When Darkness Falls: Book 0 of the Mage Tales Prequels

by Ilana Waters

  Even as the decades flew by, I still remember little moments like that. In fact, I recall one banquet in particular. Egnatius, as usual, had too much to drink. He’d stumbled off the left-hand couch we lay on, slaves briskly clearing the table in the center. It was three to a couch in those days; the lower-ranking guests on the central and right-hand couches quickly followed Egnatius as he went to watch some nubile acrobats I’d gotten to perform for him.

  They slithered and tumbled from table to table and guest to guest, Egnatius entranced by their skintight clothing and firm bodies. That left Sabine and me as the only two people left at the table. We feigned drowsiness and bid Egnatius enjoy my gift, which he was all too glad to do.

  Finally, we were alone, or at least as alone as we could get this evening. Although there were people all around us—laughing, talking, drinking—we were ignored for the most part. It was an infrequent and blessed reprieve brought on by the bloated-stomach drowsiness of guests, and copious amounts of wine. Egnatius’s bodyguards stood, as usual, stone-faced against the walls. Sabine and I lay next to one another, hips almost touching. We smiled at the irony of our deception. If only Egnatius knew how often our hips had touched before, and in much less innocent ways.

  Slaves washed our hands. The segund mensa—the final course—was done, and the center table wheeled away. In its place, a second table appeared, laden with all manner of sweets. There was fruit—peaches, grapes, dates, figs—honey cakes, walnuts, pine nuts, and chestnuts. We were done with the lighter, honey-sweetened spirits. Now was the time for stronger wine, served out of an enormous silver bowl into our cups. We drank deeply as I stared into Sabine’s eyes, drinking deeply of the wine found there as well.

  “So, what do you think Emperor Vespian is doing with that lake he drained in Nero’s palace?” I asked. “I hear he has something exciting planned. Should be amusing to see what it is.”

  Sabine shrugged. “One monument rises, another falls. Much like empires. But they all go the same way, eventually.”

  “Oh, come now. You can’t mean that.” I dangled a bunch of grapes in front of her, which she accepted reluctantly. “Not entirely. And certainly not about Rome. Your own star keeps rising, after all. And your husband’s.” Egnatius was slapping his thigh in laughter—too loudly—at something one of the other guests said.

  You know perfectly well he owes much of his continual reelection to you, I murmured in her mind. I pushed a fig into my mouth and gazed out over the dining rooms. Now, Egnatius was making a feeble attempt to join the acrobats. I’m surprised he’s still merely proconsul. With your help, he could be emperor one day.

  How do you know it isn’t because I’ve withheld my assistance that he is not? she said coyly, taking a healthy sip of wine.

  What’s wrong? Don’t you want to be empress, and rule over all you see? I leaned closer. Our lips were almost touching. I could see the rosy droplets of wine on Sabine’s, and how I longed to drink.

  Perhaps it is reluctance to be empress under a particular type of emperor, she replied. There was a loud thump, and Sabine leaned back, away from me. We glanced up to see Egnatius on the floor, tripping over his unwound toga. He was chasing after one of the female acrobats while the other drunken guests laughed and clapped their hands. He rose again and grabbed at the woman, who effortlessly dodged him. He tripped a second time—harder, but unhurt, making a sound like dough hitting a baker’s marble slab. Sabine closed her eyes, nostrils flaring.

  I pitied Sabine. Her mind was as keen as my own, if not keener. How frightfully dull this life must be for her. Chained to a buffoon of a husband who could never match her nimble wit, or her beauty.

  Perhaps, if the right type came along, you’d be more amenable to being under him? I glanced at her waist and smiled. The wine I’d drunk had made me bold, but not as idiotic as Egnatius. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand, it was a man who couldn’t hold his liquor. Still, I knew better than to play anything other than the loyal soldier at his side. I only protected what was his; I never claimed it as my own, including his wife.

  Perhaps, she said in a bored tone, stretching out languidly on the couch.

