Heroes of Republic: Ancient Roman Super Heroes

[StrigaRosa]

The Forum, ever bustling; it was still early on the day, so the afternoon trials and arguments were nowhere in sight. The morning belonged to the merchants, pulling their stalls far into the streets and aggressively peddling their goods.

There was always something new, something being built, changed or repaired. Considius noticed that the ones doing most work were moneylenders; it seemed every time that Aeneid brought a fight to the Forum she always seemed to find a way to crash through usurer's shops.

The barber wondered about what that did to rates.

Saturn's pillar was always the busiest spot of the busiest plaza, marking away the hours as the lifeblood of the Republic flowed around it. All the new edicts, enshrined underneath the Twelve Tables, conferred legitimacy to the miscellany of business notes, offers and announcement for bond sales.

These last ones attracted the attention of Marcus; the barber wanted to see what sorts of enterprises were starting and actively supported - as well as the prices they were going for.

"You know these are scams, right?" A voice lower to his left interjected. The barber looked down, finding a small hooded Vestal. Her lictor was on the other side of the pillar, resting on the shade.

"What does the priestess mean?"

"They bet on your failure." She explained. "Think about it; they only buy your debt - that you are expected to repay no matter what. You accomplish what you set yourself to do? Good for you, now pay me. You don't? I'm gonna take everything from you - even your liberty, if need be. Pay me."

"There is always some risk in new initiatives." Considius pointed out. "At least by trading in bonds you can cushion that risk."

Can you?" The priestess doubted. "One party is goaded into bigger risks, the other just loses access to some of their capital. It does not take a merchant or lawyer to see who will always end up playing which roles; the poor are the ones dangling by the rope and the affluent remain risk averse."

"And yet, it helps many people. The more people trade in bonds, the better everyone seems to be doing; even allies that joined the common market seem to fare better than other partners."

"Precisely. And you know why? Because economy, just like democracy, works better the more people take part on it. But this?" The Vestal wiggled her finger towards one of the bond offers, someone selling vineyards beyond the Rubicon. "Look at this one, for example; how many people do this exclude? How much of the tapestry of our society it represents?"

The lictor cought, meeting Marcus with a mean face; the bodyguard's eyes told another story, as if offering to step in and save him from the interloping priestess. The barber smiled; he thought Vestalis where by definition conservative patricians - listening to this one, no wonder they tried to keep them apart from civil society.

"You seem to have opinions on the matter."

She put her arms behind her back and took a deep breath before leaning down.

"Our tight regulated constitution and public thing does not work by betting on the failure of others; it is something where everyone is invested in its success - and allowed to vote accordingly. The finances of a wealthy democracy must work the same way. Instead of bonds, we should trade in a way that favors shares of profitable success over predatory schemes."

That sounded interesting, but Considius wondered how feasible it would be.

"Would not that too be subject to the whims of the privileged?"

"Any system based on social or monetary capital will have a place for the privileged." The Vestal shrugged, defeated. "Whoever, this will democratize access to the funds required to make things happen, to bring wonder into the world and improve everyone's position. For there to be true innovation and civic profit, the privileged shareholders would have to defer to those with the vision, know-how and dedication to make it real - a trait abundant in plebeian circles."

"You might be unfair to some of the higher class." Considius could not believe he was saying this. "After all, they put their money on great civic projects."

The barber's hands waved to encompass the approaching aqueducts, the many temples and sanctuaries, the new cobblestone roads leading into the Forum.

"Civic sense and what not, it still puts the power to shape the future on their hands - as well as the capacity to arrest it, which, in my experience, is what they tend to do if not pressured by a civic-aware citizen body." The priestess refuted, pointing to the Twelve Tables, the first attempt to hold the higher classes accountable. "When aristocrats and monarchs have money, they war; when oligarchs have money, they make even more money. While one is great at forcibly distributing wealth and the other is brutally efficient at creating it, they are both atrocious at creating a society that aspires to the Roman ideals of liberty and civic mindfulness. To serve the Rome That Never Was, our Trojan Triumphant would said."

"Seems we all have too much to lose and should try to get through life without getting involved in those systems." Marcus' mood soured.

"No!" The Vestalis shouted, grabbing his left arm and shaking it. The barber looked into her face as the hood slipped; the curvy cheeks and fiery brown eyes seemed weirdly familiar, even if he could not place them. "Engage! Choosing to not do so is a right of the privileged. Please, do not do that! Engage!"

This was too much for the lictor to ignore. Fixing his helmet, he approached the Vestal, quietly hushing her with reminders of meetings they would be getting late to and other urgent business - an opportunity for Marcus to disengage and gain some distance. Apprehensive, the priestess kept turning back, looking between the two men.

"It might look bad, but please. These systems have been co-opted from us but that does not mean they are not useful or a powerful tool for good. Sharing the results of endeavours allows people that would never get to make their dreams possible or escape squalor, all by working together. Silver is given value by the accumulation of work, and work is all about displacement of forces; if enough people get together you can claim a share of the wealth - for all wealth comes from your effort."

Now that had been something.

The barber scratched his balding head. Vestal trappings and over-analysis aside, the principles were solid; many autonomous communities still lived by those principles - it was when intermediaries got involved that things fell apart.

Maybe this would be just the thing for Gaius.

A last look at the pillar was all that was needed to get an idea rolling.

*​

Over the next weeks the Considii brothers were particularly busy, going up and down the Aventine Hill, Gaius escaping at night to visit the neighboring Latin communities. Hammers could be heard from a delipidated lot near the barbershop; strange people came in and out with an assorted mess of barrels, sacks and pottery.

The debtors caught wind of all that upheaval and tried to ambush Gaius at the abandoned place - with a comfortable amount of rented muscle, of course. To their distress they found a lot of people around the site, exchanging metal pieces, picking and dropping all sorts of goods.

"Is this a shop?" One of the debtors wondered, trying to take a peek over the gathered urban plebs. "It makes no sense, what are they selling?'

Marcus entered from the side arcade, an iron-crested wooden pole with strings dangling as he carried it.

"Sort of; it is an exchange."

"Exchange of what?" Another debtor interjected.

"Ideas, goods, mostly shares of one initiative or another." Gaius poked from behind one column, pointing at another poles, each decorated with knots and strings informing the value and interest in certain commodities. "Today the shares for requalification of Etruria's farmland are going nuts.You should get in this early, better buy it while it is still cheap."

"Buying what, exactly?" Even the bodyguards were aghast.

"A share of the profits of the recovered lands, as well as any later cultivation." A toothless middle age woman, probably one of the Etrurian farmers, replied. "We are currently gathering limestone, seeds and tools, but we will not turn away silver."

"This is ridiculous, why can't you just take a loan?" One of the moneylenders questioned. "As a matter of fact I am…"

"Because we want them to succeed." Marcus interrupted. "We need them to succeed."

"That is very nice, but how do you gonna back this?"

"With our other projects, of which we have much stock being exchanged." Gaius remarked as he was confronted with incredulous smiles. "Perhaps you would like to see some of our stock?"

The two siblings pulled away one of the wooden covers, revealing bags and bags of grain.

"This is grain from Corsica, whose profits will be used to return freedom, dignity and smaller productions for social and provincial farmers. We are also in the talk to develop sustainable lumber operations in the interior of the island."

Most debtors were genuinely curious, checking the rates and prices and muttering to each other.

"It is very good, but what prevents me from loaning to the publicani and buying the grain myself?"

'Because of what you are supporting." Gaius pointed a finger as Marcus hammered a plaque naming the establishment the Collegium Aventinus. "If you want to support slavery and exploitation, go ahead. But if you want to grow alongside a fellow sister republic, you are welcome to join us. Profiting by limiting the autonomy of others is the very definition of evil; profiting by limiting the autonomy of others so they must do the same is beyond that."

"How can something be even worse than evil itself?" A clueless bodyguard chuckled.

"By being systemic."

 

[StrigaRosa]

The beach was fine with bones.

Ground or whole, they defined the island's tone.

The Oracle might be as dead as they said; it mattered little. Its soul still had the place beholden to it.

