He returned his attention to the dossiers, though it was surprisingly difficult to focus, at least for a moment or two. “Sigrun?” Adam asked, after a moment, and glanced at her. Her face was impassive, and unreadable, for the moment.
“Yes?”
“This one from Britannia . . . Trennus Matrugena.”
“What about him?”
Adam rubbed at his face. “He’s a summoner.” For him, that meant one thing: a magus, like one of the Magi.
“It’s his secondary profession. He’s studied ley-magic for ten years. The summoning is . . . well, it’s not a hobby.” Sigrun shrugged.
“I should damned well think not.” He rubbed at his newly-shaved face again, trying to suppress the images springing from behind his eyelids. “I don’t really want someone who wakes up ghul on the team.”
“He doesn’t. Read the file. His teacher in the ley arts was killed by a rogue summoner. He helped track the killer down, killed the man, and then went to the University of Londonium to learn about more of the mystic arts than the local druids could teach him. He’s been hunting summoners gone bad ever since.”
Adam grimaced. “I’m not convinced that there’s such a thing as a good summoner, Sig.” He folded his hands on the table. “It’s a short-cut to power. And they always seem to end up making pacts with creatures from the spirit realm that they can’t control, and then they get loose, and the rest of us get to clean up the mess. And, usually, the bodies.” The last he muttered, half under his breath.
Sigrun looked at him steadily. “I spent two years on the Roman-Persian border, Adam. And another two on the Mongol border. I’ve seen my fair share of what Chaldean and Persian magi and Mongol shamans can unleash.”
Adam squinted at her. This was not the first time he’d had an indication that she was older than she looked. Outwardly, she looked no more than twenty-two, twenty-three at the most. But she’d served with Livorus for five years. And now she claimed four years of experience on the eastern borders of the Empire. “How old are you, Sigrun?”
“Old enough to know I don’t know everything, and there’s an end to it.” Sigrun flipped her fountain pen around in her fingers, redirecting it, like the conversation. “Why so resistant, Adam?”
“I don’t want to see ghul fighting beside me,” he replied, shortly. “They tend to pull loose of their summoner and start attacking everything in sight. And if I never see a djinni or an efreeti again, it’ll be too soon.”
Sigrun’s eyes widened. “I remember that in your dossier, when we were evaluating you. You have a commendation in your jacket for single-handedly destroying a djinni. Or at least, banishing it from the mortal realm.” She paused. “What happened?” Her voice had shifted. Become gentler.
Adam shrugged. It was not one of his better memories. “The Medes were trying to provoke us, over the edge of Domitanus’ Wall. They’re the usual cat’s-paws of the Persians. They don’t want to provoke Rome directly, so . . . . ”
“The Shadow War,” Sigrun said, nodding in agreement. A war fought conducted by intermediaries, it had been quietly seething between Persia and Rome for decades, but it was mostly fought by Media, Chaldea, and Judea. “I know the politics, Adam. What happened?”
He looked down at the folder, seeing not a picture of a man of Britannia, all tattoos and braided hair, but a sun-blasted section of the desert through which the Wall passed. “The Medes sent a skirmishing party, and managed to sneak over the Wall,” he said, quietly. “It’s not impenetrable. Nothing is. They got down into one of the small towns about a mile from the wall itself. Set off gas grenades among the civilians. That was bad enough. We had them pinned down, though, in a school—they’d attacked at night, and the battle had gone on for hours, so no children were there, thankfully . . . .” He stared into the mid-distance for a moment. “We kept shouting for them to throw down their weapons and come out. Then my captain said it had gone on long enough, and shouted to them, ‘Very well, from this moment forward, no quarter asked or taken.’” He sighed. “And that’s when their magus summoned the djinni. It . . . rose up like a light wind from the desert at first, and then there was nothing but stinging sand, everywhere. A plume, like one of the cyclones of your plains, but made of sand and will. And it looked at us, without eyes . . . and moved right for us. The Medes used the distraction to break and run.” He shrugged. “How do you shoot wind and sand? How do you kill it?”
