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Warnings at the end.
— Day 156, continued —
“Breakfast,” Dean tells the lump of Cas beneath the covers and takes the vague seismic shift of bedding as either acknowledgment or Cas’s way of saying he’s not moving and if breakfast must be had, it will come to him.
He can do that. “Be right back.”
After checking in at front desk and being handed reports (so literally nothing is an excuse not to turn in reports), a stack of messages (they—get those now), and Jeremy transparently watching the door for Joelle, Dean braces himself before looking in on the mess.
It’s not as bad as he thought.
The main area looks like someone (several someones) did the bare minimum to get it functional again (all tables and chairs upright and in some kind of eating position), and the kitchen is spotless. Brenda and Alonzo apparently have been up since before dawn if the fact there’s actual food on the stove cooking is any indication.
“Rice, beans, oatmeal,” Brenda recites. “Our breads of the day are naan, cornbread, and corn tortillas.” She waves toward Alonzo, who’s cutting up cornbread while keeping a sharp eye on a tortilla pan on one of the burners where four are frying. “We’re still deciding on lunch, but assume rice will be part of it.”
“Lunch existing is all I ask,” Dean promises, failing to acquire his own dishes or silverware when Alonzo frowns at his approach. Retreating to the counter, he watches Alonzo take out two bowls and a plate before hunting up silverware. Dean would worry this is some kind of ‘serve the leader’ thing, but this is Brenda and he’s getting to know Alonzo, and he suspects they’re just really possessive of the kitchen and all within its domain. “How are supplies anyway?”
What he means is ‘how are we not debating the morality of cannibalism yet anyway’?
“No idea,” Alonzo answers, flipping the tortillas before indicating Dean should choose his bread (he points to the cornbread). “One of us stops by, gets our daily bundles, takes it to the jeep.”
Huh. “Beans and rice,” he says, when Brenda looks at him significantly. “Who’s working supply besides Lanak?”
“Lanak,” Alonzo and Brenda say together, Alonzo adding at Dean’s blink, “About nine months ago, a barrel of salted meat disappeared. As it turns out, Tony approved it be taken but forgot to tell her. Short version, he was at the power plant all day and didn’t know there was a problem, and that was sixteen hours of our lives we’re not getting back.”
Dean almost asks for elaboration and then realizes, actually, he just doesn’t want to know, ever. “So she—doesn’t like people in there?”
“She’s got all the keys and can remember every single thing in inventory, where it is, and how much,” Alonzo says. “Or fakes it so well you can’t tell the difference.”
He thinks about dropping it, but they gotta know the same thing he does. “Any idea how much food we have left?” It’s not that he’s conversant with the supply needs of a town running at something like two hundred times capacity (why is he thinking that; it’s twenty thousand, always), but he’s familiar with Chitaqua now and can extrapolate. Maybe some refugees brought food with them, they got supplies from the other towns, and they were just past harvest and going into winter, but they’re not in plausible territory anymore.
And yet, that’s two bowls of very plausible beans and rice right there. “Thanks,” he tells Brenda, looking between them and noting how they’re not answering and focuses on Alonzo, who is both a resident and doesn’t live in Chitaqua and therefore the weakest in the kitchen herd. “Come on, I get it, Ichabod doesn’t want to say they’re wiping themselves out, but inventory’s gotta be close to empty. At least food inventory.”
Alonzo and Brenda exchange a complicated look (it’s early, okay), and then Brenda nods and suddenly says, “Let me get you a carafe, there’s one—in the pantry.”
Alonzo sighs, adding the finished tortillas to the massive stack and taking four more rolled out circles of dough and placing them on the pan. “No one’s seen inventory except Lanak, I don’t think. Except maybe Alison, since that’s part of her daily tour of town.”
Yes, Alison’s daily marathon of mayorness, during which Chitaqua’s teams have discovered they’re amateurs when it comes to tracking skills. Sure, the supernatural can be tough and everything, but Alison is a goddamn education; she either ambles along at something not unlike a slow-motion walk or hits light speed when something catches her interest (what, who knows? Could be anything). If there’s a door you didn’t see, she walks through it; if there’s a crowd, she’s already inside it; if there are no stairs, he suspects they appear when her watchers stupidly blink so she can climb up and/or down them. Worse—and both Christina and Sean confirmed he didn’t imagine it—she somehow picked up some mayor-version of Cas’s angel of the Lord voice that pretty much everyone (including Dean, fuck his life) is helpless against when she drags it out and throws it at you like a goddamn soul-seeking missile.
Alison’s grueling daily march through town, checking on everyone, listening to complaints, appearing not just at the five big population centers for refugees but as many of the other buildings as she can, with a smile that must take fucking superglue or something to keep in place because muscles just weren’t meant to be in that shape for that long… he gets why she does it, even if Sean and Christina didn’t.
They know her name and her face because she’s there every goddamn day, shares with Claudia listening to the complaints and problems that the volunteers or their supervisors couldn’t handle, speaks to as many as she can in the time allotted to each of her stops, and promises to see them again tomorrow. It’s not just that it’s her town that they’re in; she wants everyone to know that as long as they’re here, they’re her people, too, as much as the residents. Make the town a little less strange, what happened to them a little less terrifying, make them feel a little less helpless: Alison may not be a people person, but she fucking nails being good at being people.
Dean pauses, reviewing what Alonzo just said. He’d normally assume ‘no one’ means ‘people who aren’t authorized’ or something, but Alonzo’s expression implies he’s being literal. “No one?”
“She said theft and desperate people,” Alonzo explains. “Which makes sense, she’s sleeping in there—”
“She’s sleeping,” Dean interrupts, “in food inventory?”
“In one of the warehouses, yeah,” he agrees. “Dean, I know it sounds weird but—Lanak’s really into no one messing with her organization. The salt beef thing…”
“But the bundles, she’s doing it all herself?” Alonzo nods, and Dean think of not even fucking five feet tall Lanak hauling around slabs of meat and bags of rice and just… can’t. “And she can’t ask for help because… she doesn’t want anyone in the warehouses, got it.”
“If it helps,” Alonzo offers, “we had a lot of food from the party, and the other towns and the Alliance sent a lot. I helped unload the trucks. And I’m pretty sure she’s got some helpers, I heard her talking to them yesterday when I did pick-up.”
Brenda returns triumphantly with a carafe and fills it with coffee while Alonzo (after flipping the tortillas) gets a tray, and Dean sets aside the mystery of the food for later. He’s got eating food to do.
Cas emerges from his blanket mountain slowly and with vague hostility (usual) which melts into longing when Dean wisely fixes him a cup of coffee and hands it over. Second cup, it’s safe to transition to eating, and sitting cross-legged on the bed across from Cas, Dean goes through the messages while Cas scans the reports.
Dean doesn’t wonder when he became a person who read official messages in bed over breakfast with his boyfriend while said boyfriend reads reports of their very active yesterday. He’s that person now, what can you do?
Between bites, Dean share the relevant info: general updates from Alison, Claudia, Tony, and Teresa and Manuel on the state of things and where they may be needed; still working on the geas thing; the checkpoints checked in this morning, and due to Cas taking care of the Hellhound and Croat problem with ‘total annihilation’ they’ll be back by noon.
Cas (who cleaned his plate) has just set the tray on the end of the bed on the way to the shower when Dean hits the last one and is glad he already finished eating.
Cas,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “They’re—uh, doing the burn at dusk. She wants to know about Andy.”
Cas comes back to the bed, taking the note from Dean and reading on a vague glance before saying, “I’ll speak to Sarah to discover Kat’s wishes, but I’m fairly certain she’ll say no.”
And he could overrule her, yeah. “Tell Sarah to try and convince her,” he decides reluctantly. “Whatever Kat says, we’ll let stand. Can you get the answer to Alison by noon?”
“I will,” he says, folding the paper absently into halves, then quarters, then eighths, before abruptly stating, “I’m going to go visit Sudha this morning.”
Right, that’s today: after yesterday, a god being born upon the earth in mortal form almost seems kind of quaint. “Yeah, almost forgot.”
“It occurs to me…” He makes a face. “Vera reminded me that if I wish to be present, it is incumbent on me to speak to Sudha at a time she’s not in active labor.”
“Yeah,” Dean says incredulously, leaving holy shit you left that until now? unspoken but really goddamn obvious. “And by the way, how are you gonna do that without… you know, telling her why? Assuming she doesn’t know, and I gotta ask this—why wouldn’t she know if she had to give consent?”
“I can think of several reasons that, if I were a barren woman who with divine intervention was to bear my first child, I might prefer to forget for a time,” Cas answers. “Pregnancy is stressful in ideal conditions which this is not. Just as importantly, I would be deeply surprised if the god in question didn’t at least mention there might be reasons its identity should remain unknown, and the best way to keep a secret like that is not to even know you know it.”
Okay, that’s fair.
Then Cas says, “It’s not as if it matters.”
“What?” He’s never—even once—thought the birth of a god in mortal form could ever not matter. “Just—what?”
“It’s a baby,” Cas says, like Dean missed biology and an entire life on earth or something and wasn’t aware what pregnancy is supposed to accomplish. “Unless the child in question is destined to usher in a new era for humankind—let’s just say it’s not for many reasons—it’s going to be simply another child. One who perhaps will be able to access some part of their divine powers—”
“Oh God, I didn’t even think of that,” Dean says in horror. “We got a baby with superpowers?”
Cas stares at him. “I’m tempted to let you keep thinking that, but no. At least, not until puberty at least, and in this town…” He trails off, and Dean thinks of the current residents: psychic, witch(es), visiting fallen angel, and that doesn’t even include the pre-kindergarten set of future witches of the infected zone and fuck knows what else in the daycare. “He or she might feel left out otherwise. But in any case, the child will simply be Sudha and Rabin’s offspring. I can’t possibly speculate with any certainty on Sudha’s mind, but it being a former god is probably the least important thing to her.”
Actually, he gets that.
“So if you aren’t going to tell her why you want to be there,” Dean says, returning to the much more fascinating (and goddamn hilarious) subject, “what are you going to tell her when she asks why you want to be there?”
Cas slumps. “I have no idea.”
Dean thinks about his next question. “Look—why do you want to be there? I mean, what can you do if…?” The god’s already dead (two years ago?) or can’t get back or simply doesn’t show up.
“I don’t know that either, other than support Vera,” he admits, and Dean nods agreement, pretending he doesn’t notice Cas’s not exactly subtle relief. “Unless there’s something else…”
“Go shower,” Dean says, watching Cas leave (awesome view) before stacking up the messages and going to see what clothes he has in ‘semi-clean or better.’
After seeing Cas off, saying hi to Joelle, and making an appearance in the mess to pointedly not mock anyone with hangovers, Dean settles in the Situation Room with Vicky and Derek in attendance. He honestly has no idea why they’re here (and from the way they were working when he came in, have been since dawn), but Vicky looks really into whatever she’s doing on the laptop and Derek the boxes, so he nods at them (they nod back) and settles in to realize he needs more coffee.
