by Casey Lane
“It is absurd that we are capable of so much, and yet denied the right to use those gifts. Like a simmering volcano.” I gestured north, toward Vesuvius. “It’s enough to make one explode.”
“Let’s hope neither of you does,” she chided. “Besides, if citizens knew the kinds of things we are truly capable of, they might grow jealous, or even more terrified of our powers. There would be nothing but pain and death for us then. No, let them think those with our blood are only capable of a few protective charms and hexing amulets. It’s safer that way.”
I laughed. “You, one of those wretched, childless old women, hawking your tablets and amulets in the crowded market? I can hardly think of a less fitting place for my Sabine than that. Though perhaps I should ask for a charm or incantation for my armies. To lend them strength, or luck.”
“You scarcely need my help to ensure victory, Titus.” Today, we’d managed to keep the bedclothes on the bed, and she pulled them further over her chest. I frowned. “Your magic grows stronger every day. You’ve begun selecting more auspicious days for battle. Enemy generals now manage to fall ill at precisely the right moment. Your own unspoken magic is always at work.”
Indeed, the magic I wrought was valued far above Sabine’s, though Rome did not know about it. Likewise, the danger of being found out was greater for her than for me. That was because a particular threat to the commonwealth was thought to come from magical females—and not just the haggish ones. Whispers of older women ensnaring young men with erotica magic, or nymphomania . . . all these unnatural powers were reputed to wreak havoc on the unlucky victim.
But such rumors did not trouble me. At one point, I did wonder if Sabine was casting a spell, forcing me to fall in love with her. But she did not need mysticism to make her charms felt. I confess, it would take a stronger man than I to resist them. No, if there was magic involved, it came from her being more woman than witch.
“All that I do is to lay the glory of Rome at your feet, my love.” I pulled her sheet down again.
Sabine gave a wry smile. “I do admire your prowess in that, Titus. In all things.” She rested one hand between my legs. “Still, I wonder if it is inevitable, all this conquering and being conquered. Mortals have the tendency to destroy themselves over time. So, too, might our kind. Often, I think men act no better than frightened beasts. Perhaps our aunt Circe had the right idea by matching their form to their hearts.”
Sabine did not mean “aunt” in a literal way. She was referring to the woman’s magical blood, of course. Everyone knew Homer’s Odyssey, in which the seductress, Circe, transforms men into animals. Through her knowledge of herbs and potions, she is able to keep a cache of hapless men at her side with no means of escape. But I never associated such acts with myself or Sabine, or thought that we had anything in common with Circe. This was the first I’d heard mention of my strange abilities in such a manner.
“You cannot mean such things. Not about me. Not about us.” I pulled her to me. “We are on a trajectory that can only go up.”
“You think that way because that is all you have known.” She breathed into my mouth. “I heard tell our kind were gods once—with goddesses especially worshipped. Of course, this was long before my age.”
I pressed my lips against her neck over and over. “You shall always be a goddess by my side. I will make every age your age.”
“Then, I come here, and all talk is of men and war and killing.” She kept speaking as though we were guests at a banquet instead of in bed. I didn’t know if Sabine meant “here” to Rome, or to something else. When I pressed her about her origins, her answers were always vague. I admit, in my younger years, it fueled my secret fantasies that she was the goddess Juno, or Venus, come to earth to take me as her lover. But today, she did not seem as enthused by our lovemaking as usual.
“But it is all to bathe you in honor and riches, my pet.” I moved my lips from her throat to her breasts, then her stomach. If I went low enough, I was certain I could tear her mind away from these lonely musings. “Don’t you want to live the” (kiss) “finest life” (kiss) “possible?”
“It would be finer if life were honored more,” she said. “Including those who make it possible.” But her breathing grew shallow, and soon, she ceased speaking.
Sabine wasn’t entirely wrong. By now, it will come as no surprise to the reader that ancient Rome was no friend to women. Unlike the more liberal-minded Aegyptians, our empire considered women tools to serve a man’s purpose. Yet, Sabine spoke of a balance, an equality between us, that wouldn’t come into vogue for thousands of years.
There are times when I curse her for this. She planted a seed in my mind that set me apart from other men. Made me incapable of entirely understanding their use of women, despite centuries practicing their customs. Often, I cannot enjoy debasing them the way I should. Was this part of a moral conscience Sabine sowed in me? Damn her for it, if it was.
But there was no question that I would learn all I could from Sabine. I had no other avenues to find out about my true nature, my heritage. Often, I wondered from whence these powers of ours sprung. However, Sabine seemed about as inclined to divulge this information as that of her own past. Or perhaps she just didn’t know.
“But how are we able to do the things we do? Where do witches come from, Sabine?” I pressed during one of our brief respites. “Where do we come from?”
“Where do mortals come from, besides other mortals?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, then, I suppose the simplest explanation is that, thousands of years ago, our kind were just ordinary mortals.” Her eyes lingered on several naked bodies on the bedroom’s mural walls. “Through the years, we learned to channel and control our energy to work with the forces of nature. We helped humanity survive, served the earth and her cycles. On the surface, we seemed capable of impossible tasks.