He pictured it again, standing there with his Aphek assault rifle in his hands, uselessly firing rounds into the plume, wind tearing at his face as the thing approached, two miles high, at least, contracting down to a mere hundred feet, so that they could see its top, see the filmy, ephemeral face that hovered above the vortex, made up of fine sand, ever-shifting, ever-changing, and two mad, golden eyes, staring right at them. Finally seeing the eyes hadn’t made it any better. He’d aimed for them at first, trying to find some weak spot . . . . but nothing.
They fell back, feet churning over the clay of the roads, trying to find a building unoccupied by civilians in which to take shelter. The djinni tore the roof off the first building, reaching in with limbs made purely of wind and had sucked two men up and into its vortex; they’d risen, screaming, up and through the creature’s substance, propelled thought-fast, hundreds of feet into the air, and then allowed to fall. “My captain tried a rocket on it,” Adam muttered. “That got its attention. It picked him up . . . specifically him. Towered back up to its full height, touching the sky . . . and then its whole length just went . . . . red.”
Sigrun closed her eyes for a moment, in pure empathy, and he appreciated that. The captain, ben Chayyim, had been a friend. And they’d found pieces of his flesh, and his armor, three miles away. “How did you destroy its form?” she asked. “I never saw one that powerful. Most of them were . . . dust devils.”
Adam grimaced. “Most of them are just dust devils. No one had seen one this powerful before. But . . . my captain had had the right idea. Fire consumes air. I knew if we didn’t try something, we’d just be picked off, one by one, and then most of the town. I threw a grenade at it, got its attention, and ran. Led it to an ammunition dump. Those have nice, lightweight roofs. I think it was playing with me, really. Toying with me. So, I set a few charges inside the building, waited for the damned thing to pull the roof off . . . and then ran, setting off the detonators behind me.” Adam swallowed. The force of the blast had mainly been directed upwards, right into the face of that howling wind, but there’d been enough explosives in that ammunition dump to level a small city. There’d been just enough side-blast to take him off his feet and send him sailing, and he’d hit the ground, hard, rolled around, and stared up in time to see two pillars, one of roiling fire, and one of sand and air, intertwining as the djinni, belatedly, struggled not to draw in everything around it . . . . and then was consumed by what it, itself, had consumed. Adam looked down at the folder again. “It was a very bad day, Sig.” By destroying its form here, he’d sent it back to the spirit-realm. But a djinni like that could be summoned again, if not immediately. He hadn’t ended the threat.
She reached across the table, and very lightly put her fingers to the back of his hand, and he glanced at her, startled, but didn’t draw away. “I understand,” she told him, quietly. “But this Matrugena comes very highly recommended by law enforcement in Britannia and northern Gaul. He’s spent much of the last several years hunting rogue summoners from a group called Sangua Foederis. Blood Pact. I would like to meet the man, at least, before dismissing him from consideration.”
“Well, if you’re going to be fair about it,” Adam muttered, grimly, “I suppose I don’t have much to say.”
Sigrun regarded him, and asked, politely, “Would it help if I held your hand?”
Adam blinked, hearing his own words to her aboard the plane weeks ago tossed back in his face, and laughed.
She quirked her eyebrows and gave him a quick, light grin. “How about this one? Not a summoner, I swear.”
She slid another folder across the table, and Adam opened it, flipping through the pages quickly.
“A technomancer?” He shrugged. “Sounds the same as Ptah, really.”
“Well, a sorcerer who happens to know his technomancy, yes.” Sigrun fidgeted with the folders in front of her.
“This is Ptah’s replacement, and the summoner is Ehecatl’s?” Adam flipped through the pages rapidly. “We had parity before, two of us who didn’t really do magic worth a damn, and two people who . . . did. More or less.” He gave her a sidelong look. “Ehecatl’s tattoos really didn’t count. Handy, though.”
“Lighter weight than armor, certainly. And I’ve seen an arrow bounce off of him.” Sigrun gave him a look. “Want some?”
“Not an option. Markings on the skin are forbidden.”
“The list of what rules you follow and which ones you don’t is a little idiosyncratic.”