“Get me some?” Vicky asks without looking up while Derek seconds (and looks up, he gets points for that). “Thanks, Dean!”
“You got it,” he says without irony (they don’t notice), and grabs his cup, walking out the door and into—should have seen this coming—the goddamn giant white room.
For form’s sake, he mutters, “What is with this building?” before finding a convenient place for his coffee cup. Turning around, he surveys to see if there’s anything new.
Giant mosaic floor, check; endless white walls, check; columns as far as the eye can see, check; it’s impressive, don’t get him wrong, but not like he hasn’t seen it all before. Looking up, he takes in the blue-painted ceiling miles away, sprinkled with countless tiny lights like stars, and wonders if those are actual constellations he should recognize.
He has just enough time to wonder which wall will win the picture lottery when color starts winding through the one on his right, seeping through the stone as if housed within and waiting for him to show up. Walking over, Dean settles in to watch; sure, he’s seen it before, but honestly, he’s seeing a theme here.
Demeter, dry-eyed and expressionless, hood thrown back, stands atop Mount Olympus and surveys the end of winter, arms limp at her sides but the long fingers are spread wide, tips slowly turning black; Clytemnestra seduces her lover in her husband’s bed, but her gaze is fixed on an axe leaning against the far wall; Hecuba, in the dress of a common servant, prostrates herself before the King of Thrace and court, but her eyes are fixed on his two sons; Medea sits at the hearth in the home she once shared with Jason, patiently sewing an elaborate robe set with jewels, at her feet a coronet of gold, while the pot on the hearth exudes a noxious green mist.
The fifth picture opens on a well-paved country road and a mule cart with four mules, the Janiculum, one of the seven hills of Rome, just coming into view. Within, Sappho frowns at something in her lap, while beside her Cornelia exchanges amused glances with Publius, who sits across from them with his back to the driver.
“Latin and Greek, I understand, domina,” Sappho says, raising the scroll from her lap to glare more closely at the endless columns. “Somewhat, at least. But this is both and neither one.”
“It’s rhetoric,” Publius says, sprawled in comfort and grinning at her as the mule cart bumps merrily along the road.
“I understand each and every word of this, domine,” Sappho persists, scowling. “At least, domina says it is thus.”
“Careful,” Cornelia says from beside her, exchanging a grin with Publius. “It’s not supposed to make sense. Not yet, anyway.”
Sappho looks up with an attempt at being intimidated; she’s bad at it. “Forgive me, domina. Perhaps I should ask: why do I need to learn this which makes no sense?”
“An excellent example of the use of rhetoric,” Publius says seriously. “Why does Sappho need to learn rhetoric and the first principles of oratory?”
Sappho glares between them. “That is not—according to this—a rhetorical question, for it advances no argument nor makes a point obvious to one and all, and also does indeed require an answer.” Almost immediately, she closes her eyes, and Cornelia bites her lip. “Domine. If it be your pleasure to answer.”
“It seems you understand very well,” Cornelia observes neutrally while Publius hides his grin by staring hard at the roof. “You tell me, Sappho, why I instruct you in these skills?”
Sappho lets the scroll close and straightens, and Dean notes she looks a lot better with a dress that fits and a little meat on her bones, thick black hair long enough for it to be bound in a neat roll at the back of her neck. “For my mistress’s pleasure, I assume. She grows bored with the obsequious attentions of Rome’s greatest families and the Senate’s intractability and requires entertainment. My mistress’s will is my life.”
“Your recitation of Homer was sublime last night, and your accent impeccable,” Cornelia agrees. “I was indeed entertained.”
Sappho looks between the serious faces suspiciously.
“You also proved you’ve mastered the first principles of oratory,” Cornelia continues. “Acquire your audience’s attention and hold it at your pleasure. Now the real work begins: how to use it to forward your purposes, whatever those might be.”
“I don’t know what that means, domina,” Sappho says seriously, deliberately adopting the Greek accent she’d had when she entered Cornelia’s household, which makes Cornelia’s mouth twitch despite the stern expression. “And you will not tell me.”
“When you’re ready to hear the answer, you won’t need to ask the question,” Cornelia answers mock-severely before she smiles. “I commend you in your studies, Sappho. As quick as Sempronia, and she was only quicker than Tiberius and Gaius by a hair. Claudia, poor child, always struggled, and Licinia…” She sighs indulgently. “Neither of their families valued education as they should. The habit wasn’t set early, and it’s difficult to acquire that later. I have no complaints, however; they are in all ways the ideal daughters-in-law.”
“Because they are patrician on both sides,” Sappho says confidently, and Dean guesses she’s quoting someone. “And of good family with rich dowries and excellent connections to Rome’s most illustrious families.”
Cornelia wrinkles her nose. “In many families, yes, that would be a consideration, and for some, that would be required. The first duty of a Roman family is to increase their wealth, raise their status, and give lustre to their name. Children as much as their parents are servants of their family; ideally, their marriages should bring to the family what it cannot acquire otherwise to achieve those goals.” She gives Publius a playful look and he rolls his eyes. Turning to Sappho she continues. “My sons were of ancient plebian ancestry, however, and through me are descended from the patrician Cornelii and Aemilii; their lineage was illustrious enough without need for dressing.”
Publius looks at her sardonically. “And you of course never lusted for the acquisition of a Julia or perhaps a Fabia or Valeria—”
“A Julia and or a Valeria, I would have objected not at all, should my sons find them pleasing to take as wives,” Cornelia states and by her expression, Dean is pretty sure Publius nailed it. “A Fabia, no: I respect ancestry as any Roman should, but you cannot deny they are peculiar and grow more peculiar as the generations pass.”
“You’re thinking of Eburnus,” Publius says, and Cornelia nods, looking—uncomfortable? “He was adopted from the Servilii—”
“Not better,” Cornelia states with a delicate shudder before turning to Sappho. “In your life, you will meet many kinds of people, good and bad and in-between, but every so often you will come across one and feel—as if your skin is trying to crawl away and cares not if you go with it.”
Publius nods, looking thoughtful. “That would be it, yes.”
“Wisely, I agreed with my skin, excused myself, and walked quickly away,” Cornelia continues. “To return to a less unsettling topic, my sons had no need of a wife of high birth to give their names lustre or great wealth to fill their purse. Their father and I agreed to allow them to select for themselves wives that would suit them and their ambitions. Claudia and Licinia’s families brought us important political alliances that forwarded my sons’ purposes, but any of a dozen families could have done so; their persons pleased my sons and so they married them. They are sweet-natured, kind, can both play and sing, have Latin and Greek—”
“And their beauty of no importance at all,” Publius tells the ceiling of the cart. “We speak not of it, for what influence would it have on a young man?”
“Ye gods, do those families breed and very well,” Cornelia mutters, shaking her head. “But what choice did those children have, coming from such stables? Licinia surpasses all, however: truly a face to launch a thousand ships. If my son must be seduced by something as ephemeral as beauty, he did choose the best Rome had to offer.”
“And no vanity to be found,” Publius adds, sounding baffled. “Once, when Gaius sent me to deliver a message to you in Misenum, I chanced upon her and Claudia playing a game in the peristyle garden and she fell into the fountain. She was excessively muddy already and the water helped not at all. She saw me and merely burst into laughter, tied her hair back with a convenient stick—a stick, Cornelia, it was on the ground, I saw it—and she continued their game with mud on the tip of her nose. Far worse, it impaired her beauty not at all.”
Cornelia’s mouth trembles despite the smile. “Gaius was always a serious child, and Tiberius’s death seemed to steal all that remained of his joy. As a good son does, he brought Licinia to meet me before their betrothal was formalized, and… he was so different, I almost didn’t recognize him. She brought him joy for all their time together, and Claudia and Sempronia as well; my household is brighter for her presence.” She takes a quick breath, expression smoothing. “I won’t ask what they played when you saw them; both are overly fond of children’s games,” she adds with a sigh. “We bear what we must.”
He tilts his head. “From what I heard, their number was often greater than two.” Cornelia’s eyes narrow. “Is it true, it took two hours for Cardixa and your maids to remove the sticks, leaves—and most inexplicably of all, wreaths of wilted flowers—from your hair?”
“I know not of what you speak nor what ridiculous rumors you have heard, but I put such games away in girlhood—”
“Tiberius and Gaius used to tell of how Cornelia Africana had no sense of direction when blindfolded and would fall into every fountain, pool, or puddle that may be within her lack of line of sight,” Publius interrupts airily, and Cornelia’s eyes widen. “They would try to catch you, of course, but what you lacked in differentiating north from east and left from right you would make up for in speed. Also, they were quite small—their twenties and early thirties, from what I heard? Perhaps not so small as that.”
“I did not—”
“Or three years ago, when Licinia finally quickened,” Publius continues with relish, “and a solemn and dignified family celebration degenerated into a housewide game of hide and seek.”
“That,” Cornelia states, “is a falsehood.”
“Lia,” Publius says patiently, “I was the one who found you in the kitchens attempting without success to fit yourself inside a very small cupboard.”
Cornelia looks struck. “So you did. My apologies: I need to better judge when and to whom I tell my lies. How did you find me? I neglected to ask.”
“You are one of the tallest women in Rome—no fault to your father, the Aemilii always grow their women large indeed—and yet,” he looks at Sappho in despair, “she tries to fit in a cupboard dedicated to spices.”
“I fit well,” Cornelia protests as Sappho grins widely. “One foot, perhaps—”
“I tripped over it.”
Sappho looks between them, face red with the effort not to laugh.
“I have always been a friend of exercise,” Cornelia says with dignity. “A healthy body is necessary for a healthy mind.” She sighs. “I was too fond of games as a child, it is true, and at best an average student. Forever wishing to go outdoors and explore the farms on our estate; I wonder my mother why did not keep me at my books.”
Publius puts on a constipated look, and Cornelia raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Nothing at all,” he answers, careful to keep his expression as he shares a look with Sappho. “You are indeed average in all ways.”
“Have I not said so?” Cornelia gives them a repressive frown before suddenly smiling out one of the hide-covered windows, outside which an eager family waits by the road near what looks like an inn. “Stop here,” she calls to the driver. “I know them.”
As the mule cart comes to a halt, Publius peers out at them as Cornelia eagerly alights. “Wait for me,” she tells Sappho, a small purse in one hand. “I’ll be but a moment.”
Sappho slides down the seat to peer out the window with Publius. The husband steps forward eagerly as Cornelia joins them; from their simple clothes, Dean guesses they’re farmers or something, though they seem to be doing well if the woman’s earrings are any indication (thanks, jewelry store job, he notices that kind of thing now. Jesus). The man pushes forward a small boy, who grins up at Cornelia with a new space between his teeth, and careless of her skirts, she crouches, expression interested as he tells her—no idea.