“But they were really not so far away from your modern hypocausts, or aqueducts.” She pointed to a mural depicting Rome, with its stone monuments and temples. “It wasn’t long before these abilities were passed down to future generations, although certain witches acquire them on their own.”
“On their own?” I dipped my hand into a bowl of dates.
“It is possible for a mortal to become a witch—”
“Usurp our power?”
“No, not like that. A year and a day of study are required, a three-day fast—”
“That’s all?” I popped a date into my mouth.
“And the initial transition is complete,” Sabine sighed. “The decades of further practice, study, and potential proficiency come later—if they come at all.”
“But where does the magic come from? The power?”
“I’ve no idea. It’s like the air, the sea . . .” She motioned with her hand. “Where does anything come from? Or the gods, for that matter?”
“The way you speak, I’m beginning to think we made them up.” I pointed my finger at a date. It rose from the bowl and traveled to Sabine’s lips.
“Better not let the priests hear you say that,” she said. “They’ll behead us both for blasphemy.” But her smile told me she didn’t entirely disagree. She opened her mouth; in went the date. “Though you Romans . . .” She chewed thoughtfully.
“You Romans?”
“Though Romans do have religious leanings similar to witches’.” She swallowed the rest of the date. “There is the gods’ right hand, Fate. There is the All, a powerful culmination of deities. From the All sprung forth Hecate . . . Aradia . . .” She took the bowl from me, her finger twirling the air above it as she mindlessly stirred the dates. “Yes, we, too, worship gods of our own. At least, we used to worship them.”
“And you do not do so now?” Gently, I moved the bowl from her hand to the table and rubbed her shoulders. “Or are you too busy enjoying pleasures of the flesh?” I breathed in her ear. She did not answer, and I did not care. I had no idea if the gods were just another chi
ldren’s story told to while away the decades. There were other, more gratifying ways to spend the time.
What I did know was that we existed in a transparent, yet impenetrable world that stood parallel to the world of mortals. Witches and humans, moving side by side, rarely able to cross over. It was as Sabine herself had said, or almost said. We were the closest things these creatures had to gods on earth. For all I knew, we were gods. There was no one to tell us otherwise.
“What if we just declare ourselves gods to mortals one day and see what happens?” I asked her once. “A quick demonstration of our powers would provide ample proof. If we are not gods, then perhaps we are descended from them, as so many Roman emperors claim to be. Stranger things have come to pass.”
“Yes, and deadlier things.” She leaned her head on my shoulder, laid her hand on my heart. “You are too young to know, Titus. There were times in the past when our kind tried this—without success and at great personal cost.”
“Yes, yes.” I rolled my eyes. Though I did not yet have her years, I was tired of Sabine holding that against me, saying I couldn’t understand this or that. Was I not the youngest, most accomplished general in the history of the empire? Had I not done in a few short years what had taken other men hundreds to do? Was I not a formidable companion and lover, as evidenced by the highest-ranking woman, second only to the empress, claiming me as her own? What more was there to understand?
“Perhaps it’s time for it to be undertaken again.” Holding her to me with one arm, I stroked her shoulder with my thumb. “By a pair whose knowledge and abilities far outweigh those of their predecessors.”
She raised her head to look at me. “And you think we are one such pair? No, Titus.” She lay back down. “As much as I wish it could be, most mortals would not recognize or accept a god in their presence, even if proof were assured. You have already seen what they do over the most minor incantations, the simplest of spells. No, leave well enough alone, Titus.” She turned to one side, her back to me. “Just leave it alone.”
Chapter Four
A mushroom-shaped cloud billows up from Vesuvius. People turn to each other, talking in rapid-fire confusion. Was Vulcan not satisfied with his celebration the day before? Is he voicing his displeasure?
Darkness falls across Pompeii. The volcano’s rising cloud has blocked out the sun. It is the last benevolent sun I ever see. Strange, dust-colored snowflakes begin to fall, despite the heat of the day.
Then, the screaming begins.
Over time, I learned about others of our kind from Sabine. Thirteen of them comprised the High Council, who tasked themselves with keeping everything orderly in the world of witches. They were just one more reason Sabine didn’t want me exposing what we truly were.
“I should be very interested to meet them.” Leaning back on a pillow, I lazily traced a finger in the air. Across from us, candlelight flickered on the wall, making interesting shadows. “You are the only other person I’ve found who has anything in common with me. Are they like the senate in Rome? Is there an emperor of witches?” I already had someone in mind for the position.
“There is no emperor of witches, Titus, and there never will be.”
“Why not?” I asked. “You wish for our present one—Vitellius—to stay the course? I confess, I rather hope he does, at least for a while. Two suicides and a murder . . . three emperors is enough in any one year.” I chuckled, raising and lowering my finger. The flame followed, making one shadow seem to cut down the rest.
“Stop that.” She pointed at me sternly. My finger froze, along with the candlelight. But I knew she wasn’t referring to the dancing flames. “I can already see your machinations at work. No witch goes out seeking the High Council, unless they are desperate. The less contact you have with them, the better.”
I put my hand down. “Why?”