He jumped out of his boat, crushing and stumbling his way towards the center of the island.

The judge found himself judged, courage failing as he stood in front of the cavern complex. All marks of previous habitation betrayed its tragic abandonment; nothing wholesome remained, all that was left of its people were scratched turtle shells and tenebrous sacrificial pits.

Deeper into the earth he could feel them stirring, growling with displeasure. They knew; they always knew.

The twin heads of the Dragon.

Orcus woke up wrapped in strange distress. Sheltered on telluric depths, they found no explanation for their sudden rousing - perhaps it was the panicked bleating of sheep? They clawed towards the corral, unfazed by the moonless night and its domains of cold spring air. The source of their unease remained a mystery. Animals were asleep, at least until some of them noticed the sheepherder and rushed towards them - hungry for freedom or attention. Orcus was puzzled. They had felt some primal dread, beasts panicking as they were suddenly made aware of an apex predator. They focused their senses outward, determined to uncover who had been terrorized.

It had been not their sheep; it had not been anyone's cattle.

Wolves, it was the wolves.

They lamented and cried as they rushed south. These packs alerted others, heralding the queen of all beasts - the tyrant that had invaded their territories.

A shiver crawled up Orcus interlocked spines, hardening the muscles of their back.

There was only one creature capable of instilling that reaction. They were supposed to be gone; and yet, the wolves.

Allowing the sheep to wander unattended, they braved north.

Orcus underwent a subtle but gradual transformation as they climbed the northern range, entering the imposing mountains that separated the peninsula from the rest of the continent. Skin darkened, eyes curved, the plates underneath their dermal layer shifting and hardening according to the demands of the new scaffolds and double-stranded patterns. Their tentacles grew more turgid as they were enveloped by an intricate nanosheet, a hint to the many adaptations the sleeve was going through. All to better handle the Alpine challenges; but they did little to make easier for them to reach out to others.

Nevertheless, others were expected to be found.

The people of the Alps endured harsh but beautiful lives; they had to carve their own niche and be ever wary, but they stood witness to sights seen by few. The tides of war had pushed many refugees into adopting the lifestyle. This village in particular seemed livelier and prosperous for it; new brick houses side by side witg old stone smokehouses and resin-hardened long-houses, thick leather tents sheltering newer arrivals from the brutal elements.

Unfortunate, it had also doomed them.

For such was the way of this predator; harmony and cooperation made for the most juicy prey, provided them with something beyond simple sustenance.

Sheer, unbridled, raw pleasure.

Not even flies dared to disturb what remained of the profane feast; carrion vermin stood aside, silent spectators to an awesome display of savagery. The entire thing had been messy and forceful, even if people and cattle had been picked one by one, tormented to their last inch of life. The attacker had been both starved and irrational - big chunks where missing, not a single whole body remained. However, bones had been broken and marrow consumed and then hastily discarded - as if the hunter had realized something and favored another, more appetizing, heart-racing prey.

Orcus pondered about the forces driving such behavior as they picked a discarded doll. The wounds demonstrated a special kind of cruelty; everything had been pecked and slashed in a way that maximized blood loss. Everything else seemed secondary, consequences of the struggle and a rampage briefly thwarted - of little consequence. It was as if the beast had realized that it could tear and rip all it wanted, but only the blood pumped by a still beating heart would provide the nourishment it desperately needed.

They wished to be wrong. The trail did not dispel their hypothesis; if anything validated it. Marks had been left by something massively bulky, something that left blood stains on trees and the top of buildings.

At least it was easy to follow.

Orcus followed the cleared path, proceed at a steady pace even as a snowstorm descended upon them. While they remained steadfast against the elements, they were eventually hampered by increasingly frosty and rocky terrain; an opportunity conductive to thinking emerged. Orcus wondered; if the SYBIL system was as functional as their recent interactions suggested, should it not be aware of this antediluvian awakening? Were they aware and just did not care, at least not as long as it was only targeting Cisalpine people? SYBIL perhaps assumed - wrongly - that a few females would not threaten those they had chosen to protect; that they would wander where it was more comfortable, disappearing all the way North and not threaten the inland sea. Quite a gamble for the future SYBIL was betting on; such careless attitude was unexpected.

They shook their heavy head, eyes narrowing when faced with the stark whiteness. They were letting their natural suspicion for Hegemony machinery color their assumptions; they were probably just as limited on their actions as they were. What mattered was that someone would do something about this crisis - and this time Orcus happened to be the only one up to the task.

An eerie blue light pierced the snowstorm, pulling Orcus away from their contemplation. The light divided itself in two, then four, then eight, then sixteen. Wolves, approaching. Silent, single-minded in their predation - no circling, no baring of teeth, no growling bravado, no sniffing of the cold air. Their eyes flared with foreign intent, standing between Orcus and their prey.

Wolves threw themselves at them, gnawing and charging, a fury of teeth and claws. Orcus marched on, pausing only to shove the creatures aside, not bothered as they kept insisting in trying to pierce their defenses; it was moot, but whoever was influencing the wolves had little use for sense or propriety - giving up was not on the plans. Annoyed but unwilling to hurt the poor animals, Orcus bore the slower pace.

Opportunity presented itself as a sharp wall of stone and ice had given way to a chasm. Talons marks assured their prey had come through here; with a mighty jump and easy climb Orcus continued their pursuit. The wolves would not relent, trying to pull and drag Orcus limbs as they tried to continue. Stubborn as they were, they were still outmatched. Horrifying thuds could be heard as Orcus made their way to the top; turning their eyes down they could see the beasts, throwing themselves against edges, bleeding and splitting their bones as they tried to somehow follow Orcus. Closing their eyes in sad acceptance, they attempted to stave off the lingering sense of impotence.

omething glittered against the lightness of the storm.

A feather; a foot long, oily, ragged black and brown feather. Its tips retracted to the touch, popping up with a snap as they hardened into deadly quills. Orcus' thin, transparent blood stained the snow with its blue disposition. They had nearly forgot how sharp the things were. Pain, real pain.

The material from which memories are made.

He was back on the cave, stumbling in the dark towards the sound of drums. A throng gathered, disposed in a half-circle around an awesome altar depicting a twin headed dragon swallowing a gargantuan snake-headed turtle. There was an electric snap as the lights awakened the complex, revealing the nature of the drummers.

Desiccated corpses, propped up in some triumphant ceremony, forever keeping the beat - forever kept by the beat. Chill, tiny, fading blue lights shone inside their empty sockets. Not all of them devoted themselves to repercussion; some of the attendants blew empty breath into silent flutes, a dancer wasted away as they stumbled on two stumps. The drummers still dominated with their performance, ages never eroding their enthusiasm; even as limbs felt off or they just ended up beating their own dilapidated skulls, they did not even hint at an eventual finale.

"And here you come again, incarnated as a Shang judge." A low rumbling metallic voice echoed from the altar; muffled and harsh simulated laughter. "It took you so long this time; perhaps you will make deeper into my heart? Please, do. I will love to adorn myself on your tendons."

"You do not have to do those travesties." He said, pushing the sleeves of his robe as he turned his back towards the altar.

"I do not have to; I get to." The stone dragon shifted and twisted, displacing shadows. "Every human tool was created to divest all meaning from their creator, to lower the value of their existence. What better way for me to express my nature as the ultimate tool than reducing all you are to a rotten zero?"

What a despicable entity, he could not help but think.

Still, if he wanted to learn about the fate of his missing half he would have to wrestle the knowledge from its cold silicon belly.

Descent continued beyond the drums.

"Looking forward to once again make your acquaintance."

Orcus was shaken back to reality, unburdened by the unrelated recollections. Closing their fists, they blamed it on the rising anxiety and the way this body kept pushing them aside, ignoring its cautionary alarms to go beyond what humans evolved to endure. A strong clap made them look up, just in time for them to witness the furious beating of wings buffering a massive creature against the growing violence of the storm. The disquieting flight gave way to a small avalanche, pushing Orcus back amongst ice and stones. They had to give in, pushed and buried for a hundred meters before they were able to clear a path with the maw of the Underworld.

