Out of the Waters (12 page)

The hall would normally have been crowded with clients. Now all but two clients at a time had been relegated to the street outside, because the consul's twelve lictors took precedence. Varus had considered the lictors a pointless complication, but he realized now that they might turn out to be useful.

Varus joined his father, feeling a mixture of amusement and disgust at the servant's reaction to his threat. Alphena had a vicious temper. She had been known to throw things at people who had made her angry, and it wasn't unimaginable that worse might happen if she flew hot when she happened to have a sword in her hand.

Alphena was not, however, cruel: torture would have been as unlikely for her as sexual congress with a donkey. If the servants had bothered to think, they would have known that as well as her brother did.

Varus had learned that generally people didn't think: they just reacted. He supposed that should have pleased him, because it gave him an advantage over most of the world. Instead, it tended to make him sad.

Saxa was seated on his ivory chair. He faced the hall, the anteroom, and the street beyond on a single axis. The entrance was designed to put the householder in a frame, focusing all eyes on him.

Varus stepped around in front so that his father didn't have to twist sideways; folding senatorial chairs weren't very stable and neither was Saxa. He said, “I'm very sorry to trouble you, sir.”

“What's the matter, b-b…,” Saxa said in concern. He composed his expression and said, “What's the matter, my son?”

Rather than “boy.”
Varus had risen in his father's estimation—more accurately, had risen into Saxa's awareness—when Commissioner Priscus had made a point of praising the boy when he met Saxa ahead of a session of the Senate five days recently.

“Sir,” said Varus. The office had a high ceiling and two mosaic scenes on the floor. The panel to the householder's right showed Pentheus being torn to pieces by women maddened by their worship of Bacchus. To the left was Acteon, human-headed but with the body of a stag, being devoured by his own hunting dogs; the goddess Diana, whom he had glimpsed bathing nude, gestured angrily from a pool.

The room had been decorated by Saxa's father. Varus didn't suppose he would ever know what his grandfather had been thinking of when he ordered the mosaics.

At least a dozen clerks and other servants watched expectantly from the service aisles on three sides of the room. There was no privacy in a noble household, any more than there was in a poor family's apartment where three generations were squeezed into two rooms and as much of the staircase they could claim against other tenants.

On the other hand, there was no reason why anything Varus was about to say to his father would seem worth repeating, even within the household. Not if he phrased it carefully.

“Father,” he said with quiet earnestness. “My studies have reached an impasse of sorts, and I need to enter the house of Marcus Sempronius Tardus. I was hoping that you might help me in this.”

“Tardus?” Saxa said, frowning in concentration. “Well, we're not close, you know, son. Indeed, I probably know as little of him as I do any other member of the Senate. The ones who live most of the year in Carce, that is.”

He coughed into his hand. “Ah…,” he said. “And there was that business at the Temple of Jupiter a few days ago, when Tardus was there as Commissioner of the Sacred Rites. That was necessary, but it didn't, well, endear me to him.”

Saxa was obviously hoping his son would say something to let him out of what threatened to be an embarrassment. When that didn't occur, he grimaced and resumed. “I suppose I can send a note to him. What in particular is it that you wish to see? His library, I suppose?”

“Not exactly, sir,” Varus said. “My, ah, studies indicate that the Sempronii Tardi have a secret temple to Serapis in their town house. I would like to—that is, I think perhaps I
must
see that temple. In order to, ah, gather information of importance to the Republic.”

Saxa blinked. For a moment he looked like a fish displayed for sale on a marble slab; then his cheeks and the lines of his mouth became curiously firmer.

“Marcus Priscus spoke very highly of you the other day,” he said. “I believe it's the first time he has addressed a word to me except in answer to a question of my own. He's a very erudite man, you know.”

Varus bowed slightly again. “Yes sir,” he said. “The Republic is very fortunate to have men as learned as Marcus Priscus and yourself at its helm.”

Saxa snorted; his expression went sour for an instant, or as sour as someone as pudgy and good-natured as he could look. That cleared and he said, “Not me, my son, much as I wish it were. But perhaps you in time; Priscus believes you will grow into his equal. I hope I may live to see that.”

Varus didn't know whether or not he should speak. Since he was in doubt, he held his silence.

If more people followed that practice,
he thought,
the world would be a quieter and less obviously foolish place.
His smile didn't reach his lips.

“I was going to ask if Marcus Priscus intended to make the inspection with you,” Saxa said. He was trying to sound neutral, but there was evident hope in his voice. “I suppose you couldn't tell me, though?”

Father is so in awe of Priscus that if I said this was his idea, my request would be granted immediately. I won't lie, but if I tell the truth in the right form of words
 …

“I would not expect Commissioner Priscus to be present, sir,” Varus replied carefully. “I believe his friend—and my professor—Pandareus of Athens may accompany us, however. If you are able to effect entrance to Senator Tardus' house, that is.”

“I believe that Tardus will respect the authority of a consul,” Saxa said. “And I rather think the emperor would have something to say about it if he did not. The emperor is notably traditional in his regard for the forms of government.”

His smile widened as he considered the situation. His replacement consulate was an honor, of course, but he probably hadn't considered it to be a position of authority before this moment.

He sat straighter and looked firmly at his son. “We'll go tomorrow afternoon, then,” he said. “Let's say in the eleventh—” counting from dawn to dusk in twelve equal segments, regardless of the season “—hour. Please inform Master Pandareus of the plan. And anyone else you believe should be present.”

“Thank you, sir,” Varus said. “I had considered asking Publius Corylus to accompany us, as his different viewpoint might be helpful.”

Saxa smiled faintly. He said, “He's the boy with an army background, isn't he? Just as you like, son, though I hope
that
particular specialty won't prove necessary.”

