: they had identical blue embroidery at the throat, cuffs, and hem. Further, the men’s hair was freshly cropped and they’d been shaven, though that had been done quickly enough that several were nicked or gashed.
The razor wounds stood out sharply against chins which since puberty must have been shaded by tangled beards. Alphena supposed that was better than being attended by a band of shaggy bravos. Though they still looked like bravos.
She leaned sideways, bulging the side curtain, to get a better look at the trainer toward the front of the entourage. She said, “I don’t think that’s a club that Lenatus is hiding under his tunic, is it, Mother?”
Hedia shrugged. “I didn’t ask, dear,” she said. “I leave that sort of thing to men.”
She leaned forward slightly, bringing her face closer to Alphena’s. “I told Lenatus to choose the men,” she said. She was as calm and beautiful as a portrait on ivory. “I told him I didn’t care how handsome they were or whether they could communicate any way except by grunting in Thracian. I just wanted people who would stand beside him if there was real trouble.”
She laughed briefly. “Beside him and in front me, of course,” she said, “but I didn’t need to tell Lenatus that. I think he felt rather honored. I’ve never quite understood that, but men of the right sort generally do.”
Of course men feel honored to be given a chance to die for you, Alphena thought, suddenly angry. And don’t tell me you don’t understand why!
But that wasn’t fair to Hedia, who was risking her life too. Or seemed to think she was.
“Mother?” Alphena said, shifting her thoughts into the new channel with enthusiasm. “What’s going to happen? Are we going to attack this Abinnaeus?”
Hedia’s mouth opened for what was obviously intended for full-throated laughter, but she caught herself with a stricken look before a sound came out. Leaning forward, she caught Alphena’s wrist between her thumb and two fingers.
“I’m sorry, dear one,” she said. “No, Abinnaeus is a silk merchant with a very fine stock. His shop is in the portico of Agrippa. My husband Latus’ house is just up Broad Street from the portico.”
Alphena saw the older woman’s expression cycle quickly through anger to disgust to stony blankness—and finally back to a semblance of amused neutrality. “My former husband’s house, I should have said,” she said. “And briefly my own, when the lawsuits against the will were allowed to lapse after your father took up my cause.”
Hedia’s lips squirmed in an expression too brief for Alphena to identify it with certainty. It might have been sadness or disgust, or very possibly a combination of those feelings.
“I got rid of the house as quickly as I could,” Hedia said, falling back into a light, conversational tone. “There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I didn’t have bad memories of it, no more than of any other place, but I didn’t want to keep it either. I told Saxa’s agent to sell it and invest the money for me. I suppose I have quite a respectable competence now, dear one—by any standards but your father’s.”
“Father has never been close with money,” Alphena said, thinking of her childhood. She had been angry for as far back as she could remember: angry about the things she couldn’t do, either because she was a girl or because she was the particular girl she was.
She forced the start of a smile, but it then spread naturally and brightened her mood. She said, “I envied you so much, M-Mother. Because you’re so beautiful.”
The smile slipped, though she fought to retain it. “And I’m not.”
“You’re striking,” Hedia said, touching Alphena’s wrist again to emphasize the intensity she projected. “In a good way, a way that shows up much better in daylight than I can.”
She leaned back, suddenly regally cool. “If you want that,” she said. “Not if you’re going to wear clodhoppers—”
She gestured dismissively toward Alphena’s feet.
“—and scowl at everyone as though you’d like to slit their throats, though. Do you want that? Do you want people to say you’re beautiful?”
Hedia grinned like a cat. “That is,” she said, “do you want it enough that you’re willing to spend as much effort on it as you do now on hacking at a stake, or as your brother does on reading Lucilius and similarly dull people who didn’t even write Latin that ordinary people can understand?”
“I shouldn’t have to—” Alphena blazed. Part of her mind was listening to the words coming out off her tongue, so she stopped in embarrassment. She closed her mouth.
