by Casey Lane
Egnatius’s other guests began to arrive. The stone walls soon rang with the sounds of laughter, shouting, and music. Servants strummed on lyres all around us. I was still conversing with Egnatius and the rest of our circle when someone complimented one of the tapestries.
“I can’t take credit.” Egnatius gulped down another cup of wine, one he’d immediately picked up after servants took away the last. “Sabine’s fine taste alone is responsible. You’ve never met her, have you, Titus? Where is she?” He peered over the crowd. “Must be here somewhere . . .” A particularly well-endowed female servant walked by. Egnatius’s eyes stopped scanning the room, locking instead onto the servant’s backside as she walked away.
I trust the gentle reader has no grandiose notions of Egnatius’s fidelity. While men of his class could have their wives executed for indiscretions, they themselves could partake of pleasures of the flesh with impunity. Women were expected to look the other way, and if they didn’t like it, well . . . no one cared what they thought.
Finally, Egnatius spotted his wife. “Ah, here she is now!” He took another swig of wine, then wiped off the drops that dribbled down his chin. We were all clean-shaven in those days, with our hair brushed forward. “Sabine, my love!” He gestured for the woman to join us.
I turned. Then, I saw her.
From that first moment, I knew there was something different about Sabine. It was like that same distant humming I felt at odd times. Of blood and fire and rivers. It was stronger when I felt myself healing rapidly, or when I purposely confused an enemy’s mind so he’d misdirect his troops. If I’d spent my life around other supernatural beings, no doubt I’d have known immediately this was the familiar air we all had. An unspoken aura that helped us know one another, that seemed to whisper the words, magic is here.
It didn’t hurt that she was stunningly beautiful.
I’m not sentimental enough to believe in love at first sight. But lust? Certainly. As she glanced lazily up at me with her dark, liquid eyes, the attraction between us could only be described as physical. As unconquerable as gravity. Like water flowing downhill. As inevitable as that.
She needed no hairdresser to twist her hair into a fashionable set of curls; clearly, nature had blessed her in that area. Her lips needed no red paint, her brows no antimony to frame her magnetic gaze. The powdered, corpse-white faces of the beauties surrounding us seemed stark and disturbing next to Sabine’s. Her skin was the warm reddish-brown of desert sands. Of amber from the east, of their secrets within secrets.
Her long, sleeveless stola had a deliciously round, ample shape, thanks to her generous curves. Silk from China, no doubt—a proconsul’s wife would be paraded around in nothing less. Bracelets and bands designed to look like serpents snaked around her wrists and arms. The glittering of gold and colorful gems only served to make her entire body seem warmer, more alluring. Of course, these were more a proclamation of her husband’s position than her vanity. In those days, patrician ladies were often weighed down with as much jewelry as their bodies could support, whether they liked it or not.
She wasn’t as young as some of the other wives I’d seen; I’d put her at thirty or forty. Though I'd soon learn I was as wrong in that as many other things about her. It would be some time before she told me how witches could glamour themselves to look any age they wished. We can even stop the clock on our mortality for an indefinite period of time. She could’ve been hundreds—or even thousands—of years old. She never did tell me.
“She looks . . . well, my lord.” I hid a hard swallow behind a cup of wine, struggling to tear my eyes away.
“Doesn’t she, though?” Egnatius beamed—not because he appreciated her beauty, but because other men did. When he could have as many women as he desired, a comely wife merely reinforced his status. She was as much a trinket as the jewels that hung on her. “Sabine’s constitution mirrors yours, Titus,” he continued as she walked over to us. “For she is never ill, and always glowing with youthful vitality.”
“Truly, the gods have smiled upon us,” I murmured. In actuality, I thought no such thing.
“Wish they’d confer such smiles upon me,” Egnatius grumbled. “Third time this season I’ve battled the gout.” His eyes snapped up. “Which reminds me, Claudius said he had a remedy. He just got a new slave from Greece, a physician. Claudius! A word!” He waved to a man across the road, then strode over, comite flunkies at his heels.