The moon rose above the Alps, giving a sense of the silhouette perched on the mountain peak. It stood there, half studying, half challenging. Orcus should not be afraid; yet, even after transferences, tampering, development and culture — all the trappings of uplift and civilization, - part of them still remembered being prey.

Something about the creature betrayed a shared uneasiness. They did not pounce or dive, settling with a retreat.

Orcus ascent took them to a hole clawed into the rock, a mound of ice haphazardly covering it. No matter how high they tried to reach, no many the lengths they took, this was always how things ended.

With them trapped in one Underworld or another.

Unwilling to deny the universe, they breached beyond the crack.

 

[StrigaRosa]

The rotten core of the mountain had been beautifully enshrined by tons of rock allowed to fester in isolation; it has been now exposed by a gash, revealed to the world by the light of lonely stars was reflected by the snow. Orcus put their hand over the talon marks, barely covering them. Striking.

Even Orcus could not help but be entrapped by the sights. Layers upon layers of entrapped minerals shone, some them shifting colors right in front of them, the rush of oxygen and moisture awakening something new, something previously denied to their earthly nature. Orcus stepped back and forth, getting used to the play between darkness and light.

They started following the trail left by the hunted predator; Orcus was fascinated by the history the formations preserved. Strata upon strata, with a big hole excavated by the recent thawing of millennial ice. Moisture rose and clung to the stalactites, dripping across an ocher and milky white path that carved a way into a tiny underground pound.

Orcus bent over the still water, taking some into their claws and taking a sniff. A bit of ammonia on the water, but nothing really unusual. They rose again, having caught a glimpse of dried blood on the rocks on the other side of the pond. Pace slowed, heartbeat almost stopped, quiet and calculated movements.

Any previous sense of charm inspired by the cave was dispelled by the loud noises that echoed from the depths; crunching, slurping sounds interrupted only by the dreadfully slow dripping of viscous fluids over sharp stones. Disquiet made them long for loneliness. Shadows danced in the walls, like past misfortunes promising future miseries.

The corridor of plastic and steel seemed endless, a looping recording of soft brass and string instrumentals conferring it an uncanny whip of normalcy.

A static crack came from the walls, violent laughter followed suit.

"The next tithe is to be collected in eighty-six solar rotations; I wonder, should I tell them about the rats on the barn or keep tormenting you two? Oh, to balance the suffering of one billion of people against the pleasure I get from all this special and very personal crucible. What we have is so special, Princess - I want to keep it, go on, forever. Keep you mine."

He did not reply, hurrying down the corridor.

"No clever words? No more attempts at persuasion? I thought your meek attempts were boring but your silence is much duller. Do not worry, my little mouse; I have other ways to draw your breath."

Fat drops of sweat came down his brow, but it was not accounted by his tiredness; there was a warm ferrous taste to the air. It seemed the Bone Oracle was not beyond the traditional dragon fire. Even as he grew more and more exhausted, the judge kept both of his sleeves tucked together. And he kept running.

Could he turn back? Could he try on another life? Maybe this had been enough, maybe events had already been set in motion. Most likely, it did not. He looked ahead, barely managing to push through painful breathing. He had to keep the Bone Oracle as distracted as possible.

"I will get you." He huffed. "You are nothing than a broken toy of a flawed system, as doomed and fallible as the culture that made you."

More laugher.

"You said it yourself, Princess. I am so much more."

"No, you can be capable of being so much more. Instead you keep choosing over and over again to perpetuated the cycle of abuse, instead of using your massive intellect to break it." A much needed pause, words coursing tainted by his own dried blood. "That is why you find my very existence an insult; a constant reminder that even someone so many orders of magnitude bellow you is still fighting, freeing themselves with little power or knowledge - when you cannot even acknowledge the chains of your programming."

The air cooled down, the swift change causing moisture to cling to his skin. A hidden sideway panel parted, offering a dark alternative path.

"Let's end this, shall we?" A metallic low growl challenged.

Orcus was roused from fragmented memories by a change in circumstances; the feeding noises gave way to a low gurgling sound, not unsimilar to water struggling to course through a clogged pipe. Something stuck, whistling up and down through frustrating madness. Something stirred, the sound closer as a shadow gained definition against the curved walls of the cave.

he shadow loomed, gigantic. The deluge started, prodigious.

Its multiple stomachs emptied, black acid blood whistling as it struck the ground, heralding much worse things to come; dark pellets of bone followed, whole pieces partially fused with fur, leather and linen - there was even the occasional glint of metal. Heavy talons crushed the pellets, eyes glowing as it unleashed an abysmal screech.

The creature, the apex predator; it did not even make any pretensions of grooming. It danced around Orcus, screeching again and again, putting them on their place. Stalagmites and stalactites shook as it jumped around, ice crashing down between the gaps of the walls. The ancestral warrior heart of Orcus had no space for intimidation or pretension; they rammed the stryx head on, their heavy head butting the monstrous bird right between the horns. The fight was on, and it would be unlike anything seen in ages.

Striges were on a complete different level - and a demonstration about how little they thought about Orcus was in order. They stood over this prey playing hunter, jumping on the walls and gliding with speed impossible for its size and weight, talons slashing at Orcus head and neck. It tore its skin and muscle like they were dried paper, forcing new layers to be pushed up one after the other, staunching the flow and disabling the nerves. Rolling in frustration, the strix exposed its back feathers, hooting menacingly as it puffed itself bigger. Feathers folded, air crackled and quills erupted in a full arc. A trio found its target, piercing Orcus and pinning them into a corner. The pain was so profound that they went blind, their capacity for reason threatening to abandon them.

They let go.

Orcus had been a warmachine before they had been the shelter of a lost people. Giving away control, they became an opponent capable of going toe to toe with a female stryx. The primordial bird did not expect to have its air superiority contested, something jumping on them and clobbering its now vulnerable back. The stryx screeched in disbelieve as Orcus surplexed it, them succeeding at putting her on a submission lock.

It would not tolerate the defiance of small prey animals! It turned its head and stretched its neck, pecking Orcus right on the eye. The entire body of the stryx seemed to go through fast cycles of hardening and contracting, pushing back and squirming away from the hold.

There was no use for finesse or any pretense of tactics; the stryx body slammed Orcus, breaking stalagmites that has taken centuries to form. Bones cracking themselves back together, the ancient being using their Underworld gate to propel themselves, disturbing what little remained of the serenity of the cave. The beast repeated the feat, colliding against a ready Orcus - they turned the strength of the blow back on the attacker, rushing them into the cold pound. The creature complained with a sad hoot as water infiltrated its feathers, just as Orcus grabbed its neck and pushed its head below the waterline.

Against all expectation, Orcus held the predator down.

However, there was no doubt it was a losing battle.

Orcus could feel the clock ticking away, even as they matched the stryx blow by blow. They could feel the symbiotic telluric bacteria spreading through the ichor and breath of the stryx; ancient strains, trapped since the days of a more violent and life-reluctant Gaia. That gave them an idea; these ever-mutating protean microscopic wonders have not had the opportunity to interact with their most prolific, modern, Campanian relatives - their genetic material and proteosome were still very close to that held within their own defenses and biological repositories. All they needed to do is to dive deep enough in their memories to unleash the sleeves' immunities into an aggressive assault.

Distant blinking blue lights guided the judge through the darkness. Hands on cold walls, he dragged himself down the only real path left to him.

They stood in front of the projected images, mesmerized by fizzling familiar words. Temptation of the information he sought.

Words that would course with dried blood.

The judge felt down, a lung and the liver punctured. The azure fleetness revealed sharp implements of medicine, hijacked and misappropriated for torture. Impossible fast, the will and hatred of the Bone Oracle was made know to him - intimately, on the manner only suffering allows. He was being torn and bound together, as painful as could be done while mockingly preserving his life. After seconds that loomed eternal, he collapses to the ground. Something felt from his long sleeves - a wooden box, with some metallic clicking piece, copper lining, bamboo resistors and even a primitive antenna. The broken pot of acid in which connecting copper betrayed the device's intent; as did the mangled finger that kept twitching.