“Domine, who are they?” Sappho asks blankly. “How does she know them? Surely they do not attend the interminable dinner parties we all enjoy so much every night? If they are pretending to be farmers to escape those, I blame them not.”
“For the first, no idea at all,” Publius answers, lifting the hide more and shaking his head. “For the second—if you ask her, she can tell you their names, ages, occupation, residence, ancestry, and choice of crops per season. I would speculate how they met could have been anything, anything at all, and she could tell you that as well: date, time, weather, and what she had for her last meal beforehand.” He puts on a long-suffering expression. “You didn’t ask how they knew she would be here today and wonder if perhaps they are people that simply spend their days lingering on the side of the road in hopes she will appear? Possible, but no: child, the wonder isn’t a family she knows happens to be here, but that there are not dozens spilling out of the woods who for no reason at all knew she would drive by this day.”
Sappho blinks at him slowly. “You speak truly?”
“I forget,” he says. “Were you not in the Forum that day with her and go with her now when she leaves the house?”
“This is true,” Sappho says in surprise. “I assumed it some peculiarity of Romans, who seem to appear as if summoned in great numbers whenever she appears on the streets. Any street. Or temple, shop, or beneath our loggia when she feels like taking air.”
“It’s always been so,” Publius says, nodding. “Where Cornelia Africana is, so the world will be as well.”
“And she is average for a Roman noblewoman?”
“Her tutors must have forgotten to teach her the meaning of that word in the many languages she learned in girlhood, and she certainly never picked it up in any of the others,” Publius says dryly. “No, not at all. I suppose I can’t fault Africanus or her mother; he was the best general Rome ever produced and a brilliant scholar in his own right, and married an Aemilia, an excellent woman I’m sure, but whose exceedingly high birth, sense of fashion, and air of distinction occupied much of her time and thought. Still, when one’s five year old—with a lisp, having lost two teeth—argues a Greek philosopher into the ground in one’s tabilium, one would think Africanus would have wondered what it was he and Aemilia possessed in their second daughter.”
Cornelia cups the child’s cheek, leaning to give him a kiss, and rises to her feet as another man appears, well-dressed in a Greek chlamys, hand coming to rest on the boy’s shoulder. Opening the purse, Cornelia gives part of the contents to him, nodding at whatever he says interspersed with smiling down at the boy, reaching to ruffle his hair.
“Pedagogue, yes,” Publius says with gloomy satisfaction. “I should have guessed: no escape now, that child will be educated and set on the path of greatness will he, nil he. I should discover his gens before we leave: when he runs for consul, he’ll certainly get my vote.” Cornelia takes the baby from the woman, looking down at it with a soft smile before saying something to the mother, who nods adamantly. “That,” Publius says with certainty, “is the first daughter of the house, and Cornelia is reminding its mother that daughters must be educated with the sons, for they should be partners with their men in all things, and it is never known if they will lose father and husband too soon and must be able to read business correspondence and do accounts and such and be protected from encroaching in-laws who might try to steal their dowry.”
“Does that happen often?” Sappho asks, startled. “I thought in Rome… Cornelia told me women own property in their own right and it cannot be taken by law.”
“She’s correct,” Publius says quietly, looking at her. “But if they do not know the law—or cannot read their marriage contracts—how would they know their rights? It’s a father’s and brother’s duty to protect the interests of their women, but if they don’t—or are deceased—who will speak for them?” He snorts contemptuously. “Young girls newly married are tempted by sweet words from less than honorable men to sign what they do not understand and find their dowry gone and themselves without recourse if divorced or widowed. A good husband, a good father by marriage would insist her dowry be protected and inheritable only by their children—should they be so fortunate as to have any—and assure their will leaves her well-supported on the occasion of one or both their deaths. And many do, do not mistake me, but Roman men are still men, good and bad. We may think the best of our fellow man, Sappho, but in Rome, we think the best of them and enforce it with a legally binding contract into perpetuity.”
Cornelia hands the child back and gives the mother some money from her purse. With a fond smile at the child, she takes her leave of them, returning to the cart with a wide smile on her face, years shed so suddenly she almost seems a girl.
“A fine daughter,” Cornelia says approvingly as the cart continues, and Publius and Sappho share a glance. “The son makes excellent progress, but that’s no surprise; the child’s grandfather was my father’s body servant and was very quick indeed. He was freed in my father’s will, of course, and entered my husband’s service as a freedman on my marriage. For his good work, we paid to have him placed in a rural tribe instead of one of the urban ones so his vote would count. Well educated men who think are needed by Rome. Would that we do away entirely with the bias that places freedmen in the four urban tribes; no matter the citizenship of their birth, they are Roman now.” Cornelia makes a face. “Ridiculous.”
“Cornelians, then,” Publius says, and Cornelia nods.
“Of course. My father freed him in his will and thus, he was entitled to our gens: Publius Cornelius Artabanus.” The cart comes to an abrupt stop, and her expression changes, color draining away. “I’ll only be a moment,” she says quietly. “Please await me here. I want to see how the temple is progressing; it should be complete very soon.”
It’s an order, quietly spoken but unmistakable, and beside him, Dean feels his usual companion’s presence. “Where’s she going? What temple?”
She swallows as Cornelia climbs out, eyes fixed on something he can’t quite see. “The one she’s building in Gaius’s honor in the Grove of the Furies.”
Dean watches Cornelia start toward the grove then the scene abruptly vanishes just as she passes the first tree. It’s not that he wanted to watch Cornelia go look at where her son died, but… “Did you do that?”
“No,” she says with a frown. “I didn’t.”
Dean vaguely remembers Cas telling him about angels having privileges in holy places. “Is it because it’s—sacred or something? Furies wouldn’t like it?” From what he knows about Furies, not the kind you want to piss off, ever.
“And no mortal eyes may behold?” she asks. “No, nothing like that, and that wouldn’t count here, anyway.”
Dean thinks vaguely about leaving, but— “So we wait?”
“I suppose,” she answers, sounding as bewildered as he is. “As we have time, I’ve been curious about—you don’t have to answer, of course. Freely asked, freely given.”
“Help if I knew the question,” he points out.
She makes a face. “Tell me about now? Anything,” she clarifies at his blank look. “I can’t see much—still not omnipotent—but from what little I have seen, it’s… different.”
Well yeah; about two thousand years difference, give or take. “I can do that,” he agrees, though that means he has to figure out where to start.
Thank God, she takes pity on him and says, “Your army. Militia, I mean.”
Or, this is exactly what she wanted to ask all along and was trying to ease into it. “Okay,” he says, and tries to decide where to start. “So you know what a hunter is?”
She tilts her head. “Your militia hunts for meat?”
“Yeah, no,” he says, though technically, they do that, too. “We’ll start there.”
Castiel’s entry into Ichabod’s working hospital is heralded by a small mass of humanity barreling directly into his legs. Looking down, he sees two year old Sera looking up at him, flyaway black hair escaping a braid and grinning to reveal all six and a half of her teeth.
“Good morning,” he says politely. She giggles before lifting both arms in the imperative command known as ‘pick me up immediately’ (Lily and Dee were very educational on this).
Crouching, Castiel obeys, settling her warm weight in his arms as she relates absolutely nothing he can understand in a mixture of English and Cantonese.
“Sera!” Anyi says, appearing from a nearby hallway, carrying a faded pink child-sized coat and stocking cap and looking frazzled. Her worried expression changes to relieved when she sees Sera. “Cas, hey, morning. She got away from me, sorry.”
“Not a problem at all,” he says, quickly returning his attention to Sera when tiny wet fingers land on his cheek, which Lily taught him is the command ‘look at me or I’ll scream at a decibel that only dogs, whales, and supermassive black holes can achieve.’ It’s extraordinarily effective. “Yes,” he tells her (the word ‘coat’ was in there, he thinks). “I have one as well.”
Sera nods, satisfied, and drops her head onto his shoulder with a very loud, wet sniffle.
“Cold,” Anyi tells him, brown eyes softening as she pushes back a strand of her daughter’s hair. “It’s going around the daycare. Again.”
“How is she adjusting?” he asks when a tiny arm tightens like a vise when he thinks about returning her to her mother. From what he understands, human toddlers are acutely sensitive to anything that might contravene their will, including thought.
Anyi grins. “Great. And how are you doing?” she asks, eyes darting to his right forearm as if she can see the bandage beneath.
“It’s fine,” he says, pausing for Sera to sneeze wetly and Anyi to make a horrified face. “Don’t concern yourself; body fluids are of no concern to me.”
She cocks her head. “Angel thing?”
“Chitaqua thing,” he admits, helping her unwind the (iron-like) arms wrapped around his neck as Any murmurs to her in Cantonese and Sera protesting in the same language with added toddler (a language of its own). With a look of tragic betrayal (at him), she sneezes pointedly, sticks her thumb in her mouth, and settles against Anyi’s shoulder to assure he can still see her displeasure in case he forgets. “When did you start teaching her Cantonese?”
“When I was provisionally approved a couple of weeks ago,” she says, hefting Sera against her hip. “Glenn helped me make her some simple picture books. Shuo’s the only other native speaker here, so it’s kind of nice to have someone else to talk to.”
“She’s a quick learner,” he says; children at this age generally are, reaching out to touch Sera’s cheek in what he hopes she correctly interprets as a peace offering. She seems to debate it—several long, noisy sucks—before bursting into wet giggles followed by another enthusiastic sneeze. “I apologize,” he says, aware of Anyi’s odd smile. “I don’t mean to detain you.”
“It’s cool,” she says, looking at him thoughtfully. “Didn’t realize you were a kid person.”
Dog person, cat person, gun person, knife person: he thinks he can extrapolate. “I didn’t realize I was,” he confesses as Sera grabs his finger, eyes huge and liquid as she urges it toward her tooth filled mouth, rather like a Venus flytrap exuding a pleasing scent before consuming you. “Lily already tried that,” he tells her firmly before she can demonstrate her mastication skills, pulling back and ignoring her heartbreak with difficulty. “Are you going on duty now?”
“After we have breakfast and I drop her off in the official Cold Room at the daycare,” she says. “Speaking of, I better run. Sera, say bye-bye?”
Sera considers it before lifting her hand in the single most condescending gesture he’s ever seen by anyone below the age of reason.
“Have a good day,” he tells them both, turning to watch as Anyi pauses at a nearby chair to wrestle the child into her coat and hat before going out the door and into the early morning chill.
Looking around the lobby, he notes the number of children with their parents—most Ichabod, some Alliance, some he assumes are from the refugees—and firmly tamps down the flare of anger; so many here came with their children, dependent on strangers to feed and house them and see to their medical needs. If the migration was justified in itself, nothing can excuse a geas so badly designed as this one; it’s only luck that so far, no children have been casualties.
“Cas?” a familiar voice asks, and Castiel sees Vera at the open door of the ER with four charts. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” he answers, doing the math on how much she slept last night very obviously. She makes a face. “How long have you been on duty?”