“I follow the ones that make sense to me and that are in the scope of reason. Dietary laws exist to keep people from being sick. The markings on the skin rule . . . probably originated to distinguish us from all of our neighbors. Like the beards. I can get behind it, because tattoos are permanent, identifying, and if done incorrectly, can be a health hazard. Plus, if some marking ties me to spirits or gods not my own, that’s a real problem.” He rubbed a hand over his currently-clean cheek. “That being said? Built-in flak jackets would be useful.” Adam tapped on the page ahead of him. “Back on the subject of parity and team balance?”
Sigrun laced her fingers together, propping her elbows on the edge of the table, and rested her chin on her fingers, a characteristic pose. “You and Ehecatl are both very effective at your roles. But I don’t actually see a need for a stealth specialist, to be honest, other than in very limited circumstances, and Ehecatl tended to . . . stand out . . . in areas that weren’t Caesaria Aquilonis. Remember all the people staring at him in Britannia? And that was even an area of the world where people really appreciate skin markings like his.” She shrugged. “Admittedly, people have to see him to stare at him, and he’s the best there is at not being seen . . . but I think you’re better with your weapons of natural philosophy. As to the summoner . . . please remember that he’s also a ley-mage. We haven’t had a ley-mage since Villu died. And they are very useful.”
Adam looked back down at the folders again, studying the sorcerer. “Kanmi Eshmunazar? That’s a Carthaginian name.” He read, further. “Tyre? It’s a province of Rome . . . “ Tyre was north of Judea, and had been firmly under Roman rule for centuries. Carthage itself, including vast tracts of land ruled previously by the Numidians, was mostly in Africa, with the exceptions of city-states like Tyre, and still paid a token tribute to Rome every year, as a subject kingdom. There was unrest in Tyre; most of the natives of Eastern Carthage still considered themselves Carthaginian, and wished to be re-organized as part of the overall Carthaginian province, rather than being a separate political entity with its own Roman governor. Rome had steadfastly refused this request. “He’s got an interesting record. Four years on the Mongol border . . . two years of protective work in Carthage and Byzantium . . . married for six years . . . . ”
“That can be either a sign of stability or a source of stress,” Sigrun advised, dryly. “Don’t use it as a determining factor.”
“He’s not going to like your summoner any more than I do, if he fought Mongols for four years.”
“Since when is Matrugena my summoner?”
Adam grinned at her. She reacted rather nicely to teasing. “All right. How do you want to meet these two?”
“Formal interviews won’t tell us much besides if they know how to answer questions. I’d rather meet them in the wild.” Sigrun raised her eyebrows slightly.
Adam considered it for a moment. There was merit in what she said. “I trust you don’t mean ‘stage a crisis’ or anything like that?” he offered, cautiously.
Sigrun snorted. “No. Just . . . socially. See how they react to crowds, to people around them. How they treat people when they don’t know precisely who’s observing them. And yes, to the unexpected.”
He turned it over in his mind. “We can ask them to meet us at the baths, I suppose.”
“Well, you can. I’m not allowed on the male side of the complex.” Sigrun put her hands on the table. “Once you’ve introduced yourself, take them to a taverna in the vicinity—Agnellus, perhaps? I can slip in and watch and listen. They probably won’t notice they’re being observed. And if they do, it’ll speak well for their powers of observation.”
Adam grinned suddenly. “Sig.”
She blinked. “Yes? Did I miss something?”
“They’re going to notice you.”
“It’s not Tyr’s day. I won’t be wearing anything that stands out. No armor, no feathered cloak, no spear in my hand. It’ll be fine.”
Adam’s shoulders shook. “Sigrun. You’re my height. Not quite six feet tall, but close. You’re copper-blond. And while it’s not dies Martis—”
“Tiwesdæg—”
“Whatever. You stand out in a crowd. Not quite as badly as Ehecatl, I’ll admit, but . . . . ”
Sigrun gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “I will be fine.”
“Do you want to put denarii on this?”
“I will put money on this: They won’t know I’m a lictor in the Praetorian Guards. They won’t even know I’m god-born.” Sigrun nodded, firmly.
“Half a solidus says they make you before you say one word.”