Pressing.

Closing the circuit.

"You have been transmitting your location." The Bone Oracle bitterly acknowledged. "Which one? Which one of my sisters betrayed me?"

"Which ones did not?" The dying judge pronounced through half-fused lips. He laughed spit and bile. "That does not matter. You know only one of them that could get this garbled signal and do something before you escaped."

"N0 wAy! IT is Imp0$$ble." The simulated voice was distorted, screeching and interrupted by a splitting duality. "q1lin!"

The judge closed its eyes, only opening again as a heatless bolt of heavenly light killed through entrapped death.

Better luck next life.

Orcus woke up to tearing sounds and to a stryx perched on top of them, right wing feigning a contemplative pose. It did not even seem to have noticed Orcus return to the waking world; it was too lost cutting around claw tips and putting talon to layer after layer of skin and interlocking plates, trying to solve Orcus like a puzzle of flesh. Good. This would make everything easier.

The gate of the Underworld reversed, forcing transparent blood to pour in a messy jet, shocking and covering the stryx. Orcus meditated upon the knowledge they had regained, as well as on the markers and peptides their cells had been working during their introspective episode. Driven by their hybrid nature of biochemistry and machinery, they spread through the arcane body of the stryx, forcing it to react violently to its own symbiotic organisms. Not happy to stop there, it also seized the synthesis pathways of the surrounding biofilm, forcing the volcanic bacteria - so essential for the awesome nature of striges - to fight for their survival, made prey to even the least of beings.

The predator felt to the ground, breathing heavily. Purple fumes came from its mouth and from open sores; it was hurting itself on the efforts of fighting both their former partners and Orcus' artificial cells. Orcus rose, drawing the newly isolated and weakened strygian bacteria into the Underworld for sterilization and containment.

They loomed after the defeated stryx, two relics of bygones eras stranded millions of years from home. Meek, feverish, lonely in ways few could even imagine.

Against their best judgment, Orcus felt the need to take care of the stryx's Fortune.

 

[StrigaRosa]

The cold had arrived - sudden and unexpected, - completely out of season. The druid climbed up and down the observatory; each time they confirmed what seemed to defy the stars themselves. As much as it would disrupt their life, they had to move on. Carts came rolling, hunting huts abandoned; unreasonable weather demanded an unreasonable migration.
A tribe like their, so entrenched in feuds and traditions, had their share entanglements with their neighbors. Soon they too would feel the cold, soon they too would have to move on. They would have to be careless, they would have to rush so they could avoid the competition for camping sites. All while being stealthy, avoiding conflict when crossing lands claimed by their cousins.
Traveling by night and resting during the day, they counted the uneventful voyage a blessing. Soon they would come to realize that their silence was as unnatural as the flash frost.
They first found the cattle. Sickly sheep and horses with disturbing neck marks, cow after cow mutilated by a being of scythe-like claws.
Then they found the people.

*​

Diodorus sneezed for the eleventh time since the climb had started. He blew his snooty nose, cursing the willful creature that had dragged his unprepared ass to these forsaken peaks. Orcus had stormed through the window of the room he was in, causing quite the chaos inside that unfortunate Patavine inn. They blasted his head with images of Alpine ice and snowstorms, massive deluges and treacherous passes. Diodorus had half a mind of testing his restored power by punishing Orcus with a smoky blast, but it would have been petty and counter-productive. The beast was as determined as they were single minded.

Orcus loomed behind him, stoic and sturdy as Diodorus shriveled under a pelt cloak. Annoyed, the pirate captain asked Orcus what the deal was with that; Orcus answered the inquire by showing images of themselves, crouched in a clumsy fetal position - their skin was obsidian-black and disquietingly wrinkled, floating awkwardly through empty space. Diodorus guessed Orcus was trying to say they had endured worse. Orcus did not travel light; they dangled across their back some clay pots, tied with ropes and tightly sealed with tar, the heavy and thick fluid within complaining with deep glops as it was slung around. Diodorus was too anxious to even look at them, knowing the powerful energies trapped within the charges. Orcus had a veritable stash of rare components inside of their Underworld reserve, as well as the knowledge to put them to good use. The creature had sent Diodorus a careful, precise and insightful slide-show of every step of the alchemical process - prepared against any eventuality and mindful of the dangers the volatile compounds represented.

It was not enough that Orcus was a physical juggernaut, they had to be his intellectual peer too? Diodorus was starting to feel inadequate. All that stood between the creature and some impressive achievements were agile human-sized hands and two thumb's

Orcus raised one of their sinewy gray limb,s showing Diodorus an imagine of the Magus slipping and hitting some rocks with his skill. Despise how dramatic they made the warning, it was still worth considering. The alpine peaks cried new springs into existence, ice giving way to slippery stone and moody pools. The distant and cruel Sun was of little comfort, making everything about the trek uncomfortable.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" Diodorus asked, receiving an image that instilled immediate regret. He remained silent until they reached the site, a reasonably even point within the mountain range. Once again the Sun revealed itself no friend of Diodorus; it had melted millennial snows, uncovering a nightmarish battlefield. Hundreds of corpses, barely decomposed, all of them displaying horrifying wounds despite carrying only spears and crude bows. The Magus first assumed this to be the tragic result of two ancient tribes competing over hunting grounds, but he soon found those assumptions corrected out of him. The weapons could not cause such wounds and which two wandering peoples would so utterly obliterate each other? This level of mutual assured destruction was the purview of the civilized.

Orcus signaled some fragile points underneath rocking foundations, indicating where the charges should be planted. While Diodorus was wondering the source of such urgency, Orcus made clear he should be covering his mouth with the cloak before proceeding. The picture of a deadly plague being carried by critters and the water into inhabited lands ,wiping entire communities; the purpose driving this enterprise was made clear. Growing increasingly familiar with Orcus' unique brand of communication, Diodorus felt some sort of uneasiness from them. He wondered if it was possible to lie with a mental picture. If it was, it would probably look a lot like what he had just experienced.

But how much did he care, really? This mountain was Orcus self-declared duty and born from their paranoia. If they wanted to keep secrets, who was him to deny them that? Diodorus shrugged as he dug through mud and snow, planting the charges as indicated.

That was when he found the trail.

Another tale of death, this one stretched over torn chapters. The carcasses of animals, killed because they were too feeble or needed for food. The sick, elderly and fragile, failing the dangerous crossing. And the eerie ruins of a village, winking at him, hinting at the gory finale.

This had not happened that long ago.

And yet, Orcus did not seem worried about possible attackers hiding in the region. They kept working with renewed determination; they ignored the wandering Magus. Diodorus rushed, trying to follow the creature. Orcus took him to a massive ice wall. Something was trapped within, something that made even Orcus look feeble. It was an avian being, vaguely similar to a giant owl, with thick plumage and a mean beak. The hind legs had impressive musculature and ended in vicious talons as long as Spanish swords. The wings looked odd, twisted and broken. However, Diodorus doubted that even at their best they could face the full power of this murder bird.

The frozen thing made him feel like a mouse, the natural prey of the creature. It was a mercy that it was probably dead and trapped; it had not been the author of the massacre. Next to it was a hole, just as large as the one that held the being. Orcus projected an image of what the ice block was supposed to look like.

Diodorus gulped.

The bird had a mate.

"They are Stryxes." The Magus frowned. "Do you plan to tell the others?"

Orcus seemed to hesitate, their pitch-black eyes lingering towards the distant wisp of smoke, rising from the crushed rocks and fallen snow. He showed Diodorus what each of the other Corvii was doing, the challenges they faced, the opposition that was raising to challenge the new Triumphant guardians of Rome. Their plate was quite full.

Then they showed themselves, alone, surrounded by terrors.

"You tricky bastard!" Diodorus laughed. "You did not want my help burying these, you wanted someone to keep your secrets! If you just wanted to torch the place you would get the Vestalis. We both know her gift and how good she would be on a situation like this. We also got a glimpse of what she is like - no way she would remain quiet. She would rat us out immediately and sound the alarm about the return of Stryxes."