  Perhaps? I echoed. I lay on my back next to her. It was that time of the banquet when such positions were excused. When guests were exhausted by the evening’s refreshments and entertainments, and rules of decorum were relaxed. Of course, these were positions we’d assumed many times before. It was almost as if we’d just finished making love.

  Yes, Titus, she confirmed, placing her hands in her lap. Perhaps.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. I drifted in and out of sleep to the sounds of Egnatius’s guffaws and the shouting of other guests. Sabine was teasing me, I was certain. Why shouldn’t she and I reign over the world? I wondered to myself. The Roman Empire was already the largest in existence at that time. Was Rome itself not called Roma Aeterna, the Eternal City? They say all roads led there. It seemed a place made for two eternals like us to rule. Our ascension was inevitable.

  True, Sabine wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea of ruling by exposing our true natures. But she didn’t seem against stepping into the higher echelons either, if she could arrange it. She might pontificate on the sanctity of life all she wanted, but I knew she enjoyed everything Rome helped her acquire. She’d enjoy it even more with me.

  And I could convince Sabine to rule as the deities we were meant to be. I was certain of it. Though she didn’t think mortals would understand a god if faced with one, they would understand us. We would make them understand. It would be the same with the High Council, if we ever crossed paths. Far from being a threat to them, I was endeavoring to raise our kind to greater heights. Surely they would see that. And, if they didn’t, I’d simply find a way to conquer them like I did everything else. Then, Sabine would be honored and worshipped in whatever way she wished. Then, she would finally be happy.

  It was only a matter of time.

  Chapter 5

  It is hot ash—not snowflakes—cascading over us. We do not know it now, but when Vesuvius erupts, she shoots up a column of lava that hardens in the air. The column turns to ash and pumice, which the wind blows for miles onto the unsuspecting inhabitants of Pompeii.

  Citizens shriek as the fiery debris rains down. Dogs howl. Oxen make low, pleading moans. Horses scream. People start running in all directions, colliding with one another. Pompeii may be a modern city, but there are still no street lamps at this time. Near-pitch blackness only adds to the confusion and terror. With the sky as dark as night, only fires started by large pieces of falling ash provide light.

  I am hit from behind, and nearly tumble headlong into one of the fires. My magic stops me mid-fall, the flames a hair’s breadth from my face. I scramble to regain my balance, and run like hell with the others.

  There are more deep shouts from men, and higher-pitched cries of women. Infants let out wordless, unintelligible wails. The rumbling from Vesuvius becomes more severe. We can feel it in the ground, now, working its way up and down the streets. Slates crash down from rooftops. One slices a man’s throat open. I have not time to watch him bleed to death on the stone pavement.

  Men are working on a building I recognize—a row of food stands that hasn’t yet recovered from the earthquake damage in 62. The scaffolding around them collapses; those not crushed run for their lives. One by one, more buildings falls under the weight of the rocks and ash, taking great swaths of human life with them.

  I can see more people, now, rushing out of their apartments. They have children in their arms, or sacks whose contents jut out at odd angles. Others emerge with carved boxes, rugs, and other items they consider precious. Some grope along the walls crumbling in the darkness, gasping for breath as hot ash fills their hair and mouths. Others pull togas or shawls over their heads as they flee. I am healing more quickly than those around me, but not quickly enough. Hot ash descends on parts of my skin that are already burned, increasing my agony. I wince, growl, squeeze
my eyes shut. Gnash my teeth. Though my cries of pain would be swallowed by the cacophony around me, I fight them out of a soldier’s habit.

  The clumsy—or unlucky—are quickly buried under falling ash and rocks. The foul stench of sulfur stings the nostrils, the tongue, the throat. It makes my eyes water. Others cough and choke on the poisonous gas. Their hands clutch their throats; they sink to their knees, never to rise again. Later, Christians will equate this smell with their hellish brimstone. Had they been witness to Pompeii at that moment, I’m sure it would’ve confirmed their suspicions of divine wrath.

  People try to flee the streets on horses or in wagons. But the roads are blocked by crowds, corpses, and fallen buildings. Cats, dogs, and goats scatter, white-eyed, in every direction. Shopkeepers shove valuables into their pockets and purses, gems and coins and goblets spilling from them. Foolish ones try to stay, thinking they can prevent looters. And, as in every disaster, there are already looters. But they are not able to run as quickly as those unladen with booty, and many are swallowed by cascades of ash.