“Half an hour before dawn, only for another thirty minutes, and just my existing patients,” she says, transparently pretending she’s not being very defensive. “Pneumonia’s responding, everyone’s healing well, and my three Diabetes Type II are stable and doing great.” Then, “Oh, forgot about that. Come on.”
Following her across the ER, they end up in yet another warren-like room (these buildings are overly fond of calling glorified closets ‘rooms’, but it does benefit from a window. Retrieving a file from a locked drawer of one of the many utterly identical cabinets stuffed into all available space, she scans down it, mouth tightening.
“No change,” she says, handing it to him to look over. She taught him to read Dean’s charts, and Alicia furthered his education with his own, so it’s fairly easy to interpret both the medical terminology as well as the style of Vera’s notes. “I will say this; she’s doing great, baby’s doing great, no problems except four days in first stage labor without any progress.” She leans against an overcrowded desk where Castiel guesses Dolores avoids doing paperwork, as it has no chair. “Today?”
“Loosely, in the next twenty-four hours,” he answers. “This isn’t an exact science—or any science really, at least yet. Keep her under constant supervision starting at midnight if it hasn’t begun yet.”
“I probably should have asked this before,” she says, crossing her arms. “But is the labor going to be—normal? Or put it another way; is it going to be ‘water breaking wow baby’ or is it following the general stages of labor?”
“The latter,” he says reassuringly, closing the folder and handing it back. “It should follow whatever qualifies as average. Would you like me to wait with you this evening after the fire, or…?”
“Yeah, no.” She shakes her head firmly. “Rule of thumb: hovering makes people nervous, and the only person who can hover over her right now and not do that is Rabin. You’re one street away and pretty fast; I think you’ll be okay.”
“Who has she asked to be present at the birth?”
Vera thinks. “Alison, Neeraja, Deepika, Mercedes—on a guess, she’s going to be using this as a preview of coming events—Suma, and Njoya.” She hesitates, biting her lip. “She also asked Cathy.”
Her newborn daughter Del was one of those killed at the daycare during the attack on Ichabod. “I don’t know enough to even form an opinion,” he admits.
“Cultivate that,” Vera advises him. “It’s a rare and very valuable trait. I don’t know either, to be honest. Alicia thought it was a good idea, though, if that helps. Give her something to focus on outside herself and not get lost in her own head, and yes, that’s a quote.”
Castiel remembers her reaction to seeing Cathy on New Year’s Eve. “They’re friends?”
“I guess. They’ve been meeting for a meal every day since we got here, whenever they’re both off duty,” Vera answers with a shrug. “Dolores told me Alicia was really helpful when she was here after the attack.” She takes a deep breath, meeting Castiel’s eyes. “There’s no records on who works isolation, it’s everyone and no one, you know?”
He nods.
“When—when Dolores came by about Andy, Alicia said—”
“She’d done it before,” he finishes for her. “Evelyn mentioned it. So she worked isolation?”
“No one will confirm or deny it, obviously, and I haven’t talked to Alicia, but… yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what she was talking about. And from the way Dolores reacted when I implied I might want to ask, I’m going to guess it was kids. For obvious reasons, that area is under guard, back stairs, go in and out fully suited, and no one—and I do mean no one—knows who does it other than Dolores, who approves them.” She shifts uncomfortably. “Cas, it’s not a popular job, and I’m going to tell you now, from what I heard around here, I’m not sure anyone living in Ichabod was in any condition to take care of it after the attack.”
He didn’t think of that; then again, he didn’t know very much about children then. Vera gives him a searching look. “If she was the only one… she never talked about it?”
“Not to her team,” he answers evasively, thinking of Kyle with even less affection than before; he didn’t realize that was possible. Vera’s expression tells him she was fully regaled with the unsettling saga of Alicia and Kyle when she returned from Alpha, and now has some very strong opinions on the subject as well. “Let me speak to Dean. I’m not sure—about anything related to that. In any case, I’d rather not disturb what little peace she and her team have now.”
“She’ll want to go back on duty ASAP,” Vera says, which doesn’t surprise him at all. “And no medical reason not to, in case you were hopeful. Ankle will be fine with a brace, so she’s clear for wall duty or anything not requiring a lot of running or heavy lifting. I’ll be honest; when she reports for duty, just nod and assign them something to do.”
“I’ll have Victoria revise the patrol schedule,” he agrees distractedly. “Thank you for your help. I should go speak to Sudha now, I suppose.”
Vera’s troubled expression mutates into unmistakable malice. “Decided how to ask yet?”
“No,” he says in resignation. “I’ll think on the way. Now where is her room again?”
“So that is why an Egyptian physician sees to the Lady Licinia today?” Sappho says in surprise.
“Priest,” Publius corrects her, and Dean can see from Cornelia’s more relaxed expression they’ve been doing their damndest to distract her. “High priest, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are mistaken,” Cornelia answers with a frown while Publius grins back, unrepentant. “He is a priest-physician of the priestly caste in Egypt, trained in Memphis and assigned to Egypt’s Ambassador during their stay in Rome. And I wish you would not fill Sappho’s ears with ancient history that cannot possibly be of interest.”
“The King of Egypt sued for your hand in marriage, domina,” Sappho says incredulously, tacking on the domina as an afterthought. “That cannot possibly lack interest no matter the point in time in which it happened.”
Cornelia sighs. “He was but a boy—”
“He was almost thirty,” Publius interjects blandly. “Firm of limb, full of flesh—though not so much as he is now, if his nickname is to be believed—and not unattractive. Quite popular among our young girls, who sighed every time he displayed himself upon the streets.”
Cornelia’s eyes narrow. “He wasn’t serious—”
“He pursued you at any and every opportunity not limited to appearing on whatever street you may have occupied, complete with entourage: subtle, he was not,” Publius interrupts. “He sued for your hand more assiduously than he bleated to the Senate to give him his crown!”
Cornelia makes a face. “He was probably bored—”
“He brought you an entire collection of the works of Praxiteles to lay at your feet,” Publius answers. “Four crowns, a chest of jewelry—”
“I don’t wear jewelry,” Cornelia interrupts, her expression reflecting even she questions the relevance. “And they were—artistic representations of crowns, not real ones. Alexandria is Hellenistic: they wear the white ribbon diadem to denote their sovereignty unless they are also Pharaoh, and then wear the double crown while in Egypt proper. Which I remind you, Ptolemy was not.”
“I stand corrected,” Publius concedes solemnly, eyes bright. “A tutor to instruct you in Hieratic and Demotic Egyptian, copies of their great works when you expressed interest—”
“That,” Cornelia says positively, “was very welcome indeed. Their hieroglyphs are fascinating. In fact, I recently received an obscure work that was apparently written by a young Athenian scholar who seemed to be fluent in both Demotic and Hieratic. I must say, I’m looking forward to when I have the leisure to review it—”
“And of course, offering to have you raised to Pharaoh of Egypt, reincarnation of Isis and god on earth,” Publius finishes triumphantly, and Cornelia slumps back into her seat, looking pained.
“He was going to make you a god?” Sappho exclaims, losing the domina entirely, which he can’t blame her, because what?
“He couldn’t make me a god—or Pharaoh,” Cornelia scoffs. “Only Egypt’s priesthood could do so.”
“A god?” Sappho says helplessly. “Egypt’s priesthood can make one a god?”
“They can. That would be why he offered a letter from the high priest,” Publius says in satisfaction. “Years of study, something something, and she’d be anointed on the very banks of the Nile which would Inundate in her honor. So, a week after you entered Memphis, provided you slept regularly—which is of doubt—you’d be anointed Pharaoh, graced with the double crown, and be worshipped by all of Egypt. And you’d also be Queen of Alexandria, of course, famous for its library.” He notes Cornelia’s conflicted expression in satisfaction. “Greatest in the world. It could have been yours, think on that.”
“A god,” Sappho repeats blankly. “On earth.”
“They say every book ever published is within its walls,” Cornelia murmurs wistfully. “Margites may be there, who’s to say? The poet Sappho’s lost epics and those of her students, even the works of the great empires of the East are said to be within. Imagine having access to the Librarian’s private library.” She sighs, shaking her head. “Not even a god would be permitted that. I would have tried, however.”
“God,” Sappho says clearly. “On. Earth. Domina.”
“And controlling the Nile on a whim,” Publius agrees, and Cornelia rolls her eyes. “Thus bringing fertility to all Egypt.”
“Why did you refuse?” Sappho asks. “To be god on earth and marry a king? And be god on earth? Domina.”
Cornelia sighs, slumping back in her seat. “I have no desire to be a god, for one. For another—I have a husband.”
“But he is dead,” Sappho says and looks sorry she said it, but Cornelia’s expression doesn’t change. “Roman women marry more than once—consecutively, not concurrently, of course—so why not you?”
Cornelia is quiet for a long moment, eyes thoughtful; even Publius is silent, watching her carefully.
“My father arranged my betrothal before he died,” she answers slowly. “Like my sister, he would not allow marriage before the proper age of eighteen and my betrothal contract stated it clearly. He called me to his tabilium and gave me a list of suitors he deemed suitable for my hand and asked me to remove those I found objectionable; I removed twelve, which he said helped not at all, as the list was long and greater than one page.” She shakes her head when Sappho looks impressed. “I am a Cornelia, daughter of Africanus, and patrician on both sides from ancient families who’ve served Rome since she began, and my dowry was rich; every man of suitable age—as in, not dead, married or not—sued for my hand. Most had never seen me, and even fewer could have picked me from a crowd. Nor was I ever pretty, so memorable I was not.”
The words are spoken with amusement, not pain, but Sappho frowns, eyes flickering to Publius before fixing on Cornelia again. “Did your father see you married?”
“No, I was seven when he died.” Sappho looks at Publius helplessly while Dean tries to imagine being seven and given a list of potential husbands to check out. And know what that meant, much less do it. “Gracchus was far older than I, of course—he was forty-five at our marriage, had been praetor and consul in his time—but he told my father he saw no reason to marry to forward his path up the cursus honorum. Which,” she adds, “he should have done even with his ancestry. Nothing helps a man so much in politics as a well-educated wife of good family and wide connections. Yet he was content to wait.”
“When did you first meet?” Sappho asks softly.
“I met him on the day of our marriage, as is tradition,” Cornelia answers, eyes distant. “We were permitted correspondence, of course, as is proper between a man and his betrothed wife. I wrote of my life and my studies, and he suggested appropriate tutors, which of course my mother and paterfamilias acquired for me immediately. Sometimes, he would ask me questions about different policies he was working on and would send me his laws before submitting them to the Plebian Assembly or Senate so I could review them and better understand his work. He said that as we would share a life soon, he would know my mind and I his, and so I was to note what I thought about what I read and leave nothing out. If I felt it needed correction, I was to do so, and if I was wrong, it could only be to my benefit to find out why.”