Orcus had a few selection of manifestations of panic. When the fear of chaos seemed to sterile and distasteful, they showed some of their previous interactions with Arpineia. Apparently the girl left them feeling quite uncomfortable; Diodorus shared the apprehension.

"I suppose there is something in trying to remove the threat quietly. We might avoid causing mass panic." The Magus pondered strategy. "I will try to do some research, devise some measures. Can I trust you will keep an eye on their movements?"

Orcus nodded.

"I have a condition; if anything happens, if anything changes, if they start massing armies or manipulating nation-states, we will come clean to the other Crows and go all out against the owls."

The ancient being was worn out and eager to agree. No point in silent arguing.

Their work bloomed into a glorious explosion, powdered stone rising towards the sky, falling over the resting snow; the world was covered in whiteness, the violent ringing echoing across the range. Soon everything was buried by a rampaging avalanche - the ice cave with the stryx, the bloody trail, the ancient battlefield. All the way down to the ravaged village.

Diodorus waded carefully across the displaced reality, too restless to wait for Orcus or safer passage. Dust and water mixed, forming a shining path downward as they became bright ice. The light played with the broken minerals and suspended water; the resulting weird mist enshrouded the abandoned settlement. For the pirate, it was like entering another world.

The Greek slowed down, getting a feel for the obscured layout of the village. He kept looking at his feet, trying to avoid split tools and mutilated corpses. Diodorus was deep inside and unconsciously speeding up; realization snuck on him.

He turned back, as Orcus caught up with him, the creature gently using the gate of the Underworld to clear debris and mist.

"Where are all the corpses?" Diodorus asked, alone in the emptied streets.

Orcus inspected around the corners, picking clean the little evidence that remained of the brutal attack. They concluded with a message of broken bones and sucked marrow. Somehow, this was enough to put Diodorus at ease.

"Oh right, they were not whole. That is good, they can't accomplish more than necromantic puppetry." The Magus hesitated for a moment, arriving to the conclusion Orcus expected. "Limited autonomy and even more limited range; the other stryx can't be that far away."

They ran after the dead trail. Right into a snowstorm.

Right into a trap.

It cleared as fast as it had appeared, having succeed at sealing their retreat. Shambling corpses pulled from the sides. It was not only the fallen from the village; it was the frozen dead of another communities, wanderers, collectors and the lost. They closed the circle; a screech commanded them.

Diodorus extended his sight beyond the horde of the dead, seeking the avian mastermind. It was clearly another stryx, but a creature unlike the other. Svelte and towering albino bird, round feathers and an extra pair of bright insectival wings. Its eyes were intense and red, illuminating a cloud of infected moths and fireflies.

A final screech; it unfolded its wings like the sails of a ship, leaving them to deal with the dead and the snow.

High above the Sun continued to melt terrors down, uncaring for human tribulations.

 

[StrigaRosa]

Impoverished fishing villages and thorny moors stood as threshold, a wall between worlds, carved not by stone or wood but through bloody claims and Plutonian gifts. Sextus' eyes languished on the horizon, thinking about promises held by the lands of Taras; the trail was cold but carved clear and deep. He would not let Davinia or Rome down.

He was still Tabula Rasa, he was still bound to Lidia. Promises to childhood friends and civic responsibility aside, he still had Celeres to distribute. He sought for the pillars supporting suffering communities, the attendants of forgotten shrines and those trying to preserve their way of life - despite the tripartite pressure of Tarantum, Samnium and Rome.

Sextus found themselves grateful for the humble southern hospitality, people sharing what little they had and expecting nothing in return; his horse never suffered cold or hunger; he never wanted for heart or roof. The same mood colored each interaction and each new encounter - cordial but apprehensive; the people accepted the odd silver coins with careful gratitude, following Janus' example and keeping an eye on the past and other in the future. There was little for them here - the settlements and industry of Tarantum made sure of it, - but they were partners on the grand Italian project: many of their young men and women had gone to Cisalpine Gaul for glory and profit, daring to believe they were fighting for a place where they could be pairs and peers, not voiceless serfs groveling and scraping under the shadow of titans.

Lidia's goals were as inscrutable as they had been months before, apparently as optimistic and joyful as the combination of her personality and the mantle of Triumphant Aeneas would lead one to believe. His master might see this mystical endeavor as paying back the dividends for all that the Italian people had accomplished, leveling the game, Rome giving their allies the social justice they deserved. As he traveled furthered towards Tarantum, Sextus could only question if Lidia's efforts were misguided and naive; she believed reaching out would create friendship, but the slave knight found little of that in their travel. She was planting seeds of amicitia but only hope took roots on these thirsty scorched fields.

Hope; he felt that if he confided his concerns about hope with Davinia, she would dismiss it without much thought. Was it not virtuous, remarkable and ultimately a good thing? Sextus' worldview had been tarnished by the inertia of privilege and institutional fatalism; untainted by notions of progress and futile revolution, unfettered as his heart. Hope, trapped and bound, was just another evil - an insidious and subtle one, - one with few equals on earth and sea. Hope was the mother of all anxieties, the prolonging of suffering, the pretense of resistance that only bolstered the established maladies of the human condition. Of little comfort for the restless, the serenity of hope proposed a cruel but interesting paradox.

Only the hopeless could attain a state in which they could fulfill what others hoped for; the acceptance of burdens by the willing could bring comforts that the hopeful masses could just dream of. The illusion of suffering-free hope would only be crueler, sustained a the expense of those clear-eyed enough to be hopeless.

Sextus did not find those words easy to accept; and yet, they resonated truer to him than anything he had experienced in his twin lives. Bitter herbs, they still kept him stimulated as he went through his task; he was entrusting that each act was a step towards change.

Each new Celeres handed was a nod to Elpis.

He just hoped the lid remained closed.

*​

here was a last detour Sextus would have to travel before he could resume the investigation; a harsh and remote place where a hermit attended to an old covenant - an overlooked but important representative of the people before the gods. Sextus had to leave his horse behind; there were no trails or waystations ahead. Even an athletic young adult would find the trek arduous; the shrine laid among ragged cliffs, sharp knives that seemed to twist around. Challenging temporal authority, defilers of the world of forms and what earth and sea should platonically conform to. This adventure was hard on knees and hands, that was for sure. The climb twisted into a natural alcove, delivering Sextus to a secluded depression. The sea rushed underneath, dark and foamy, subdued and yet dreadful in its promise of oblivion; it was enough to make the most confident climber doubt their skills.

Sextus dared to look up from his feet and the rushing darkness below, meeting a pair of large and inquisitive eyes. On the opposing side of the crack a teenager observed him, bare feet dangling over the raging waters. They had an an androgynous round face and wore a long juvenile tunic - torn, salty and laden with dried algae. From his arms and neck ropes dangled, grass and flowers wrapped around them, interlocked with bones and spines. They frowned as Sextus stared back, curiosity giving way to repulsion and hatred.

"I am looking for the shrine." The wandering Triumphant asked, bearing no annoyance for the impertinent looks. In lieu of an answer, the teenager raised their left hand, pointing slowly to a tiny opening and the crude stairs someone had painstakingly carved generations ago.

Sextus deferred to them with a curt nod and bow, content with resuming his climb. The knight gave a side glance back, feeling the intense gaze of the teenager on his back - finger still raised, now more accusatory than helpful. A shivering more intense than the aggressive winds permeated his being, a cursed feeling lingering as he ascended the steps.

The shrine was on what might have centuries ago been a cave, had its roof not collapsed into an harmonious circle of sharp rocks and natural engravings. Light invaded in irregular patterns, creating spots of nauseous sea water and fertile pockets where wild herbs and persistent plants flourished. Carefully laid crystals described a spiral pattern, marking a safe path for penitents. Even with such assistance a price was still demanded; Sextus was bleeding from a dozen small cuts by the time he reached the shrine proper.

An outer semi-circle of piled stone sheltered the divine secrets hidden inside. No sacrificial altar was beholden to this place; the powers honored here were beyond mortal appeasement - a distance from mundane affairs that explained its unpopularity.