  The groaning sounds of oxen in their death throes reverberate in my bones. Horses scream in terror as they fall from overturned carriages and carts. People kill anyone who gets in their way, mowing each other down in blind panic. I see an infant’s head crushed by a gladiator’s heavy boot. Strangled cries—presumably the mother’s—soon follow.

  The screaming is not intermittent, but constant now. Vesuvius: that great, open wound on the face of the world, keeps vomiting fire onto us. The smell of burning meat is everywhere. Like many others, I realize the voluminous folds of my toga are weighing me down. I join the men of my class in tearing the cursed garment off, leaving nothing but my tunic. I scramble through the streets, buffeted this way and that by contrary rivers of humanity. Like them, I have no destination in mind. Only a vague, self-preserving notion to get as far away from Vesuvius as possible.

  When I wished for rain, I should’ve been more specific, I think bitterly. I should have asked that it be made of water.

  ***

  June first, AD 79, Pompeii. It was the Festival of Carna, also called Cardea. Marked as a public holiday; courts and other public offices were closed, though most mundane shops were still open. The goddess Carna was believed to rule the heart. She had the power to turn away strixes, demon owls of ill omen said to drink human blood. The Greek writer Boios even told of a man who became a strix “that cries by night, without food or drink . . . a harbinger of war and strife.” Not that I believed such things.

  She was also known as the “goddess of the hinge,” and so all doors, windows, and locks belonged to Carna. On her feast day, citizens cleaned, oiled, and repaired these fixtures, and nailed charms to their doorposts. It was traditional for Romans to feast with their families this evening, making offerings of beans, bacon, and other forms of pork to the g-oddess. They hoped she would reward them with good health. It was believed that eating these foods would bring the power of the goddess into them, infusing the worshippers with vitality.

  A silly little festival, but they were common enough in those days. A nice excuse to shirk ordinary work and enjoy some frivolity. Things like these—along with bread and circuses—also tended to keep the public from rioting. Since I had no immediate family, and Egnatius considered me a brother, anyway, he invited me to celebrate at his home every year.

  Late in the afternoon, I walked past the Temple of Jupiter, toward the food market and the Forum. Ah, the Forum. It was where business was conducted in the grain warehouses, where politicians made speeches on the steps of the Basilica, where priests tended the temples, where stallholders haggled with customers in the arcade. One of my slaves followed me, ready to make whatever bargains or transactions I needed. The Forum was usually crowded, but with so many official buildings closed, the crowds were thinner than usual. It allowed me to spot Egnatius, his entourage, and Sabine easily.

  “Titus!” Egnatius smiled broadly and waved to me. Plastering a broad smile on my own face, I walked toward him. Although seeing him on this day was mere coincidence, he had no idea how many times Sabine and I had met here on purpose. On those occasions, it was easy enough to say we ran into each other inadvertently. Less public places would have granted more privacy, but also greater danger. The back alleys of Pompeii were as treacherous as any city during any age. They teemed with thugs all too ready to separate the unwary from their purses—or their lives.

  True, our magic and my physical prowess could have dealt swiftly with troublemakers. But why deal with them at all when Sabine and I could spend time freely in the Forum, sending our slaves away on some errand, happily immersing ourselves in the seductive conversation taking place in our minds? Today, when I finally caught up with Egnatius and his other comites, Sabine and their slaves were standing demurely behind them. Sabine had a silk shawl draped over her head like a hood. We all bade each other the usual greetings.

  “Didn’t expect to see you until the feast this evening,” Egnatius said to me. “I just returned from visiting my friend Pliny in Misenum. His nephew is in town. Anyway, Pliny was asking after the security of our African borders.” He ran one hand through what was left of his hair, now more white than gray. “I said we’d had a few problems here and there. But, for the most part, no one dares impugn the sovereignty of Rome in my provinces, thanks to our capable army.” He winked a wrinkled, droopy eyelid at me.