Before Varus could turn to leave, his father coughed and said, “Ah, son? As you doubtless heard, Senator Priscus and your Pandareus will be dining with me in two nights' time. I hope you will choose to join us? Priscus was very complimentary about you.”

My father is willing to risk his life by using consular authority in a fashion he knows may be open to question,
Varus thought.
If all he wants in return is for me to add a little extra luster to a dinner which already glitters with intellectual capacity—so be it!

“I will be honored to join you and your guests, Father,” he said formally. Bowing, he backed from the office and turned toward the garden.

I'm risking my life too, I suppose,
he realized,
but I'm doing it to save the world from destruction by Typhon. My father is doing it merely on my word that it is necessary.

May the gods grant that I be the worthy scion of so brave a man.

*   *   *

A
LPHENA HAD RETURNED
to the house with Hedia, in the double litter. She found it odd but nonetheless comforting to regard her stepmother as an ally—a friend even—instead of a demon sent to torment her.

Hedia was the perfect lady: beautiful, her hair and garments in the current style; familiar with all the trivia of Carce's highest social circle. Hedia had seemed all the things that her stepdaughter had been determined never to be.

Hedia
was
all the things she seemed, but Alphena had learned that her stepmother was also as hard as a blade of fine steel and every bit as deadly when the need arose. She had determined to bring Alphena safely through whatever troubles arose, no matter what her own risk was.

Alphena wasn't sure how she felt about that. She prided herself on being independent. She was certain, though, that it was much better to have Lady Hedia as a friend than as an enemy.

There had been no place in particular where Alphena had to be after they reached the house. There was
never
anywhere she had to be, a realization that brought a familiar flush of anger to her face.

Varus was being educated in literature and the arts of rhetoric. All aspects of public life were governed by oratory. The most brilliant general would be laughed at—albeit behind his back—if he couldn't report his accomplishments using
chiasmus
and
litotes, praeteritio
and
asyndeton
and a thousand other absurdities. Absurdities!

The empire had been won at the point of a sword, but Varus could no better wield a sword than he could fly. Alphena had practiced weapons drill as assiduously as any army recruit, but she would never be allowed to join the legions.

She didn't want to spend her life reading poems that didn't make any sense she could see, nor in learning scraps of history from eight centuries ago because they might make useful embellishments for her summation speech in a murder trial. She didn't want to do those things—but she wouldn't be allowed to, whatever she wanted. She was a woman, so she had no share in government or the army or in
anything
that mattered!

But while all that was completely true and completely unfair, Alphena found herself thinking about her stepmother. If Hedia set out to accomplish something, Alphena would
expect
it the way she would expect the sun to rise in the east. She couldn't have given a logical explanation of why she was so confident of her stepmother's abilities, but logic—

Alphena grinned. Logic was a matter for students, like her brother Varus. Hedia's competence was
real
, which was a very different thing.

Alphena found she had walked the length of the house, to the private gymnasium and bath located between the courtyard and the back garden. She used the gym regularly, so it wasn't surprising that she would find herself at the door if she wandered without paying attention.

She looked around. Her maid, Florina, was close behind but flinched back when her mistress turned. Six other servants were following Alphena, presumably people Agrippinus had assigned to her suite. They stopped dead when she did, their eyes focused on various things but never on Alphena herself.

I should slap their sniveling faces!
Alphena thought, then felt a little queasy. She took a deep breath.

They're treating me like a viper. Except that they wouldn't be afraid to look at a viper.

Calmly, smiling slightly—she hoped it was a smile—Alphena said, “I believe I will take a little exercise now to settle myself before I have a light supper in my suite. Florina, you're dismissed to eat something now before you'll need to attend me.”

Alphena entered the small gymnasium, feeling virtuous.
Hedia would be proud of me,
she thought; but that wasn't really true. She would never match her stepmother's icy superiority to every one and every thing, any more than her chunky form would ever rival Hedia's willowy beauty.
It's not fair!

“Your ladyship!” said Lenatus. He and his guest—Pulto, Corylus' man—lurched to their feet. A wine jar leaned against a corner, and each man held a broad cup. A water jug was part of the gym's furnishings, but Alphena didn't see a mixing bowl: the veterans were apparently drinking the senator's wine as it came from the jug.

Alphena looked at them. They weren't frightened like the bevy of servants back in the passageway, but they watched her warily. They were freeborn citizens who as soldiers had fought the most dangerous of the Republic's enemies … but from their expressions, they would rather be back on the frontier than in the center of Carce, facing a senator's daughter.

I wonder if Florina thinks that life has treated Lady Alphena harshly?
Alphena wondered.

Aloud she said, “Master Pulto, I didn't expect to see you here. Is your master in the house as well? I suppose you came from the theater with my brother?”

“My understanding…,” Pulto said carefully. He wasn't a member of Saxa's household, but technicalities wouldn't matter if Alphena lost her temper, as she had a reputation for doing. “Is that Lord Varus wished to have a conversation with his father, the senator. Publius Corylus chose to wait in the back garden, but he gave me leave to visit my old friend here.”

He gestured toward Lenatus with his free hand. His eyes never left Alphena's face.

“Oh!” said Alphena, feeling a tiny jump of excitement that she hoped she had kept out of her voice. “Well, I'll leave the two of you to your reminis—”

She broke off. She could see from the faces of both men that something was badly wrong.

“What is it?” Alphena said. She heard her voice start to tremble, which made her angry. She continued in an unintended snarl, “Is Corylus with someone, is that it?”

Lenatus looked at his friend, who in turn looked as though he had been stabbed in the belly. “Your ladyship,” Pulto said, “I got the impression that my master might be talking with somebody, yes.”