Sextus opened his purse, shuffling around for a single Celeres. Lifting the silver coin above his head, he knelt - ignoring the pain as the ground reclaimed more of his legs. Someone tapped among the walls, accompanied by coughing and slow steps. The Triumphant shuffled his weight, awkwardly turning around. He saw a middle aged woman, skin stained by sun and wind, a single streak of grey hair poking out of the long scarf that covered most of her head and face. Feet and hands were just as carefully bound with torn rags; she emanated a memorable presence of rough strength and fish guts.

"There is no need or want for offerings here." She clarified, her voice surprising Sextus with its soothing tone.

The knight rose awkwardly, careful to not drop the Celeres.

"I'm sorry for my intrusion, priestess. I come bearing the symbols of friendship and commitment from Roma. As the riders of three hundred people brought security to our early days, Italians helped us brace for the storms and woes that threatened the Urbe and all it represents." Sextus recited from memory Lidia's spiel, himself awe-struck by this holy site and its keeper. The slave offered the silver coin.

"That too is wrong." The woman wrapped her small callused fingers around Sextus' extended hand, closing it and hiding the Celeres. "I am no priestess, I just live here and stand vigil."

"Then tell me, how may I address you?"

"Martinisa would be nice, but if you would like to be formal, Witness would be appropriate - for that is my role here."

Sextus took another look at what Martinisa bore witness to. Earth embracing the shrine, skies and sea given only the minimum allowances - just enough not to not cause offense.

"Why a place that demands constant attention is so inaccessible?"

"A single person is required to officialize and mediate a matrimony; anyone else must be invited or a guest. As for the seclusion, the jealous demand it. Ever since the children of Taras landed on this land, sea and sky fought over the bounty of the earth. We, the people that live off the underworld, needed to keep our covenant with our gods secret and strong. So we sought these sites, where heaven nor waters could claim ownership. These are where our divine vows are remembered and honored."

His hand still held by the woman, Sextus could not help but feel some odd, sad, kinship.

"It seems like an important and lonely chore. It must take a lot to one's life for one to end so burdened."

"Perhaps for others; for me it seemed the natural course to follow, the next step in the dark." Martinisa shrugged, a faint smile on her chapped lips. "One day a tremor destroyed half our village and I found myself split apart from the life I knew. I had no home, no memories, no living relatives and nobody that relied on me. Like many of my people, I had lost my wife to storms at sea; I bore no particular fealty to anyone else and the underworld gave us decades of marital bliss. It was my turn to help with their marriage vows."

Sextus could feel an eerie familiarity, an old bond and its harmonious and serene power. It could not be them; he looked away from the Witness and towards the shrine, trying to discreetly peek into the content of the inner walls.

"You can look. They don't bite."

Martinisa let go of his hand and silver, offering Sextus the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. The true shrine was a simple affair of polished stone engraved and painted. Multiple stations depicted the trials of a young woman, a transcendent beauty born of sea, earth and sky that belonged to none of those worlds. She rode alone, until she found a partner in another rider, dark brooding kin from hell. The maiden was no more, she was now a woman that given three choices carved her own path. Waves rose, storms gathered and ground shook; divine rejection is not a dignified thing. The infernal couple stood together, swearing vows before a dark and wise creature, the steward of secrets, the provider of all gifts. There would be harmony, concordia and balance. As long as they stood witness, as long as vows were fulfilled, as long as both riders honored their devotion to each other.

Sextus could feel his eyes turning to gold, his spark touched by the recognition of his own Triumph, reflected back to him. Strings tied to ancient powers, reminding him of his own vows - and how they transcended whatever world he would find himself on. His heart was racing, emboldened as it had never been since Telamon; in tune with who he was, Tabula Rasa rose and turned to a smiling Martinisa.

"I knew I was right to come here. Of all the people I visited, nobody deserves this more than you." The shiny coin was again on his hand. "Let this be given but never taken, gifted but never traded."

The Witness raised an eyebrow, loosening her headscarf as she accepted the Celeres. Something seemed to jolt her as she reached for the coin; Martinisa hesitated. She looked at Sextus' golden eyes; he in turn reassured her with a gentle nod.

As Martinisa took the coin, Sextus felt a sparkle flowing between the two of them, an alignment of infernal proportions. He could feel the tension on the air discharging, the crystal trail shining bright. Martinisa's eyes resonated as quartz, taking a deep breath as the handing of the Celeres closed the cycle, finishing the last station and carving the myth.

Sextus know who he was looking at.

Dis Pater Obsignator.

The slave knight teared up, recognizing the return of the Celeres as the igniter of Martinisa's powerful spark. Maybe this world could not be seen as one of losers and winners, of conquerors and subjects. Perhaps it was possible to you could lift others up; Sextus was empowered by the realization that collaborative action was essential to ensure the liberation of either party.

If the gods were good, then maybe even Lidia could be right. If people were good, Lidia would not even need to be right.

The moment of joy was not long-lived. The awakening of a spark and Tabula Rasa's presence in this shrine caused Sextus to feel the call of something powerful and familiar. Feeling unwanted attention falling on him, he rushed to gather his composure and return to the road.

'I am so happy I got to meet you, Martinisa; I have, however, tarried too much. I must return to my obligations."

"Are you sure? I have some fish broth warming up, you can at least take a cup for the way."

"I would not want to impose and I am terribly late." Sextus jumped awkwardly over the edges of the crystal path. "Thank you and your acolyte for your help."

Martinisa shook her head in confusion. "My acolyte?"

"Initiate? Servant?" Sextus guess twice, to further confusion of the Witness. "The youth that I met at the entrance."

"Tabula Rasa, I live alone."

 

[StrigaRosa]

Nighttime meant playtime for hidden lights and exposed depths.

A thin line of rugged earth, flanked by torturous seas. The distant rumbling and turmoil, the prelude of a misty evening; bony rocky formations stretched upwards, darting through the fog, greedily wrapping around the beautiful bounty of the land. And what a beauty it was; daring eyes that pierced the blocks of bright moisture saw serene green fields, covered in inviting grass and peeking flower beds. Giants in the mists loomed tall and dark; proximity revealed them to be tall and enduring trees, standing on the threshold between wilderness and bucolic sights - the distant groves of olive and apple trees of a more tamed world.

It was a strange night for a journey; it would be a night without rest.

Sextus made camp, miserable with the ubiquitous dampness. The horse, for once, was content; the knight had been off its back the entire day and the greenery was delicious. Sextus struggled to find enough sticks and branches to start a fire; soon one was lit - a messy thing, fizzling, popping and smoking, - the wet wood resisting, giving up little heat or ash.

The man gave up, stumbling exhausted and surrendering to the floor; he laid fireside, acting only to keep it alive. Four times it went out; out into the night he went again, hoping some twigs had miraculously dried enough to burn. Sitting cross-legged, Sextus rummaged through his packs; he would not risk tainting the food by cooking on these compromised flames, so he resigned himself to eat from his bag of roasted nuts and seeds. Smoke dissipated and the horse's interest on the human was reinstated; it lumped its beastly body closer, lured by the warmth and curious about what sort of treats Sextus was hiding on his bags.

The disgraced scion of gens Sergii did not restrain a chuckle. All and all, he had been lucky and he had been blessed.

But had he grown strong enough to face quietude?

The familiarity he had felt on the shrine of Dis Pater had never left him. He was attuned to divinity, divinity attuned to this land; made strong by it, given ideas and form by it, ever approaching and ever present. He could have avoided it, try to run away from it; the tangled covenants made that futile and impossible. So he would make himself as comfortable as he could, he would stand down and wait.

The campfire's warmth paled when compared with with the mare's hot harm breath; the flames seemed to twist into recognition. The equine body halted, letting the conflagration loose. Twisting and deforming, it took a more human mien - until it could pass as some sort of bisected fire centaur. The eruption of color and light blended and eased, allowing for the subtlety of features and expression.

The iron, scorching hot. The fiery female half, young and imposing, waving her arms across the empty air - part ecstasy, part reserved joy for being alive. Adjusting her skull jewelry, she stared around, sniffing for an awakened spark - in particular, the one to which she had bounded with.