Publius sternly represses a smile. “He corrected you often?”
“Not past my fifteenth year,” she answers carelessly and all Dean can think is she really doesn’t know what ‘average’ means. “I told him it would be easier if I had a tutor who could teach me not just the law itself but politics both committal and senatorial. He sent one, I learned all he could teach me, and to prove my mastery, Gracchus sent me the summary of a minor—and senatorially controversial—agriculture bill to frame correctly as if it would be presented to the Senate and the People, and I was to also frame how to get it passed. Simple enough: I framed the bill so it was legally immaculate, wrote the introductory speech, the arguments that should be used and the counters to all possible opposition, and listed the two Tribunes of the Plebs that were in need of funds and would require a moderate bribe and the mistress of a senator I shall not name but held the votes of a dozen backbenchers who required a necklet of carnelian stones. It was an interesting exercise; I enjoyed it a great deal.”
Sappho licks her lips. “When you finally met? Was he to your taste despite his advanced age?”
“What had age to do with it?” Cornelia asks, exchanging an amused look with Publius. “His family, education, temperament, and ethics suited me in all ways, and his mind—only our sons could surpass him. If we must be vulgar, then yes, I found him very pleasing in his person as well.” She shakes herself. “I was with my women when my mother brought him to my sitting room. I saw him, tall and dignified in his toga praetexta, holding my bride-gift, and all I could think is he would be disappointed when he compared me to my women, all of whom were far prettier than I.” She rolls her eyes at her younger self. “And then he looked right at me and smiled, and said my name—it was so strange,” she says softly. “It was as if he saw no one else. Senator, praetor, general, and consul, and he tripped over the rug on his way to me and almost dropped his bride-gift.” Cornelia lowers her head, but Dean can see the blush. “All marriages take work, of course, but Gracchus—it was as if I’d known him all my life, instead of merely well over half through our letters. I loved him the twenty years of our marriage, and I love him no less in death.”
Sappho surreptitiously wipes her eyes, and Publius stares hard at the roof of the cart like maybe he wants to avoid that shit.
“He would not have you marry again?” Sappho asks finally.
“Of course he would,” Cornelia answers. “At his death, he made that much very clear. My first marriage was not of my choice, but my second was to be my choice alone. Tradition would not bind me any farther than I allowed it; I would marry or not as I willed. His last act as my husband and paterfamilias was to order me not to hesitate but become again a happy wife if I found a man that suited me.”
“But you did not. Domina,” Sappho adds vaguely.
“I had many suitors,” she says, laughter in her voice. “I was still young, fecund with six children living, of patrician ancestry on both sides, the daughter of Africanus and relic of the Gracchi, and very, very, very rich.” She gives Sappho a mischievous smile. “An irresistible combination indeed. They told me I was beautiful,” she snorts, startling Sappho and making Publius grin, “intelligent, educated, accomplished, cultured, and that I embodied all the virtues—half of which they made up on the spot—while thinking lustfully of the balances within my bank accounts and my numerous properties, and calculating my dowry to the last sestertius.”
“Lia,” Publius says in mock-horror, “you do not do them justice. I can assure you, they were just as entranced by the thought of their future progeny claiming descent from Africanus.”
“Granted,” she agrees with dignity, catching Sappho’s eye. “Not one, however, brought me as bride-gift the law I’d written wrapped in red ribbon, on which he’d erased its formally recorded name and wrote in his own hand lex Cornelia Africana Senatus Triumpha. What I sent him that day, he left unchanged, and took it to the Senate, where it was recommended to the Plebian Assembly by an overwhelming majority, and they passed it without a single veto. With it were the recorded notes from the Senate meeting and during the debates of the Plebian Assembly for me to review at my leisure. It was considered an extraordinarily well-written law, apparently.” She looks at her companions. “I think—though nothing is certain but death and magisterial extortion—that I shall remain a widow to the end of my days.”
Sappho nods slowly. “I wish I could have known him, domina. Would you tell us more?”
Cornelia smiles at them. “Of course, if you’re prepared to be very bored.”
“I could never grow bored listening to you,” Sappho answers, settling in her seat. “Whatever you chose to say.”
“They were a great love story,” Dean’s companion says softly. “It was not always thus with marriages of those of our class, though true disasters were rare. But all knew it who looked at them.”
They arrive at the house only moments later, and Sappho, once certain that Cornelia is out of earshot, asks Publius, “Domine, is it like she knows not what ‘average’ means when she says she is not pretty?”
Publius represses a smile. “Why do you think so?”
“Do you not have eyes, domine?” Sappho demands. “She is of great beauty. This Gracchus was fortunate indeed in having such a wife.”
Publius makes a choked sound. “My eyes are old, Sappho, but now that I think on the matter, you are correct. Gracchus said the same of her.”
“I should hope he did,” Sappho says, mollified. “You are wiser than those who told her otherwise. Fools. Fellatores. Mentulas.” Publius suppresses a laugh with visible effort, face red. “My thanks, domine. I am pleased not to be mistaken in your good character.”
“I am truly grateful to know you think well of me,” Publius manages, straight-faced.
As they come in the house, Cornelia nods to the sour looking steward as she hands over her cloak, and Dean sees Sappho’s eyes fix on him for a moment, thoughtful. “Your—guest,” the steward says even more sourly still, adding an edge of contempt to the noun, “is waiting in the tabilium.”
“Thank you,” she says graciously. “Publius, you will stay to dinner, of course?”
“Of course,” he says, pulling a face. “You save me a fortune in meals, or should; the bills from the market grow no smaller, yet my servants grow fatter. Passing strange.”
“Entertain yourself as you will,” she says, making a face at him.
“I thought,” he says, eyes fixing on some point on the frescoed ceiling, “that I might go to the markets and acquire a few meat pies while I wait. Pastry stuffed with mutton, goat cheese, and fresh mushrooms, fried in oil. I’ve heard them called unwholesome, but at my age, I care not.”
Cornelia stares at him and surreptitiously licks her lips “Four.”
“Cardixa,” he observes, “will like it not.”
“It shall be our secret,” Cornelia says, smiling conspiratorially at Sappho. “And bring some for Sappho as well, as a reward for her good nature and discretion.”
“I would like two, domine,” Sappho says firmly and Dean sees the steward—who is already not his favorite person—look scornful. That guy, he suspects, needs to try out a new expression: maybe a punch or two would help with that.
“Well done. You grow more Roman by the day,” Publius says approvingly as he starts toward the door. “We all wish to do well by our fellow man, but it hurts not at all for our fellow man to reward us with something more substantial than mere gratitude.”
“I will see you then.” Turning as the door shuts, Cornelia sees Cardixa appear, looking grim, and her smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
Cardixa hesitates. “Licinia.”
Castiel’s attempt at surreptitious observation fails before it even begins; Sudha looks up before he even reaches the door, reaching up to push a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.
“Cas,” she says in Hindi, reaching to rub her back with a faint frown. “Come in,” she adds, waving to him as she makes another firm circle of the room. “How are you this morning?”
“I was about to ask you the same question,” he answers in the same language, closing the door, and firmly averts his eyes from the large round protrusion of her abdomen. Human gestation never ceases to amaze him, and in this case, seeing a woman whose pregnancy makes her nearly as wide as she tall is—unusual.
Making her way back to the bed, she takes his extended hand to ease herself back down onto the mattress and gives him a wry smile. “You can look,” she says, gazing down at her own body in amusement. “I still find it somewhat surprising myself, and I’ve had months to accustom myself.” She nods toward the only chair. “Please, sit.”
“Thank you.” Pulling the chair closer to the bed, he tries once again to decide how to broach the subject (he’d hoped Dean would be of help, being human, but no). The mother always survives, he reminds himself; in all of history, no god has ever broken this most sacred trust with their worshippers, and he cannot—will not—believe that this one would take the time to give her this and then allow Lucifer to kill them before they could complete the covenant. Surely even gods can manage that much.
Faith: that doesn’t mean those of them on earth should not do their best to help assure success. Though how he’s to do that is still something of a mystery.
“Cas?” Sudha says, and he sets aside his own concerns at the thread of worry in her voice, smiling at her and seeing her relax. “Is everything—” She breaks off, hand going to her stomach and looking down; following her gaze, he watches incredulously as a tiny bulge pushes up beneath the thin material of her colorful cotton kurta and loosely-cut paijamas. “She’s active today,” Sudha says with a grin, looking at him and extending an imperative hand. “Here.”
Startled, he gives her his hand, and she carefully places it on the curve of her belly. “Wait,” she tells him, covering his hand with her own, and even having seen it, Castiel stills when he feels the firm press of something very like a tiny fist against his palm. Forgetting himself, he scoots his chair closer, letting her move his hand as she wills across her abdomen, mouth dry at the feel of activity beneath the surface of her skin.
“I think they’re becoming impatient,” Sudha tells him softly, and looking up, he sees her soft smile, face alight from within. “I can’t argue the point; I’m rather impatient to meet them myself.”
He looks into the warm brown eyes and what words he has vanish; he can’t tell her what he suspects and steal away any part of her joy.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, smile fading.
“Not at all,” he says. “I would like permission to be present during your labor and the birth.”
She blinks at him, and yes, he does know it could have been done better, but it could have also been done far, far worse.
“There are a limited number of medical personnel,” he hears himself say, lips shaping words that seem to come from the ether. “Vera is my doctor and I assisted her when Dean was ill and she taught me a great deal. As she’ll be attending on you—if she needs assistance—I can… do that.”
Sudha slowly raises an eyebrow.
“I won’t violate your privacy or modesty,” he continues, unable to discover where the words are coming from, much less stop them. “Two of my former vessels bore offspring prior to my time with them. I did have access to their memories, however, and… that might be of help.” Not better. “Traditionally, the Host would attend women in labor who were in—challenging circumstances, to bring them comfort with our presence.”
Sudha looks surprised. “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes,” he says, nodding hopefully; it has happened, after all. “While I’m no longer an angel, of course, it’s…” Now the words stop: why?
Sudha’s surprise melts into sympathy, and inexplicably, she pats his hand. “I forgot about that,” she says, tilting her head to give him a (very kind) smile. “Of course you can.”
Castiel just stops himself from asking what she forgot and why she’s looking at him as if she just heard his personal canine was unfortunately flattened on some sort of road. He’s not stupid. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I’m honored by your trust.”
“The honor is mine,” she answers before she sighs. “I should finish packing.”
“Packing?” he asks, then realizes there’s an open bag on the bed, half-filled, and another near the door. “Where are you going?”
“The third floor,” she says with another sigh, then shakes her head. “Quieter, and farther from the isolation rooms and the ER. The east wing is as done as it’s going to be, and there’s at least two other women who will be giving birth within the next few days, so we’re all being put together.”
He nods in understanding at the very timely sound of someone yelling in the near distance. “Tell me what you want packed,” he offers when she looks half-heartedly around the room.