At the same moment, Sabine arrived by my side. She glanced over her shoulder at the husband who’d momentarily forgotten her, then gave me an apologetic smile. It was one I imagined she had to employ frequently. We bowed to one another and introduced ourselves.
She probably holds Egnatius in about as high esteem as I do, I thought. I narrowed my eyes. Odd. I should be able to see if she does or doesn’t. Why can’t I read her thoughts?
Sabine gave me a knowing smile. “Well, finally, I meet the great Titus Aurelius. Egnatius speaks of nothing but your miraculous exploits.
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “The way he speaks of them to me, one would think he hardly noticed.”
Sabine laughed softly. “It must seem that way. But, believe me, he’s delighted to have found such a . . . capable general.” I couldn’t tell if the pause was so she could sip wine, or to appreciate a split-second glance at my waist.
“Leaving him more time to spend at home with a beautiful wife.” I moved closer. I tried not to run my eyes all over her frame; I didn’t want to appear too eager. The last thing one wants a woman to know is how much power she holds over you. But I was already speeding through a mental list of the ways her appetites could indulge mine.
“You flatter me.” She turned slightly, looking over the ocean of guests. Now, I could not see quite as much of her body as before. “I hear your campaign in Volubilis was successful.”
“Yes, the natives there make fine workers . . . with a little convincing. Soon, we may even be able to push into Mauretania.” So what if she’s a little older than most of my other lovers? There’s something to be said for experience. Perhaps I’ll even learn a few new tricks . . .
“No doubt my husband was as indispensable as ever.” Sabine sniffed. “You know how he enjoys working diligently for the glory of Rome.” There was a guffaw from the other corner of the room. We turned in time to see Egnatius nearly trip over his toga onto a senator. It ended with Egnatius spraying wine from his mouth in laughter, a sound somewhere between a choked belch and a wheeze. Sabine sighed and angled her body back to me.
Perhaps you think I harbored vague notions of danger or guilt by taking Egnatius’s wife. Rest assured, dear reader, I was troubled by neither fear of being caught, nor scruples. Egnatius would never find out. He was an imbecile. And I was hungry.
“But enough about the provinces.” Without taking my eyes off her, I placed my wine cup on a stand. A servant whisked it away. “Where does a goddess like yourself hail from?” She had an accent that didn’t sound like it was entirely from Pompeii. The Roman Empire was on its way to being the largest in the world at this point. She could have come from almost any continent, been the child of dozens of lands.
“From the bosom of the earth, same as you,” she said coyly. Next to us, oil lamps dangled from hooks on a man-sized bronze stand. I watched as the light played off her gleaming skin.
“Yes, but where in Rome?” I purred. Again, I tried to read her thoughts, but they were impenetrable. Still, the night was young. I had time for a game of cat and mouse.
“Does it matter?” She lifted her wine cup, and all but caressed her throat with it.
“One merely wants to know where to make the appropriate offerings to the gods for their generosity.” I brushed a finger along her upper arm, on the side nearest the wall, so no one else would see. “Though I’m surprised you don’t live at the capital. You are, after all, the greatest beauty in this room. And Rome is the greatest city in the world. You two belong together.”
“Rome
, the greatest city?” She shrugged and glanced away again. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” I dropped my hand and stood back. Beside us, a riot-hued exotic bird squawked in its cage. I winced. I owed everything I was to being Roman, to becoming Roman. I hardly knew who I’d have been without it. I don’t think I need to impress upon the reader what Rome gifted us. A way of marking time with calendars, arteries of highways, veins of roads. Thick, muscular stone bridges. Life-giving aqueducts. All of this was heretofore unknown on such an epic scale. And yet . . .
“You speak as though we are a common, conquered nation,” I said. “Why, the teeming Forum Romanum alone—with its enormous statues and monuments, its temples and shrines—is the most splendid public place ever created.”
“Then what is such a great general doing so far from Rome, if that is where his heart lies?” She faced me again and tilted her head to one side. The quick movement of her pearl drop earring seemed like a wink at me.