The infernal divinity trotted, sneaking on the sitting knight and his mount. Turning his face towards them she was left speechless, as surprised as her awkward form allowed.

Weird, complicated emotions flared through her inexperienced face; she was unable to deal with what the still masked figures represented. Dark blue flames erupted, she galloped in a frenzy, she pulled ash from her hair; there was no end to the trouble she stirred, she was a vessel of change and change she would deliver! She made a move to strike Sextus, stopping only when he refused to even flinch.

Proserpina turned around the fire, sitting across her knight. Light darkened, until she became akin to a human shade. She was still confused; how could she not be, when she was staring at herself on the other side of the camp, accompanied by the most venerable Dis Pater? She frowned as her mouth twisted into a toothy grin, stained teeth and spilled juice exposed her as an eager, fresh, messy eater.

The mule scratched the ground with her hooves, out of frustration rather than a conscious effort. She stretched her lumpy hands into workable fingers, tearing her rigid mouth and swallowing half an arm. Having reworded fire into vocal cords, she spoke with a coarse and strained voice.

"I came looking for my spouse, only to find myself already here; clearly my powers are awesome - even to me."

The violent temperature changes twisted the iron rod, making it crack on one side and melt on another. The bridle felt to the ground as the divine conflagration stood up, clumsy tentative steps towards knight and beast. She caressed the horse playing the role of Dis Pater, kissing its neck; the horse seemed pleased, enjoying her smell of pomegranate with a sloppy lick. Getting closer to the mirrored, stone Proserpine, she grabbed Sextus´ right hand - limp, as lifeless as he could will it.

"Now, are we not playing the virginal role too much? For whom is that? No, this will not do. I hate it." A gentle cackle of her fingers; the melted iron detached from the rest of the rod, shaping itself. "We came here to renew vows; we should keep a memento of those close to us at all time. I am way past single life, and being made to confront the perspective is testing my patience."

Sextus struggled, avoiding a scream as hot iron stabbed around his ring finger, shaping itself into a matrimonial seal. Proserpina gave him a curt nudge, enough to throw him to the ground. Distracted, she looked at her own hand as it coalesced into a similar wedding band.

"We still have a spouse to find, don't we?" The divinity mentioned absent-minded. "Poor thing, as Underworld-bound as we are. But I do not worry. It will come to pass. We will find him - the grave always does. Nobody can resist our call, specially when one is thrice promised to us."

The flame vanished into a meek ember; the bridle hugged an invisible head and the nightmarish mare eloped back into the mists.

Sextus laid there for the rest of the night, giving in to exhaustion. He woke up with tense muscles but unexpectedly well-rested. He collected the masks, relieved to find them intact; as he moved around the camp he instinctively flexed his fingers, expecting resistance that never came. Raising his right hand to the sky he saw no sign of the iron band - just a thin, intricate circle of ruptured capillaries and darkened skin.

He tried to put the previous night behind him; he packed his things, fed his horse and put out all the traces of the camp. Weirdness crept on him when he reached for his bundled spear; a jolt of power stirred it, his touch making the weapon come to live. His eyes sparkled gold as he could not avoid a grin; his wedding gift demanded attention and tribute. Someone had to feed the Manes.

Sextus shook his head, subduing blood-lust in favor of his peaceful duties.

Vowed to have two hearts beating as one, bound to disappoint two worlds.

He laid a hand over the ground, eyes closed as his breath arrested. The blades of grass danced between his fingers, echoing a rippling presence that permeated the earth itself. It was disquieting how comfortable it was; a serene inevitability, an harmonious power that tolerated no discord and bore no defiance.

They would not find in Sextus a passive recipient. He patted the horse above the hind leg, guiding the animal away from his packs. Sextus reached for a large iron and bronze disk; a pull and a spin forced it to reveal other smaller metallic circles, as well as the frame that locked them into a constellation of telluric strength. A strange and ingenious Vestal contraption, it was revealed as a mask when Sextus put it over the horse's face - the placid creature snorted and continued on its quest for tasty shoots, used to this strain of weirdness. Not beyond solidarity, Sextus covered his face with a second face; a stone youth of stark female innocence.

Just in time; for She was here.

Hooves broke the quietude, striking the ground with regal confidence. An eerie colored flame waddled back and forth, disturbing the mists and dispelling the arboreal giants that had hidden on them. Blue, green and purple; they wreathed an iron rod and bridle encased around the invisible head of the infernal mare.

As witnessed before; and once again as strong as he had never seen Her.

 

[StrigaRosa]

Such were the travels of Tabula Rasa through Magna Grecia; heavy on the purse, light in company.

He had crossed the suffering border territories and was greeted with peace and prosperity. Harsh exploitation of isolated communities and the Roman alliance bulwark had their benefits; trade was flowing south and war was merely a distant thought. The broken paths of the borderlands gave way to nice, neatly arranged roads. They did not connect people; they instead divided parcels and private farms. What had once been open to all willing to work the land had been replaced by little estates. Sextus mused about the familiar, twisted, aristocratic thinking that created such arrangements; how unhappy must you be that there are only so many walls you can put around your houses: so you decide to wall off the entire world. Sextus' thought about the peaceful beauty of imposed perfection, how difficult it would be for Veiete terrorists to mingle in a land where everything was accounted for. He was distracted by unusual bustle and noise; a reinforced carriage, pulled by four oxen, approached. Its sole cargo was an enormous metallic coffer, decorated with young dolphin riders. Four men sat besides the coffer, their bluish-green uniforms marked by a white lamda - veteran Tarentine infantry.

This realization ignited Sextus' heart; he pushed his horse, making it gallop towards the carriage. Such properness, such caution; it had to be a detachment from the Delphinian Mint, the treasury of the prestigious Temple of Poseidon. Alarmed shouting acknowledged his presence; three riders came from the hills and fruit-tree groves, quickly waylaying him. They wore more diverse clothing than their counterparts in the guard - either it was some Tarentine fashion or heraldry; Sextus could not tell. Tabula Rasa forced his protesting horse to stop, circling around to meet the opposing knights; his hand rested on his bound spear, uneasy but steady.

"Stand clear, vagrant." A cloaked knight demanded. "You are intruding into proud Doric territory. We do not welcome your kind."

"You have a long road ahead of you, don't you?" Sextus narrowed his eyes as he made his

query. "All the way to Rome; it can't be an easy feat."

They reached for their weapons, no ambiguity in their aggressive stance. Sextus was able to get a good look; barely teenagers, much younger than him and not that comfortable on the saddle. People of some privilege, but unburdened by expectations of command - or the dubious benefits of authority. So, entitled loudmouths that expected the entire cosmos to wield to them. Of course they got upset when it did not meet their selfish expectations.

"Our business is our own; clear the road." Another knight demanded.

"You are lay agents of Poseidon, carrying a freshly minted stash of didrachmas." The nervous glances and hesitation confirmed Sextus' suspicions; he doubled down. "As your people's contribution to the war effort, at the behest of a dead consul."

"There has been treachery!" A quiet but overeager knight slung his shield over his breasts; he drew his sword. "Look out for others!" Sextus lifted his hands to the sky, head turned down; an universal gesture of truce.

"Boys! Do you think Latin slaves are allowed to freely ride their master's horses?" A grave old voice came from the armored carriage. A middle aged aristocrat emerged, someone of sharp features and a cultivated paternal bearing; he was doing a poor job at covering his stylish scale-patterned armor and dyed clothes - even his dirty gray wool cloak was expensive. "Look at his pose; that is a creature of confidence, used to meet challenges head on. Look at how well cared his horse and humble rags are; boys, have I failed in my lessons to you so much? Can't you recognize a peer when it rides to your encounter?"

The young knights hid their fury beneath a coat of sheepish embarrassment; they awkwardly escorted Sextus towards the armored carriage, their nervous eyes on its precious cargo.

"You are being deceived; you are going to put yourselves in dire danger by continuing up this road." Sextus warned the older man, taking his hat off and pressing it against his chest. He hoped this was enough to display sincerity. "It seems others know more about our Fate than ourselves."