“Just what’s in the file cabinet-dresser,” she says, pointing toward the corner where a battered metal file cabinet is slumping against the wall. “Rabin finished moving the furniture I needed last night.”
Taking her bag, he opens the file cabinet and carefully begins to remove the remaining clothing.
“I forgot to ask,” she says. “Has Nate returned yet?”
“Not yet,” he says absently, checking the remaining drawers and finding them empty. “They should return at noon…” He stops short, closing the bottom drawer, and turns to look at her. “You met Nate?”
“He introduced himself a couple of days ago,” she answers, bracing a hand behind her and frowning down at what must be some very interesting activity occurring within her. “Your militia is very friendly.”
“I’m pleased that you think so,” he agrees, closing the drawer carefully. “Nate was pleasant?”
“Very much so,” she answers as Castiel extends a hand and helps her to her feet before getting her other bag himself. “In case I don’t see him soon, would you thank him for me?”
“Of course,” Castiel answers, waiting for her to precede him out the door. “If it isn’t an intrusion—could I know what I’m to thank him for?”
“The room,” she answers, and Castiel just avoids walking into the doorframe. “We’re stretched a little thin for help, but Nate said he could have them ready in time for us. He even asked what color I’d prefer for the walls. I haven’t seen it yet,” she adds, looking at him. “Want to come with me?”
Castiel looks from her to the stairs. “Yes, I would.”
“She escaped her silly maid,” Cardixa says, looking grimmer still. “My own fault, Lia; I knew better than to leave Licinia in the care of that stupid chit while I met with the physician. It was no more than half an hour, but…”
“Licinia’s very skilled in escaping,” Cornelia says, squeezing her maid’s shoulder. “Where was she?”
“Walking into the Tiber.” Cornelia closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Several men on the docks saw her and rescued her and returned her to us.”
Cornelia’s jaw tightens. “We won’t be able to conceal that—”
“It is already done,” Cardixa interrupts, meeting Cornelia’s eyes. “I know not how, but they concealed her well and substituted a dead mule in the Tiber to explain if someone saw something—the man who came with them promised me not so much as a whisper shall reach any ears and any tongue that speaks of it will be removed before they can complete a single word.”
“They shall be rewarded, of course. Their names—”
“None would give them nor accept reward. They said to tell you that Rome will protect you always.” Cardixa hesitates. “The man who spoke—I recognized him. He’s custodian of a Crossroads College in the Subura. He says a freedman who has no business on the Palatine is often to be found here, though why he doesn’t know, and he has far too much money to spend and is far too free with it as well. He said to give you this.” Cardixa reaches out, and Cornelia opens her hand to receive a handful of twigs and dried wood. “He said to tell you, ‘For remembrance’.”
Cornelia looks at it for a long moment, then closes her fingers around it with an unreadable expression before she takes out her purse, placing it inside. “Thank you. Go give orders for dinner while I meet with the physician. See what we have to prepare Licinia’s favorite dishes tonight to tempt her appetite.”
“Yes, domina.” Cardixa glances at Sappho sternly before looking at Cornelia with obvious significance. Sappho nods, sliding into Cornelia’s shadow and seeming to almost vanish as she follows her into the tabilium.
“Emet,” Cornelia says with a warm smile as the man rises, wearing Greek dress but with his head shaved bare, and it’s only Sappho’s bewildered expression that tells him Cornelia’s speaking demotic Egyptian, not Greek. “Thank you for coming.”
“For you, Lady,” Emet responds in the same language, bowing low over her hand, “no request would be denied.”
“Please be seated.” As they arrange themselves, Cornelia folds her hands neatly in the folds of her skirts. “Is there anything you can do for her?”
He meets her eyes, and his expression says everything before he speaks a word. “Diseases of the mind are unknown by any but the gods; her condition, in my experience, is a progressive one. She will soon not know her mind at all.” Cornelia nods, expression unchanged. “I will say this; after speaking to all your household, I suspect something—I know not what—is making her condition far worse than it should be at this stage, and it eats at her. My recommendation is to remove her to the country with only her most loyal servants and friends in attendance, those who knew Gaius Sempronius and loved him as she did, so she may talk of him and hear of him and feel him near her. I cannot promise she will grow better, or that she will not grow worse, but the progression could be slowed, and you will have more time with her.”
Cornelia nods. “I understand.”
“I left your Cardixa with medication that will soothe her without causing lethargy,” Emet says. “The recipe I gave her as well. Some items are difficult to get in Rome proper, but send to the Ambassador of your need and we will acquire it for you.”
“You are kind, Emet,” Cornelia says, smiling and extending her hand, which he rises and takes eagerly. “Please offer the Ambassador my thanks as well.”
“My King worries for you,” Emet says quietly. “He would remind you he likes his wife not and should you wish for a change of air and a loving husband, Alexandria and Memphis are known for their good health.”
Cornelia laughs softly, genuinely. “Tell the King our chess game is still on hold in Misenum, and I await his next move.”
“I think,” Emet says, smiling back, “that he makes it now. I will return in two days’ time to assess Licinia’s condition.”
“And stay to dinner,” she says, rising to her feet. “And the Ambassador as well. He’s only just returned from Alexandria, I understand, and I would like to hear how his visit prospered.”
Emet tilts his head thoughtfully. “Your Roman nobleman will like that not.”
“They’ll survive infra dignitatem by proxy admirably, I assure you,” she answers wryly. “Did my idiot steward offer you no refreshment? Let me call for—”
A scream cuts her off, and Dean sees Sappho straighten, sliding out of the room before Cornelia turns toward the doorway, Emet at her heels.
“Lia,” Cardixa says, red-faced and terrified as she appears in the hall, “Licinia has barred the bathing room door, she will not answer us, her maid does nothing but cry—”
“Get an axe,” Cornelia says calmly, and like magic, Cardixa relaxes while two men behind her go running. “Where is Claudia?”
“At the door, trying to convince her to open it,” Cardixa says, falling into step beside her, Sappho on their heels. “The maid says Licinia was calmed, asked for a hot bath so she could clean herself—”
Cornelia’s step checks before she takes up a stride just short of a run. “Even she couldn’t be that stupid.”
“Find Publius,” Sappho says, grabbing a frightened looking man and staring into his eyes. “He is on his way to the market; tell him we have need of him and to run.” As soon as he nods, Sappho follows in Cornelia’s footsteps.
When she arrives, Cornelia is staring at the bathing room door, with Cardixa trying to coax Claudia, sobbing Licinia’s name against the heavy wood, away from the door so the two men holding an axe and what looks like a sledgehammer can approach.
“I’ll get her,” Sappho says quietly, and gently eases by Cardixa before picking Claudia up as easily as a child, whispering to her gently as she sobs, while the two men start to chop the door apart.
The moment the opening is big enough, Cornelia gestures sharply and approaches, careless of splinters, and once inside, all Dean can see is her stop short.
“Get it open,” Sappho snaps at the men, stroking the sobbing Claudia calmer. “Now.”
At double time, they do it, and Sappho gestures sharply for one of the girls hovering nearby. “Take Claudia to her cubicle and stay at her side. Allow her neither food nor drink you have not tasted yourself and have someone search her room for sharp instruments she might use. Do not turn your eyes from her for a moment, do you understand me?” The girl stares at her, and Sappho’s voice lowers dangerously. “If any harm comes to her, I will gut you alive and leave you for the crows.”
Terrified, the girl nods, and Sappho leaves Claudia to her, following Cardixa into the room, and stopping short by the immobile Cornelia staring at the sunken bath.
Licinia’s head is tilted back, cheek resting on a bed of blond hair that spills over the raised rim of the tub and over the floor, closed eyes sunk into bruised shadows and lips still parted from her last breath, her face as colorless as the marble around her. It takes a minute for Dean to work out what’s wrong with the too-still, dark water and realizes that’s because it’s red. On the edge of the sunken tub is a small, jeweled eating knife, blade shining in the light of the oil lanterns filling the room.
The water’s still steaming.
Dean hears a soft sound at his side, and turning, he sees his companion has tears in her eyes. Reaching out, he touches her arm. “You okay?”
“They told Mama it was a wasting illness,” she whispers, tears sliding down her cheeks, and without thinking, Dean wraps an arm around her shoulders, giving her something to lean against if she needs to. “She barely remembers anything of her, just what her grandmother told her, about how pretty and bright she was and how much she and my grandfather loved each other.” She looks up at Dean. “She wasn’t very strong. Her father wasn’t as kind as a paterfamilias should be to his daughter, and even her husband and his family could not help what was broken beyond repair.”
“No one should have to be that strong.” He thinks of how Gaius died and what was done to him after, what Licinia would think of his fate. Left to wander the shores of the Styx and Acheron for all of time, another lost shade unable to cross and slowly growing mad for all of time a river’s width from home.
“No one deserved such a fate,” he hears her whisper, like a promise, maybe to herself. “We will not have it. We’re almost ready, and this I swear: I won’t fail.”
Publius enters the room, eyes flickering to Cornelia, then the bath, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath before going to Cornelia’s side.
“I need to get her out.” Cornelia starts determinedly toward the tub; after exchanging an alarmed glance, Cardixa and Publius reach her just as she kneels by Licinia, reaching to touch her face with a stark expression that Dean looks away from: that wasn’t meant for anyone to see but maybe the dead. “Don’t fret,” she says for no ears but those that can’t hear. “Play with him on the shores before you cross, if you wish; he will enjoy it very much. I will take care of all else.” Then, to Dean’s horror, she reaches both arms into the bloody water and starts to ease Licinia up and out.
“No,” Publius says, wrapping an arm around Cornelia’s shoulders and pulling her back, bloody water trailing over her dress, other arm going around her waist. “It’s not fit for you—”
“I am a patrician Cornelia,” she grits out as Cardixa gives Sappho a desperate look that sends her running back out the door. “If I do it, it is fit. Let me go to my daughter.”
The two men come inside immediately—Sappho right on their heels and hissing something he’s glad isn’t directed at him—as Publius slowly, inexorably eases Cornelia back. Dean can tell he really wants to pick her up, but the set look on her face probably scares the guy as much as it does Dean.
“Get a sheet for her,” Cornelia snaps at one of the maids, now aware she’s been subtly dragged away and won’t be getting back there, though from the way Publius is holding onto her, she’s sure as hell trying. “I will not have her exposed to any eyes that might see.”
Sappho looks at Cardixa and then Publius before silently withdrawing and starts toward the other side of the house, crossing the peristyle garden unseeingly and entering a pretty sitting room—Licinia’s, got to be—and looks around before she starts to search.