Hedia’s smile had chilled into silent mockery, but that didn’t, for a wonder, make Alphena flare up again. She’s right. She’s treating me like she’d treat an adult; and if I flame up like a four-year-old, then I’m the only one to blame for it.
“I have spent a great deal of time on the training ground,” Alphena said with careful restraint. “And of course my brother almost lives for books. For them and with them. But he could put just as much effort hacking at the post as I have and he’d still be a clown rather than a swordsman; and if I struggled with Lucilius and the rest for my whole life, they’d be as useless to me as my trying to read prophecies in the clouds.”
Hedia gave a throaty giggle at the thought.
“I don’t think I’d be much better at being a beauty than at being a scholar, Mother,” Alphena said. “But I can stop resenting the things I won’t take the effort to succeed at.”
She felt her smile slipping again. “I don’t know what that leaves me,” she whispered. “I’m not really a good swordsman, even. Not good enough to be a gladiator, I mean, even if Father would let me.”
“Your father wouldn’t have anything to do with it, dear,” Hedia said. She was smiling, but Alphena had seen a similar expression on her face before. A man had died then. “I would not permit you to embarrass that sweet man so badly. I hope you believe me, daughter.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” Alphena said. The interior of the litter seemed suddenly colder, shiveringly cold. “I used to think I wanted to, but I really wouldn’t have.”
She swallowed and added, “And I do believe you, Mother.”
Hedia held both her hands out, palms up, for Alphena to take. “I apologize for saying that just now,” she said. “I—your father is very good and gentle. People of his sort deserve better than the world often sends them, and I want to protect him. I am neither good nor gentle.”
Alphena squeezed the older woman’s fingers, then leaned back. “Thank you for what you do for Father,” she said. “And what you’ve done for me.”
“Well, dear,” Hedia said with a tinge of amusement, “I quite clearly recall you chopping away at demons with what seemed at the time to be a great deal of skill. That needed to be done, and I certainly wasn’t going to do it. And I strongly suspect that none of those gladiators whom you admire would have faced demons either.”
What does she mean by that? Alphena thought; then she blushed at the way her mind had tried to turn Hedia’s words into a slur. Aloud but in a low voice, she said, “I should just learn to accept compliments, shouldn’t I?”
Hedia laughed merrily. “Well, dear,” she said, “I don’t think I would suggest that as a regular course of conduct for a young lady. But with me … yes, I generally mean what I say.”
The litter slowed. There was even more shouting than usual ahead of them. Alphena touched the curtain, intending to pull it aside and lean out for a better look.
Hedia stopped her with a lazy gesture. She said, “Ours isn’t the only senator
ial family going by litter to shop in the Field of Mars today. I’m confident that our present escort could fight their way through anything but a company of the Praetorian Guard, but I warned Manetho before we started that if he allowed any unnecessary trouble to occur, he’d spend the rest of his life hoeing turnips on a farm in Bruttium.”
Alphena forced herself to relax. “I guess if there’s going to be trouble,” she said, “we’ll get to it soon enough.”
She pursed her lips and added, “I didn’t bring my sword.”
“I should think not!” Hedia said. She didn’t sound angry, but she appeared to be genuinely shocked. She turned her head slightly—though she couldn’t look forward from where she sat in the vehicle—and said, “I thought of suggesting that Lenatus go along with Saxa this afternoon. Just—”
She shrugged her shoulders. She looked like a cat stretching.
“—in case. But I understand that Master Corylus will be accompanying the consul, and I’m sure his man Pulto will be equipped to deal with unexpected problems.”
“Father?” said Alphena, taken aback. “He shouldn’t—”
She stopped, unwilling to belittle Saxa by saying he had no business in anything that might involve swords. It was true, of course, but it wasn’t something that her stepmother needed to be told.
“That is,” she said, “what’s Father doing? I didn’t know about it.”