“Because they exist to eliminate what they consider threats.” Sabine’s words were so sharp, one of the candles blew out, though no drafts flowed through the room. “Therefore, you want to remain as far outside their awareness as possible. Trust me, if the Council ever has reason to seek you out, it will be the beginning of your problems, not the end.” She seemed so adamant, I did not press the matter further.
As the years passed, I kept a sharp eye out for other witches, but never met any until long after Sabine and I parted ways. I never even knew her true family.
“They’re all gone now.” Sabine sat on the edge of the bed, staring forlornly at the door.
“Gone? Where?” I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind. “Where would they go when illness and injury hold no sway over them?”
“I never said that.” Her tone was a scythe. Surprised, I loosened my grip. “Illness can invade our bodies if we’re not careful, if we’ve lost too much magic. We can suffer injuries like mortals that way. And there are ways we can die, Titus. Fire. Decapitation. Certain kinds of spells. Sometimes, even by our own hands.”
Death by fire. I’d assumed as much, since several burnings as a child did not heal as quickly as my other wounds. And decapitation did not need to be clarified further. But what spells, then? And why would a witch choose to die, to make their own hands the murderers?
“Why do mortals wish to end their existence?” Sabine replied when I asked her. “We have more in common with them than you think. When you live the same centuries over and over, you’ll be surprised how quickly you tire of them.”
“What sameness?” I nuzzled the crook of her neck, and slipped my fingers between her thighs. “Things are forever changing—more so now than ever before.”
“Nothing seems to change for me,” Sabine said glumly.
I seduced her out of her moodiness as I had done so many times before. Often, I swore she feigned these fits of melancholia to increase my ardor. In hindsight, I wish I had known how prophetic they were. If I knew how to read the flights of birds, or steaming entrails, they could not have sent clearer signs for me to ignore.
Over time, I tried various other methods to relieve her loneliness. “Why do we not try to find others?” I pulled my tunic over my head. Egnatius would be home soon. “Don’t you have questions you wish to ask them? Not to mention there is strength in numbers, should fearful mortals try to strike at us.”
“You are the one with unending questions, Titus, as you should be.” She helped drape my toga over me, while I enjoyed a last glimpse of her naked body. “But you forget: I am older, and long more for peace than answers.”
“Maybe these others would help you find both.” And how can I forget your age when you work so diligently to remind me? That last thought I kept to myself.
“And what if one of them—or more than one—grapples for power with you?” She dangled my sandals between her fingers, just out of my reach. I grabbed for them. They floated higher in the air, above my head. “Attempts to take your place as the general of the divine band you see yourself leading?” Her tone was half-teasing.
“That is one question you can answer yourself.” I used my own magic to overpower Sabine’s, and pulled my sandals down. “You’ve seen what happens to those who cross me.” Whether she asked because she believed such a thing was possible, or because she knew the mention of it would silence me, was anybody’s guess. Perhaps it was a bit of both. From then on, I rarely broached the subject.
There was another reason. In my folly, I thought Sabine had no desire to seek out other witches because she had found me. What other magical companion could she possibly want, now that she had her one true mate? Did I not cater to her every desire, fulfill her every need? It seemed I did not.
Yet, she more than met mine. Oh, I had other bedmates, of course. I was fairly certain Sabine did as well, though I never delved into the matter. Some things are best left unknown. I was often away on campaigns for months at a time, and Sabine was a passionate woman. It was one of the things I loved most about her.
And, over time, I was able to hone more than my sexual prowess with Sabine. S
he taught me thousands of spells, and my magical abilities increased a hundredfold. I was then able to channel this power into my campaigns. She tutored me on how to speak to the trees so that they’d listen, would fall easily for my armies. Taught me to make the ground inexplicably swell up under an enemy’s camp. It was true what Sabine said: I probably could have conquered adequately without her. But with her . . . well, together, we were far more formidable. Yes, Rome owed much of its expansion to Sabine and me. But her part was always in the shadows, mine in the limelight. I wonder now if, perhaps, she resented it.
And if she was bothered by other things, such as the force I used during my campaigns, she said nothing to me about it. Perhaps her respect for life was superseded by the need to be with a kindred spirit, to be near one of her own. Then, there was the undeniable sexual attraction between us.
But there was something I failed to see: her pulling away. Not from me. Not at first. But later, she began to withdraw from the connection we felt as witches to all things. Perhaps the rustling of the leaves fail to stir her as it once did. Or the whispers on the wind grew fainter, till she could no longer hear them. Until everything seemed futile, pointless. Slowly, she was growing pale, colorless, no longer able to drink from the rich fullness of this life.
But, for years, I went on, happily oblivious to this. Despite my frequent trips abroad, I visited Sabine and Egnatius so often, Pompeii became my second home. I was also a frequent guest at Sabine’s country villa while her husband was away. There, we were safe from the noise and gossip of the city. With slaves preoccupied by the constant farming done on such estates, we could be left alone as we wished.
We made our own sacrifices to the gods—if there were any—on altars of need for each other. And when our devotions were complete, we lay in one another’s arms, looking out from her bedroom windows onto the vineyards. So many grapes to be made into wine. So many hours of pleasure to be enjoyed.