“Oh, I never said that,” I replied quickly. I see . . . it’s all part of the game. Goading me, to enhance the thrill of the chase. Very well. I didn’t mind, if the outcome was certain. “Besides, a general’s true home is wherever Rome sees fit to send him. Don’t you want a great, strong army protecting you from the barbarians?” And a great, strong general in your bed? My smile implied the second question.
“Some might say we are the barbarians.”
My smile froze, then flickered. Strange game. This was not what I expected to hear. “Yes, the uncouth, unwashed, uneducated. Those who are not Roman say that.” Is she, in fact, making a demure attempt to resist my charms? Or is my offer being denied outright? It was a warm night; a slave came by and tried to fan us. An irritated wave of my hand sent him away.
“Indeed,” she murmured, lowering her gaze. Is it modesty? Modesty did not seem something that would sit in this woman’s breast. Yet, the denial was not definitive either. Maddening.
“Are you sure you are pure Roman yourself, General Aurelius?” she asked. My face went stone-hard.
Who is she to allude to my slave past? And why bring it up now? It was no secret where I came from, how humble my origins were. But it was certainly not something I enjoyed being reminded of. Have I not done enough for my country, fought for her as much as any natural-born citizen?
My voice was black ice. “I hardly see why that’s relev—”
“Have you ever wondered how you know your opponent’s next move before he makes it?” she interrupted in a whisper. Her piercing gaze held me in place. “Or how the weather is clear and perfect over your army, while your enemies are shrouded in fog?”
My brow furrowed in confusion. She’s not referring to my low birth. But then, what . . .?
“Why you are able to heal many of your men’s injuries, as if given an elixir by the gods?” Her tone was still hushed, but more demanding now.
“How do you—”
She held up her hand. “Please don’t deny it. I am the one person you cannot lie to.”
“How do you know these things?” Though finally able to finish my question, Sabine’s answer opened a floodgate. A thousand new questions burst forth. She gave a little smile, then stood in front of me, her body blocking the room’s view of us. She lifted her fingers from around the wine cup. It hovered in midair between us. My eyes widened, then darted to the other guests. No one but me had seen it. Sabine’s next words came not from her lips. I heard them only in my mind.
Because, Titus . . . I am exactly like you.
Chapter Three
Another hour or so passes after the fountains stop flowing. I check on Egnatius’s usual whorehouse; he is still passed out drunk there from the night before. It will be several hours until he awakens. I walk the streets, on my way to see Sabine.
There is more rumbling from the mountain—deeper this time. Babies cry and wail. Pieces of slate tumble from rooftops and shatter when they hit the ground.
I am a fire witch, and so I feel the explosion before I see it. If I could describe the way the earth feels, it would be angry. Anger so hot, it is not red, but white. It is foolish to think that rock and soil can have emotions, so I don’t know why I sense this. Only that I do. Like fury that begins deep in the belly, a growl that rises in the throat and becomes an unintelligible, raging scream. It is like that. Except this is the belly of the whole world.
There is a cross between a roar and a deafening boom. People gasp and shriek in surprise. Fingers point north, toward the volcano. A thick, black column is rising from the center.
Vesuvius has awoken.
I couldn’t read Sabine’s thoughts at first, of course, because she blocked them. It was a bit off-putting to realize she’d been able to read mine the entire time, until she taught me to block unwanted intrusions as well. Eventually, she let me read some of her thoughts—our secret, convenient way of communicating. Though I’m sure there were deeper, darker ones she hid from me. She must have. Otherwise, I’d have known what was coming.
After some momentary shock, the rest of the evening passed in a haze of revelation. How could it be? I thought I was the only one. We managed to slip out to the courtyard and talk until dawn, when the party ended, and I was forced to tear myself away. I wandered the streets in a daze, mind reeling, going over and over my conversation with Sabine. I couldn’t even tell you which route I took to get back home.