“You’re on.”
After five postmeridian, everyone in Rome tended to congregate at the thermae—the baths. People would bathe for an hour or two, eat dinner, go out for wine, and then go to the theater or whatever their chosen late-night activities were. The baths were ubiquitous, bustling, noisy, and not a place for modesty at all. Adam had been raised in a culture that prized that last quality; for example, in Judea, one did not, when using a urinal, turn to talk to the man next to you, make eye contact, or anything along those lines. In the public baths, people sat around stark naked, in the pools, or taking a steam. The most one might have was a towel.
It required certain mental adjustments. Most notably remembering not to hit anyone whose eyes dropped below neck level.
Adam tossed his rolled-up clothing into a public locker and secured it with a combination lock he’d purchased for this purpose. He had about a half an hour to shower in the tepidarium—pre-cleaning was required before using the full baths—and maybe get a few laps in at the swimming pools, out in the frigidarium. Tepidaria typically had a pleasant warmth radiating from the walls and floors, from steam pipes that crisscrossed the area behind the tiles, and had once been used for anointing the body with oils, and cutting the grime away with a strigil, a hook-like tool designed to scrape the skin, but the prevalence of soap in modern society had removed that as a necessity. However, in this room, as in others like it, there were massage tables set up, away from the showers, where people could be rubbed down after coming out of the baths.
Voices rang off the travertine tiles that covered floor and walls in a wash of subtle colors, and he padded through the hygiene area, tossing a few coins into an attendant’s bucket to get an unoccupied stall—one without a servant, thank you—to sluice down on his own. Rome, unlike most of the New World, still had slaves, and the bath attendants—all male on this side of the complex—were representatives of this lowest caste of society.
The shower water was lukewarm, deliberately so; it was intended to wake up the bather and prepare them for the rooms that grew warmer, the deeper into the complex one wandered. Adam found the archway that led to the frigidarium, instead, and dove into a pool, once he found an unoccupied lane. He had to admit, this room was aesthetically very pleasing; colonnades of golden stone lined both sides of the long pool, supporting a vaulted ceiling, which was surmounted by an oculus for light . . . and which had been glassed in, at some point in the hundreds of years since this building had first been constructed. A
nd at least, the exercise area wasn’t completely packed with chattering people.
After about forty laps, and when the wall clock read fifteen after six, Adam pulled himself out of the pool and wrung his hair dry, padding once more, light-footed, for the arches that led to back to the tepidarium, and then made a right, into the hall that took him into the caldarium’s heat. The room was a sauna, and foggy with steam; Adam let his body get used to the heat before bracing himself and stepping down into the water; the entry end was probably around a hundred degrees, and stepped up, the deeper one went, to about a hundred and twenty at the far end. He had no intention of boiling himself, and only a few minutes were really necessary. He stepped back out again, and found a stone bench to sit on for a few minutes.
The trick to finding someone in the crowds—and everyone, eventually, came to the caldarium, even if only for a few minutes—was to look at people without actually seeming to look at them. Adam had a pretty good idea of what his targets looked like. Both were a little older than he was—the summoner from Britannia, only by a year, but the Carthaginian was five years his senior. And it didn’t take long to spot them in the crowds, as they arrived promptly at thirty past the hour. Both looked a little out of place in the crowd as they made their way through the chattering groups of Romans and Hellenes.
Adam had to admit, the baths weren’t a horrible place to see how someone reacted to being out of their element, and not in their home territory. Both men had been raised in Roman provinces; neither of them could be complete foreigners to the notion of the thermae. Of the two, Kanmi Eshmunazar looked slightly more at ease, however. He was surprisingly short—shorter than Adam himself by about four inches. The sorcerer from Tyre had olive skin, short, slightly wavy dark hair, and eyes so black they looked like obsidian that had been worn by water. He found his way to the pool, exchanged polite pleasantries with the people there, and slid into the water like an eel, ducking under the surface of the water, only the top of his head visible, for so long that Adam wondered if he were trying to drown himself. He finally surfaced, and leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, as if he saw something in the roiling clouds of mist beyond mortal ken.
The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1) Page 17