It doesn’t take her long; Licinia might have been a good escape artist, but she knew shit about hiding things. Sitting on the floor of Licinia’s sleep cubicle, Sappho spreads out the rolls of paper, starting with the first and reading each unsigned letter, sometimes simply words, other times sketches in gruesome detail: of Gaius’ body on the ground in the Grove of the Furies, of it being slowly mutilated and dismembered, of the pieces sinking into the Tiber; sometimes it’s just his head, empty eye sockets staring and mouth pried open to show no coin for Charon within, skull sawed open and brain removed before it was filled with molten gold, for the promise of Opimius’ rich reward for whoever brought him Gaius’s head, amount decided by its weight.
“Cunni,” his companion spits, tears gone and eyes hot with growing anger. “To use her weakness against her—”
“She wasn’t weak,” Dean interrupts flatly, looking at the number of letters spread out, some crisply new, others rolled and rerolled so many times there are rips in the paper: the surface of all are stained with tears. This started before she even got to Rome; how the hell did they get to her in goddamn Misenum? Months: they’ve been doing this to her for months. “She was hurt, and they didn’t stop hitting her, so she took away their goddamn punching bag! Fuck that shit, no one should have to be strong enough to deal with that!”
He feels his companion looking up at him and realizes abruptly he’s talking about her grandmother. Who just died. “Sorry. Uh.”
“Don’t be,” she answers, staring up at him with a weird look. “You’re right. I stand corrected.”
Slowly, painfully, Sappho reads every one, expression as impassive as Cornelia’s before she gathers them again, rolling them up and concealing them somewhere in her dress and starting toward a different part of the house, finding Licinia’s maid, who’s crying in the empty servant’s quarters.
For a second, Sappho doesn’t say anything, looking at her for a long moment, then rearranges her expression to sympathy and goes to the girl. Dean can’t hear what she says—honestly, he’s surprised Sappho can make any of it out between the sobs and runny nose—but Sappho nods, hugging her gently, and rises without expression to return to the other part of the house. She joins Cornelia again outside the bathing room—Dean wonders how the hell Publius managed to get her out—still in her wet gown, faded red-pink stains winding down her bare arms where the bloody water dried just in time to watch the men carry out Licinia’s sheet-wrapped body.
The man stumbles when he steps on a piece of splintered wood, and the sheet slips, one bloodless arm falling free. For a searing moment, everyone can see the long, deep slices on her inner arm from elbow to wrist; in that much, Licinia didn’t fuck around. Her head slides off his shoulder, blonde hair falling over his arm, but looking at her still face, Dean realizes something he missed earlier; she’s smiling, like when Death finally came for her, it was very kind, a welcome friend.
Cornelia waves away the unstoppered jar that Emet is holding. “I’m fine,” she says precisely. “If you would, could you prepare something for Claudia? The shock may have upset her unduly.”
“Of course, domina,” he says, bowing, and Cornelia gives him a brief smile, but the dark eyes are dull, like the light’s been put out.
“Thank you.”
“A servant is with her,” Sappho says softly as Emet withdraws. “She should be moved to a new suite, domina.”
Cornelia’s lips part briefly, glancing at Sappho to see her touch the place in her skirt the papers are concealed. Publius follows her gaze and his jaw hardens.
“A new room would be best, yes,” Cornelia answers. “Hers is too close to Licinia’s. Cardixa, please see to it. And let no one enter Claudia’s old suite or the new one other than you or Emet without my express permission.”
Cardixa bows her head. “At once, domina.”
“Publius, Sappho, please accompany me to the tabilium,” Cornelia continues, dark eyes fixing on the suddenly obsequious steward. “I assume you can see to your duties?”
“Yes, domina.” He bows deeply, and Cornelia’s eyes narrow, there-and-gone before she turns, leading the way to the tabilium. As Publius shuts the door behind them, Sappho sets the bundle on the desk and steps back. Cornelia picks them up, reading each at a glance before dropping them on the desk, expression never changing.
“The maid says a freedman, very kind, was in this house and would meet her in the kitchens once per nundinae though the days differed. He was the same one who brought your correspondence from Rome, so she thought him a friend,” Sappho reports. “He told her they were from an admirer and would please Licinia so she would be less sad. She did not understand why they made Licinia upset, as she did not see them herself, because Licinia told her not to and she cannot read Latin, only Greek.”
At a knock on the door, Cornelia looks up, expression freezing as a woman enters.
“Mater?” she says, and it takes Dean a second to realize that’s Sempronia, Cornelia’s only daughter. When she was among those receiving word of Gaius’s death, she’d seemed a younger, duller model of Cornelia; now the wide, dark eyes she shares with her mother are the only similarity that remains.
“Ecastor,” his companion whispers, and yeah.
Sempronia’s dropped enough weight that she’s not just thin, she’s emaciated; stick-like arms poke from beneath the elegant black palla she clutches around her, and her gown hangs on her like it was made for someone else entirely. Cheeks hollowed out, lips thin and almost as grey as the dark olive skin, eyes are sunken into black hollows, she has the indefinable feeling of someone still moving from sheer force of will and nothing else, and even from here, he can see her shivering from cold despite the warmth of the day.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen Cornelia genuinely thrown, licking her lips uncertainly with a flash of guilt that vanishes beneath a bad impression of her usual calm. “Sempronia,” she says softly, circling around the desk and going to the door. “What do you here? You should be resting.”
Dean checks out Publius and Sappho; neither looks surprised, but there and gone is that guilt again, this time on Publius’s face.
“Mater, the household is an uproar. They’re saying…” She stills as Cornelia reaches her, and whatever she sees on Cornelia’s face must be confirmation; she catches her breath before her eyes roll back, and Cornelia catches her as she collapses, supporting her to the floor.
“Sappho,” she says, and immediately Sappho and Publius are with them, Sappho removing a bottle from her dress and handing it to Cornelia as she holds Sempronia against her shoulder. “Beloved,” Cornelia whispers, waving the bottle under Sempronia’s nose. “Come now, my love.”
Another woman hurries in, and Dean takes a moment; six foot two (at least) with shoulders like a goddamn linebacker, pale skinned with mousy brown hair and the look of someone who could bench press pretty much everyone in the room. As lightly as someone half her size, she kneels on Sempronia’s other side, looking a combination of worried and annoyed (an expression Cardixa wears around Cornelia a lot); on a guess, this is Sempronia’s maid.
“Nissa, could you not have sent for me?” Cornelia asks quietly. “She shouldn’t be excited, the physician was very clear on that.”
“Forgive me, domina,” Nissa answers, shaking her head as she helps Cornelia support Sempronia. “She heard the servants shouting and went to investigate before I could stop her.” There’s an unspoken ‘and tackle her to the ground’ that Cornelia seems to understand.
“My pardon,” Cornelia answers, lifting her head for a quick, reassuring smile at Nissa. “I did birth and rear her, so know her nature.” Then, voice changing, “There you are, beloved. Lie still now; you are far too pale.”
“I am well,” Sempronia says, sounding like she should be in bed for like a month and eating the entire goddamn time. “It was but a moment; it’s passed. Mother, tell me; is it true? Licinia is…”
Cornelia leans closer, and while he can’t hear what they say, he sees it in Cornelia’s back and the way Sempronia goes still.
“Let Nissa assist you to you room,” Cornelia says, straightening. She and Cornelia exchange a look before Nissa gets to her feet and crouches to help her up, by which he means: pretends she’s not picking her up like a goddamn doll. “I’ll be with you shortly.”
Cornelia watches the door for several seconds after they left. “I am not altogether content with her current physician’s recommended treatment,” she says evenly, and Dean’s pretty sure if he could read her mind, she’d be kicking the guy all over the house right now. “I need to speak to Emet. Publius, Sappho, please, wait for me here,” Cornelia adds distractedly. “I will return in a few minutes.”
“Yes, domina,” Sappho says, bowing her head, and Publius nods. As soon as she’s gone, Publius approaches the desk with Sappho at his heels, picking up each loosely rolled letter and reading it carefully. “They were in Licinia’s sleeping cubicle, beneath the mattress.”
“I’ll search Claudia’s suite,” he says neutrally. “Sempronia’s maid has been with her since childhood; she allows nothing that might upset Sempronia or cause any degradation to her health. She, at least, was spared—this.” Filth, he doesn’t say and doesn’t need to: there’s no other word for it.
“Has she always been so ill?” Sappho asks, and Dean remembers she’s only seen her here in Rome.
“She was a sickly child, took every ailment that she came across and some that seemed to seek her out,” Publius says, eyes fixed on the papers. “Her will was always very strong, however, even as a babe, and she grew in strength and spirit; Cornelia saw to that. She does very well in the country, but she does take every illness that may pass while we are in Rome, and far prefers seclusion and quiet.”
Sappho stills, though her expression doesn’t change. “She is widow of… Publius Cornelius Scipio… Aemilianus…” Her eyebrows draw together sharply as she struggles for the rest, and Publius looks at her with the ghost of amusement.
“Africanus Numantinus,” he says blandly, and looking relieved, Sappho nods. “Yes, consular and censor in his time. Why do you ask?”
“It’s my duty to know all I can of the family I serve,” she answers just as blandly, and Publius nods silent approval. “I understand that during her marriage, she was often ill as well, and required seclusion during her recovery. Gossip cannot be trusted, of course, so I paid it no mind.”
“In that much of what you heard, there is some truth,” Publius agrees, picking up another of the scrolls to scan. “There are always rumors, Sappho; the wise do not ignore them, but learn to discern the truth within the fiction. I appreciate the difficulties of your position and commend your sense of duty. Obviously, it would be improper to request clarification from Cornelia on such a subject, but if something confuses or troubles you, feel free to ask me so I may provide enlightenment.”
“I thank you for your kindness, domine,” she answers, busying herself with unnecessarily straightening a chair. “I would like to take advantage of your offer now, if it is convenient.”
“Of course,” Publius agrees with elaborate nonchalance, and Dean wonders if he should take notes or something. So this is how people work up to a subject; he’s wondered about that. “I’m at your service.”
“During those very pleasant dinner parties that entertain us all, when I was not attending to my mistress, of course, I would often overhear discussion among the other servants.”
Publius doesn’t look up from the scroll, but since it’s upside down, Dean seriously doubts he’s reading it. “Did you hear something that troubled you? Please elucidate: you need not fear reproach. It’s expected that you pay attention to what you hear; how else will you learn?”
“Thank you, domine. Among the topics discussed freely among them,” Sappho says, committed to moving that chair like an eighth of an inch, “Sempronia’s absence was noted and commented on, of course. Among the older servants—whose age I’m sure must excuse them much—it was remembered that their marriage was—somewhat difficult.” Publius nods casual agreement, and encouraged, Sappho continues. “It was also said that Sempronia was subject to spells of dizziness and was often—clumsy, due to them coming upon her unaware.”
Publius’s fingers tighten on the scroll. “Now that you mention it, I vaguely remember hearing such rumors myself.”
“You reassure me,” Sappho says, staring at the chair like it personally offended her. “Her… husband, I understand, often referred to those when explaining her absence.”