She did not refer to herself as malefica or incantatrix, those terms I trust you are familiar with now. She would always say vaguely “our kind,” or “people like us.” As I mentioned earlier, witch was a word I would not hear for centuries, and even then, it was the Christians using it, and not in a tender way. I only employ it here as a kind of shorthand for the reader, so as not to confuse you fragile-minded mortals.
Thankfully, Sabine’s teasing game did not last long. Although we didn’t become lovers that first night, very little time passed before the inevitable.
I confess, I did learn a few new tricks. Far more than a few, actually.
Sabine taught me other things, too. Many of them were less carnal, but no less intriguing. For instance, she described how each witch is born to one of four elements. This was not a political affiliation or nomen gentilicium—the family name handed down from father to son. It was magic: in the blood, the bones. My element was fire. She knew it as soon as she met me.
“How could you tell?” I propped a pillow roll under my head. The other pillows had gotten strewn haphazardly around the floor, along with most of the bedclothes. The room was dark, except for a few candles. In those days, windows were rarely seen in bedrooms, to deter thieves breaking in from outside. If there were windows, they were usually small. It was a rare day, with Egnatius in court. He would not be back for hours.
“How could you tell what I was right away?” Sabine poured a cup of wine without using her hands, and sipped it.
“I knew you were . . . different. But I still don’t know what element you are.”
“I am earth,” she replied. A second cup of wine floated over to me. I took it from Sabine and smiled.
“Does that mean you can command mountains?” I took a large swig of wine. Being with Sabine always made me thirsty. “Speak to stones?”
Sabine laughed. “In a way. Earth magic comes to me most easily, the way fire does with you. I can mend things quickly, make crops flourish.” She traced her finger around the silver rim of the cup, and, for a moment, the metal glowed. “You could toss around bonfires as if they were marbles, if you wished, Titus.”
“But I could not move mountains, as you might?” I finished my wine, sending the cup back next to the bottle on its low table beside the bed.
“With a little more study and practice, indeed you might.” The cup’s rim stopped glowing and returned to its usual silver. Sabine took another sip. “Just because an element is not your master does not mean you cannot master it. It just takes a little more effort, that’s all. Besides, I can hardly move mountains.”
“Y
ou’ve certainly moved this one.” I turned and pressed my hips against hers, so there could be no mistaking my words.
Sabine’s wine was jostled in its cup by my movements. She released the cup from her hand so as not to spill anything, letting it float above us. “Are you disappointed in your element, enough that you wish to change it?” she asked me.
“Not at all.” I leaned over and kissed her neck. “Unless it displeases you, of course.”
“Never.” She rose, the wine cup following her to the table. “Fire is a very powerful thing. So is light.” I watched her hips sway gently as she walked behind the candles, the flames’ shadows slinking into the folds of her stola. “In fact, when I first saw you, I thought to myself, ‘Ah! He must be Vulcan.’ ”
Vulcan. The god of fire. As if such things could be.
I learned there were other beings like us . . . and yet, not like us. Mages, for instance. Less powerful than witches, but even lack of natural ability can be compensated for. You’ve seen as much with my son, I’m sure.
“They are often the offspring of a mortal and a witch, these half-breeds,” Sabine explained, after another assignation.
“And how did you know I was not one such creature?” Not waiting for a reply, I pressed my lips to hers.
She laughed through our kissing. “You are a full-blooded witch, Titus Aurelius. I could feel it the moment I met you. Such untapped power . . .” She ran a smooth hand over my bare chest. “No, both your parents were witches. I’m sure of it.”
“If you say so.” I shrugged. I had no way of knowing, either way. Even if it were true, it was not the kind of thing my mother and father would have broadcast to the public. Laws forbidding magic were enacted at varying intervals in ancient Rome, with punishments for practitioners meted out accordingly. Magical books were periodically rounded up and burned. The trouble was, you never knew when you were entering a stricter interval, or a more lax one. One day, you might be executed for causing a neighbor’s wife to go barren, then desperately consulted for a breastfeeding charm the next. But the unknown—and therefore, the magical—was always feared, if only vaguely.