She didn’t know—she didn’t bother to learn—very much about what other people were doing. If Hedia hadn’t taken family obligations more seriously than her stepdaughter had, Alphena would either be wandering in fairyland or be in the belly of something wandering in fairyland. Or be in a worse place yet.
“Your brother wants to visit a senator’s house,” Hedia said. “He thought the consul’s authority might be necessary to gain entry. I don’t know all the details. I don’t expect Saxa to have difficulty, but—”
That shrug again.
“—I do worry about the poor man.”
The litter slowed again, then stopped. Manetho came to the side of the vehicle and said, “Your ladyships, we have arrived at the shop of the silk merchant Abinnaeus.”
Hedia grinned and said, “Come, dear. At the very least, we can outfit you with a set of silk syntheses to wear at formal dinners. Since we’re coming here anyway.”
She slid her curtain open and dismounted, allowing the deputy steward to offer his arm in support. Alphena grimaced and got out on her own side.
Maximus, normally the night guard at the gate of the back garden, held out his arm. Alphena lifted her hand to slap him away. She stopped, thinking of Hedia; and of Corylus, who had mentioned Maximus’ intelligence.
“Thank you, my good man,” Alphena said, touching the back of the fellow’s wrist with her fingertips but pointedly not letting any weight rest there.
She turned, eyeing their surroundings. The Altar of Peace was to the left. Not far beyond it was the Sundial of Augustus—a granite obelisk brought from Egypt and set up to tell the hours. The metal ball on top of the obelisk blazed in the sunlight.
Alphena stared, transfixed. She felt but didn’t really see her stepmother walk around the vehicle to join her.
“Is something wrong, my dear?” Hedia said.
“That ball,” Alphena said. Her mouth was dry. She didn’t point, because she didn’t want to mark herself that way. “On top of the pillar.”
“Yes, dear?” Hedia said. “It’s gold, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Alphena. “It’s orichalc. Mother, I’d swear that’s the ball that was on top of the temple we saw in the vision. The temple that w-was being torn apart!”
* * *
HEDIA STARED AT THE SUNLIT GLOBE in the middle distance, trying to empathize with what Alphena was feeling. With whatever Alphena was feeling, because despite real mental effort Hedia couldn’t understand what was so obviously frightening about a big metal ball.
Did it come from a ruined city as the girl said? Well and good, but so did the obelisk it stood on top of; and the huge granite spike must have been much more difficult to move and re-erect here in Carce.
“Is there something we should do, dear?” Hedia said. “Ah, do you want to go closer?”
She didn’t understand why Alphena was concerned, but she understood all too well what it was to feel terrified by something that didn’t seem frightening to others. She hadn’t particularly noticed the temple Alphena talked about, because her mind had been frozen by the sight of glass men like those of her nightmare, walking on the walls of the city.
“No!” Alphena said; then, contritely, clasping Hedia’s hands, “I’m sorry, Mother. No, there’s no reason to … well, I don’t know what to do. And—”
She grinned ruefully.
“—I certainly don’t want to go closer. Though I’m not afraid to.”
“We’ll shop, then,” Hedia said, linking her arm with her daughter’s. “But when we return, we’ll discuss the matter with Pandareus. I think he’ll be with Saxa and the boys, but otherwise we’ll send a messenger to bring him to the house. He’s a…”
She paused, wondering how to phrase what she felt.
“Pandareus is of course learned, but he also has an unusually clear vision of reality,” she said. “As best I can tell, all his choices are consciously made. I don’t agree with many of them—”
She flicked the sleeve of her cloak. It was of silk lace, dyed lavender to contrast with the brilliantly white ankle-length tunic she wore beneath it. It was unlikely that Pandareus could have purchased its equivalent with a year of his teaching fees.
“—obviously. But I respect the way he lives by his principles.”
As I live by mine; albeit my principles are very different.