“Yes, that would explain how I heard it,” Publius agrees, but something in his voice makes Sappho shoot him a wary look. “I appreciate the reminder, Sappho; at my age, the memory can be uncertain. Did you hear anything else of note?”
Sappho hesitates again, as if choosing her words with care. “It was said that—he often failed to accord her the respect due to her as his wife, and would speak publicly of her in ways some found unbecoming in a Roman nobleman.” When Publius doesn’t react, Sappho continues. “I received the impression that he was not as kind as—as a husband should be to their wife.”
Publius stills, hand clenching on the paper. “No, Sappho, he was not.”
Dean unlocks his jaw with an effort. “Uh, are they saying—”
“Yes,” she answers, and the controlled anger in her voice matches the controlled impassivity of Publius’s expression. “That is what they’re saying.”
Sappho closes her eyes for a long moment. “Thank you, domine.”
The door to the tabilium opens again, and Sappho smooths her expression and at Cornelia’s gesture, joins them at the desk.
“Publius,” she says quietly, and in her eyes Rome burns for a thousand years. “I have work for you.”
“I was hoping,” he says conversationally, “that is what you would say.”
She reaches behind the desk and places a book bucket on the chair. Reaching inside, she picks one and sets it on the edge of the desk. “The exception to the lex Vocania, allowing my granddaughter Sempronia to inherit the Gracchi fortune and property in full and in preference to any past, present, or future claimants, male or female. It lasts two generations and will allow the inheritance of her daughter as well should she have no sons.”
Publius nods. “And that fortune—”
“This one, returning the Gracchi fortune in whole, along with all property, to my granddaughter to be held in her own right,” Cornelia says, adding a second scroll. “This one lifts the proscription of Gaius Sempronius and Tiberius Sempronius and confirms that they are not nefas and I can buy their passage on Charon’s barge. The Pontifex Maximus will be personally directed by the Senate to accept payment in full.” She adds the third, meeting Publius’s eyes. “Licinia will meet my son on the shores of Styx and Acheron and they will cross together.”
“The rest?”
“This one rescinds the proscription of my son’s followers and allows them to pursue careers as their fathers did before them,” she answers crisply, adding three more. “This one restores their fortunes and property to them. The Senate will never permit the latter but they’ll accept the former once they see it. This restores Claudia and Licinia’s dowries in full, Licinia’s inheritable by her daughter Sempronia.” She stares at the others and picks one up. “This one directs the Senate to order I be given first choice when the property of all those who followed my son and the three thousand executed without trial goes to State auction, and the opening price will be reduced by three-fifths.” She meets Publius’s eyes. “One fifth for each of my children that they killed.”
Publius smiles. “Well done.”
There are others—something about committal days, something about feria?—but the last one she holds in her hand for a long moment, staring at the seal before setting it on the desk.
“And this one rescinds the proscription of the family of Gaius Flavius Flaccus and permits them to return to Rome.”
“Gaius Flavius was Gaius Sempronius’s closest friend and partner,” Publius says. “Even dead, they will not—”
“They will,” she answers. “His only living son is only a few years older than my little Sempronia, his wife was abandoned by her family; they are destitute.” The revulsion in her voice is unmistakable. “I will not have it. He will climb the cursus honorum and be tribune of the plebs, praetor, and consul in his time, as his father was before him and my sons should have been. This will be done.”
He nods. “What else?”
“This is the price of each tribune of the plebs who is not already bought or can be repurchased to the sestertius,” she says, handing him several smaller scrolls, unsealed. “This is a list of senators in need of funds for highly expensive and some might call illegal habits. We pay or they will: I leave it to your discretion on which. Beneath are two of the most expensive courtesans in Rome; speak first to Flavia Ursa. She was very attached to Gaius Fulvius and would happily assist us, and an Alexandrian crown will encourage her to do her good work quickly among her current lovers. I need every backbencher I can acquire.”
Publius eyes the scrolls thoughtfully. “It will take time for them to draft that much legislation-”
“These are summaries,” she interrupts. “I drafted them myself; they’re stored in the empty cubicles by my sleep cubicle. All they have to do is present them, and I wrote their speeches already as well as their arguments and counters. I need a majority in the Senate first, they will make the decree—not worth the paper it’s written on, but I want it—and then it will be presented to the Plebian Assembly to be ratified and legally iron-clad; that means I need all thirteen votes without a veto.”
Publius glances down the lists, making a face. “I see several problems.”
“I anticipated that.” Reaching into the desk, she takes out the metal-cased scroll, weighing it in her hand, then opening it and removing the paper within.
“What is that?” Dean asks his companion.
She shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
“You need no instruction from me on how best to use this,” she continues, taking out her purse and dumping the contents on the desk. From among the coins and slips of paper, she picks out the pieces of wood that Cardixa gave her until a tiny pile of tinder fills her palm. “Enough to fill your hand at each. For remembrance.”
Publius nods.
“It was Opimius’ work,” Cornelia says abruptly, lips flattening. “He wanted me out of Rome, and used Licinia to try and accomplish it.”
“I doubt,” Publius replies, “that he meant her to suicide.”
“I doubt he cared as long as it resulted in me leaving Rome.” Cornelia’s eyelids lower, but not before Dean sees something cold in their depths, the kind of hatred that can last a lifetime. “He’ll wait, however. First, I shall have from Rome what I am owed.”
“Cornelia Africana Roma Triumpha,” Publius says softly, bowing his head. “Your will be done.”
“Sappho,” she says, and Sappho jumps little before rearranging her expression to match Cornelia’s, “tomorrow, you will go with Cardixa and one of my freedman clients to the markets and select Claudia a new maid and my granddaughter a nursemaid. I don’t care if they speak Greek or Latin or cannot speak at all. My only requirements are of character; they should be intelligent, loyal, discreet, of strong will, and good nature, the rest I can teach them myself. We shall look forever to find one to match Nissa, but if you can find one of at least your height or greater, that would be a great comfort. Select ten of each between you, interview them, narrow it to three for each position, and I will interview them here with you and Cardixa in attendance.”
“And Licinia’s and Claudia’s maids?” Publius asks neutrally.
“I will send them to Misenum to await my return,” she answers. “They cannot be trusted, but they’re of sweet nature and are loyal, simply stupid. Among my tenants are many who would be glad to have a freedwoman wife from my household, and I can dower them sufficiently to assure their future comfort. I will need a new steward as well.” She meets Publius’s eyes and that dangerous hate Dean saw in the Forum comes to life. “Please tell me when you discover he’s escaped and you cannot find him.”
“I shan’t search for more than two, perhaps three days,” he says. “I’ll select your new one myself, of course.”
“Thank you. I will be in my sitting room,” she says, and the very slight change in her voice makes both Publius and Sappho stiffen. “I will not be disturbed. By anyone.”
Publius bows and Sappho as well as she walks to the door. Dean can’t look away, watching her walk the long length of her home, nodding to a servant, pausing to answer a question, expression calm as she reaches her sitting room and locks the door. For a long moment, she stares at nothing, and then she crumples slowly, painfully, with a single strangled gasp worse than any scream or sob.
“Stop,” he says flatly, and it doesn’t, it doesn’t, fuck this shit, two steps and he punches a flat wall and a stationary picture of a woman’s endless grief.
Taking a deep breath, he watches for anything else to show up, but it looks like the (really fucking invasive) show’s over. Turning, he frowns to look at the blank look on his companion’s face. “Hey, you okay?”
She’s no Sempronia or anything, but he thinks her face is thinner than it was last time, full lips tight, and the lines on her face are the kind you have when things are bad and just getting worse. No jewelry either, he realizes in surprise; the brown hair is tucked into a simple roll at the back of her head, and even her gown is plain, a stark, unrelieved white that emphasizes the ashen quality of the olive skin she shares with Cornelia and Sempronia.
“It’s not working, is it?” he asks; he’s not clear on ‘what’ is supposed to work, sure, but he gets the feeling it’s pretty goddamn important.
She looks up, and he’s struck suddenly by how much she resembles Cornelia there if in no other way, and thinking of Cornelia’s life, he wonders suddenly what hers was like when she was alive. He should look that up, you know, when he gets a name.
“No,” she whispers, and even though he was ready for it, it hits him like a blow. Looking around, Dean realizes there’s no furniture and quickly adds a couch before reaching for her arm, leading her over. Sitting down, she drops her head into her hands. “That’s the problem with nothing written; you have to write it all yourself. There’s no way to know if you’re doing it right or even if you do, if it’ll work.”
Sitting beside her, he tentatively rests an arm over her shoulders, feeling the tension emanating from every muscle.
“Better than the other way,” he answers honestly. “Trust me, the script is always worse.”
She turns her head to look at him through red-rimmed eyes. “What if I can’t do this?”
“Dude, at least wait until the battle starts before you declare defeat.” She blinks at him. “Cas,” he admits and her mouth softens; yeah, he figured she knew him. “If you can’t, you can’t, happens to everyone; that’s when you call for help.”
She straightens, looking incredulous and amused. “This isn’t even ‘do as I say not as I do’,” she remarks. “This is ‘I had no idea you even knew the concept existed’.”
“You’re funny,” he assures her, and she laughs softly. “If it’s going wrong, take a deep breath, step back, and figure out how to fix it. Simple.”
“You make it sound easy,” she answers wryly.
“Never said it was easy,” he says. “Simple’s never easy, for the record.”
She nods, rubbing her eyes. “I’m so tired, Dean.”
Yeah, that he gets. “That’s half your problem right there,” he says, glad Cas will never hear this conversation; he’d be smug for-fucking-ever. “And I got your solution.”
“What?”
Calling in a blanket, Dean drapes it around her and uses his catlike reflexes, her surprise (and her being really tired, yeah) to tip her sideways against his shoulder. “Rest,” he says triumphantly as she tips her head back to glare at him balefully. “Come on, not like we don’t have time in here.”
“I can’t,” she starts, trying to get up (but not all that hard, he notes). “I have to—”
“Do shit, I know,” he says. “This? Is one of the things you gotta do. It’ll be fine.”
She hesitates, tipping her head back to frown at him.
“Promise. Now get some rest,” he says, and finally, she leans her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “I’ll keep watch.”
After getting a carafe from Brenda and two extra cups, Dean returns to the Situation Room and is surprised to see Kamal leaning over Vicky’s shoulder with a baffled look.
“No, it’s easy,” she insists, pointing to something on the screen. “Look, let me show you again. This column is for—”
“Hey,” Dean says, and doesn’t even smile when Kamal jumps, because leaders don’t do that. Much.
“Dean,” Kamal says in relief. “We’ll pick this up later,” he tells Vicky as he starts toward the door. “Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Sure.” Leaving the carafe and coffee on the nearest table, he follows Kamal out the door and into the empty room, watching as Kamal closes the door. “Everything okay?”
Kamal smiles smugly. “We found him.”
Warnings: suicide, method cutting wrists. It's not a play by play, but it is mentioned semi-explicitly; implied spousal abuse.