  “No more trouble with the Berber tribes, I hope?” I asked.

  Egnatius clapped me on the shoulder. “Not after the routing our Titus gave them the last time!” He laughed, and the other comites quickly joined in. “You all remember the way he slayed their men, destroyed their village, then let his legion have their pick of the women, and sold off the rest? I’m due to make another trip there shortly. Not as easy as it used to be, with these old bones of mine. But traveling should be much smoother than last time, what with the swath you cleared all the way to the coast.” He beamed at me.

  “Are you certain I can’t go with you, my lord?” My voice was plaintive, yet in keeping with the commanding nature of my office. I wanted to seem ever eager to serve the proconsul, to always appear his faithful comite. People were much less likely to suspect I was sleeping with his wife that way.

  Egnatius shook his head. “No, my friend. Nothing that will require your battle skills. Just dull, tedious tax assessments on Berber’s neighbors, I’m afraid.” He let out a long sigh.

  “I see.” I let my face fall—and let Egnatius see it. I often made such offers, ones I knew would be refused. I had found out the purpose of Egnatius’s visit in advance, of course, and knew that he would have no need of my services. “Pity,” I added.

  Egnatius chuckled. “Ever-faithful Titus! Always the same. Like a dog biting its chain: can’t wait to sink his teeth into the next piece of meat!” The rest of the group laughed again. I smiled indulgently. “Never fear, General,” Egnatius continued. “Plenty of wrongdoers around here the government could use your help with. I’m sure there’s enough in Pompeii to keep you occupied.”

  I gave a quick glance to Sabine, which she caught, but her husband did not. “Indeed,” I murmured, and tried to fight the wider grin tugging at my lips. Sabine stroked the edges of the shawl closest to her face and smiled at me. “But tell me, Proconsul,” I said abruptly, “what is your opinion on the new weapons being developed by General Caelius? Do they represent a significant advancement over the previous versions?”

  “Eh?” Egnatius was peering over my shoulder.

  He’s looking at a graffiti advertisement for a new chariot race at the Circus Maximus, Sabine said in my mind.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Titus.” Egnatius’s voice trailed off. “Whatever you think is best.”

  I gave a satisfied nod. Just as I suspected. Military subjects—ones that did not involve victories he could brag about—bored Egnatius to tears. They were also helpful in throwing him off the scent of my affair with Sabine . . . should he ever
care to pick up the scent in the first place.

  But there seemed little danger of that happening right now. Egnatius stopped looking at the advert and leaned closer. “Do me a kindness tonight after we dine, would you?” he said in a low voice. “Let Sabine take you to the new tapestries—the ones woven with the silk thread you got us from India.” His rolled his eyes. “She’s been dying to show them off to someone.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” I sighed reluctantly. After that, we soon parted ways, saying how much we looked forward to seeing one another tonight. Especially you, Sabine, I said in her thoughts, and we stole another lustful glance. As soon as my back was to Egnatius and the rest, I didn’t bother to hide my grin.

  This is as easy as taking sweets from small children.

  That night, after the usual pork and beans, dessert was served, along with more wine, and guests were left to wander around the dining room. There were only nine of us this time—a smaller banquet. Still, Egnatius and the others were too drunk to notice when Sabine and I slipped away. We left them alone to discuss grain prices, which taverns were closing or opening, and who was likely to be elected to which office this year. As soon as I shut the door to her bedroom, Sabine motioned to me urgently.

  “I must speak with you,” she hissed.

  “Of course,” I murmured. “But Egnatius will be occupied with those other fools for hours. And he did say you wanted to show me the new tapestries.” I maneuvered my hands into her stola until they found her smooth, warm skin, the way I’d done so many times before. “Are they in here, I wonder?”

  Sabine slapped my arm—hard. I pulled my hands away. “Stop that,” she said. “I’m in earnest. This is a serious matter.”

  “You didn’t seem so serious this afternoon. Just the opposite.” I kissed her shoulder. “I was under the impression you were in the mood for some levity.” I kissed the crook of her neck. “Very much in the mood.”