Syra waited with Alphena’s maid behind the litter. They had followed on foot from the town house. Ordinarily Hedia would have had nearly as many female as male servants in her entourage, but for this trip the two maids were the only women present.
They didn’t appear to feel there was anything to be concerned about. Syra was talking with a good-looking Gallic footman, though she faced about sharply when Hedia glanced toward her.
Alphena noticed the interchange, but she probably misinterpreted it. She said, “I’ve asked Agrippinus to assign Florina to me permanently. I’m not going to get angry with her.”
Hedia raised an eyebrow. “My goodness, dear,” she said. “I doubt the most committed philosophers could go through more than a few days without getting angry at the servant who forgot to mention the dinner invitation from a patron or who used an important manuscript to light the fire.”
“I don’t mean that, exactly,” the girl said, flushing. “But I’m not going to hit her. And I’m going to try not to scream at her either.”
Alphena was upset, but Hedia wasn’t sure who she was upset with. Perhaps she was upset—angry—at herself, though she might be directing it toward the stepmother who was forcing her to discuss something that she apparently hadn’t fully thought out.
“I really can change, Mother!” she said. “I can be, well, nicer. To people.”
“Let’s go in, dear,” Hedia said. As they started toward the shop between a double rank of servants, she added quietly, “In law, slaves are merely furniture with tongues, you know. But slapping your couch with a comb isn’t going to lead to it informing the palace that you’ve been mocking the emperor. I applaud your new resolution.”
Abinnaeus had chosen an outward-facing section of the portico. The majority of his trade arrived in litters which could more easily be maneuvered in the street than in the enclosed courtyard. There was a gated counter across the front of the shop, but clients were inside where bolts of fabric were stacked atop one another. There was a room behind and a loft above.
Within, a pair of no-longer-young women were fingering the silk and speaking Greek with thick Galatian accents. Their maids were outside, watching the new arrivals with interest verging on resentment.
That pair
came to Carce with their feet chalked for sale, Hedia sneered mentally. They were the sort to have moved into the master’s bedroom and made a good thing out of his will, but she doubted whether they were wealthy enough to do real business with Abinnaeus.
Only a single attendant, a doe-eyed youth, was visible when Hedia approached. A moment later the owner waddled out behind a second attendant—similar enough to the other to have been twins—who had gone to fetch him. Abinnaeus beamed at her, then directed his attention to the previous customers.
“Dear ladies,” he said. “I do so regret that a previous engagement requires that I close my poor shop to the general public immediately.”
“For them?” said one of the women, her voice rising shrilly. “I don’t think so! Not till you’ve served me!”
She turned to the stack of silk and started to lift the top roll. It was colored something between peach and beige and would clash with every garment the woman was wearing now; but then, her hennaed hair, her orange tunic, and her vermillion leather shoes were a pretty ghastly combination already.
Abinnaeus put a hand on the roll, pinning it down, and reached for the woman’s arm. She shrieked, “Don’t you touch me, you capon!” but the threatened contact did cause her to jump aside—and toward the counter.
Hedia waited, her fingers on Alphena’s wrist to keep the girl with her. The events of the past few days had put Hedia in a bad enough mood that she found the present business amusing. She didn’t scorn people because they were former slaves—but she scorned former slaves who gave themselves the airs of noblewomen.
“I’m sure my colleague Cynthius in the courtyard will be delighted to serve you, ladies,” Abinnaeus said. He spoke with an oily solicitude; nothing in his tone or manner indicated that he was sneering. “I think you’ll find his selection suitable. Indeed, very suitable for ladies as fine as yourselves.”
The youthful attendants were urging the women toward the opened gate. One went quickly, but the protesting woman tried to push the boy away.
Something happened that Hedia didn’t quite see. Off-balance, the woman lurched toward the street and into it. The youth—who wasn’t as young as he had first seemed; he was some sort of Oriental, childishly slight but not at all a child—walked alongside her without seeming to exert any force.