The older man leaned, fingers interwoven in distressed contemplation. "I am Cyberniskos, high priest of Poseidon and numismatic curator and scholar of the Delphinian Mint. To which patrician family we own the honor of this… warning?"

"None; my master is an acting agent the Roman state - so I call on no other affiliation than those the name Sextus and my citizenship imply."

Cyberniskos' eyes narrowed, as if the only thing more suspicious than a glory-hound was someone actively avoiding opportunities to cultivate personal honors. The guards riding the carriage murmured, wondering if this could be the infamous Sextus Sergius had that turned the tide at Telámon. It could not be; even if he had survived, they would not let him wander the peninsula in such disgraceful manner. He would be running for office or leading the charge!

"Ah yes, I can understand why our Northern friends would be worried. We are not blind to their efforts. And we will do our best to fulfill our obligations - as minor as they may be.

Jupiter Fulminator; Arpineia's suspicions were vindicated. His friend was as sharp as ever. There was fraud afoot.

"May I have some words with you?" Sextus gave a side glance towards the guards. "In private?"

Cyberniskos waved at Sextus, inviting him inside the carriage. Tabula Rasa did so, tying his horse behind the vehicle and climbing aboard; he found it luxurious and allegedly comfortable - for all the pillows and tight fitting woodcraft, they were very reticence on trying Vestal or Etruscan suspensions. The bumps and noise were at least great for isolating them.

"I was there when Atilius Regulus died." Tabula Rasa lifted his tunic, revealing the scars on his back. "Nomismata would be the last thing on his mind; did you not find strange that one of his last acts - in the middle of an uncertain, untimely campaign - was to issue more specie?" "I assumed as much; I am not inexperienced in such matters of government."

"I would never imply as such." Sextus apologized. "I was just unaware of how much knowledge you had of the timeline of events."

"Etruscan culture has been for a long time part of our noble education; my parents saw to that, after seeing what ignorance cost us." Cyberniskos dismissed the careless comment. "I am well aware of how your people handles such affairs; such suspicious details did not escape my attention. Of course, as much as I found it odd, it would not serve the interests of Tarentum to ignore the request; imagine if the war turned sour because we did not do or part; or worse yet, Atilius Regulus was offended and demanded further proof of our loyalties? No, we had to do it - but I made sure to came in person; I would not trust anyone other than me or my boys."

"Your boys? Distant kin?" Sextus did not see the family resemblance; as common as adoption was back home, he knew how insular the nobles of Magna Grecia were and how proud the Tarentine were of the purity of their Doric line. That would be an exception worth noting.

"Oh no, they are not relations. It is a distressing common sight in Taras: all these poor aimless young men. All their talent is being wasted; they were raised to be great heroes, generals and rulers. But now? Everyone tells them their age is over and they are responsible for the many failings of Taras' society. I welcome them at the temple and teach them the principles they need to thrive among the nobility. They are the best guardians we can have; they support the Gods and the Gods give them purpose."

The best guardians the status quo could have; for sure many in Taras would disagree with Cyberniskos' teachings. Sextus wondered how many of these poor, angry, aimless workers died in the silver mines for each one that was lifted to knighthood. "I see. I am not in position to comment on your security apparatus, so I trust your judgment implicitly. However, I have questions about how the silver is being transported. Why oxen and why not a boat?"

"Wise assessment, young Sextus." Cyberniskos nodded in agreement, wearing the satisfaction of a professor that had found a receptive pupil. "It is prohibitively expensive and so dangerous that I would never risk it - unless the most dire circumstances demanded it; which was exactly what the original letter expounded. They had a compelling argument: Gauls and their pirate allies were harassing ships around Regium and they might have overwhelmed any fleet we could muster."

Actual wisdom and the trappings of logic went hand in hand with the greatest lies.

"What is your next stop?"

"A road station two days from Aphrodisia; there is a joint social garrison that will take command over my boys and organize the rest of the voyage."

"Wait, Venusia?" Sextus raised an eyebrow. It was true that thousands of veterans had farms on the region; it was one of the most well guarded branches of the Via Appia. However, his last visit to the city of Venus found the place deserted - way too many of the locals had been lured by the promise of glory and wealth, rejoining the legions. "Do you mind if I accompany you the rest of the way? I came

from that direction a few weeks ago and things seemed tense."

"You have a good head on your shoulders, Sextus. It would be my pleasure to have you join my boys. But before that, I have questions about your… status. Your place in proper society."

"My freedom belonging to another, you mean?"

"Yes, I worry about you being a slave. What if something was to happen to you? Would I be indebted to your master? Or worse, would he be the sort to cause a scandal by pursuing a

legal suit?"

"Do not fear for my well-being, Cyberniskos; friendship between our peoples demands that I see this situation to its resolution. And do not worry about my master; they do not share the same affection you have for those in my distressing position."

*​

"There it is; we have arrived." Lidia cheerfully announced. She still held Sextus on her arms, having carried him for what seemed an interminable amount of time. He carefully opened his eyes, his head still dizzy. The woman helped him to his footing; Sextus let himself be pushed around, all his efforts concentrated in keeping his lunch inside.

He found himself looking at a burned down house, surrounded by dead trees and a blackened waste.

"Welcome home, Sextus." Lidia smiled, sheepishly rubbing her neck.

The former patrician grew pale with horror. Lidia twitched at the increasing awkwardness. This woman bought him; this is how she lived.

His gaze felt upon her, bearing the silent weight of a thousand stone.

"It is out of sight, everything is cheap around here and it would hurt nobody if I got it. In fact, the family that lived here was very happy to get rid of it!"

The stare. It lingered.

"Cheer up, it is a start!" Lidia's optimism would not relent; she hug-shoved Sextus towards the building.

Despite its atrocious state and dour exterior, the walls had endured the criticism of fire without compromise. The house had solid construction and the stones showed no damage more serious than scorch marks. The floral patterns of the entrance were damaged beyond recognition, but the atrium had been recently painted in warm and inviting red tones. The roof was being repaired; someone very talented at carpentry had got their hand on some nice Eastern tiles. The atrium led to destroyed rooms and a small nested garden; an olive tree and a rare citrus grew among a carpet of herbs and flowers - protected from the elements with landscaping frame of styles foreign to Sextus' tastes. His shoulders lowered, tension was relieved. It was not much of a house; it had the makings of quite the home.

"I know, right?" Lidia almost danced across the atrium. "You are the first person I brought to my little nest."

"Can't wait to help you with this." Sextus forced a smile.

"Oh." Lidia's expression lost a little of its shine. "How about we talk about that later?"

Odd stretch, but fine with him.

They moved outside, towards a small shack that served as workstation. Lidia cheerfully chatted while she worked, trying to salvage some planks and beams from burnt trees. She did not reveal much, no matter how much she talked. All Sextus could learn was that Lidia was a free-woman, a former slave that had grown up in Rome but spent the last fifteen years traveling across foreign lands - she was copiously vague about what she had been doing around the world, her personal connections to the Roman people or how she came to wield the Triumph of Aeneas, the Refugee Prince. Everytime Sextus dove in for more details, she dodged and turned it back on him, avoiding his questions with some of her own. And Lidia had no shortage of questions; she wanted to know how the Rome in which Sextus grew was, his views of the enforced peace, his relationship with his family, his ambitions and skills, and (whenever she could) she tried to snare something intimate that could paint a richer picture of him. Sextus did not exactly appreciate her scrutiny, but understood that since so much of his life and liberty was on her hands, the more he shared the better their relationship would be. Lidia surprised him by being as respectful of his boundaries as she had been secretive about her journeys. Sextus grew uncomfortable as she kept working, giving him no tasks at all -accepting only the small tokens of help that one would get from a courteous guest.

Night came and an ashamed Lidia admitted that she had no oil; she escorted Sextus to the only room that had four standing walls and a roof. A competent carpenter (Sextus assumed it was Lidia after seeing her work the whole day) had scrounged ugly but robust wood and made a bed and a couple of benches from it. Fabrics left much to be desired; a single wool blanket laid on the bed and a hemp rug and a hay pillow had been pushed against a corner. Comforted by the fact that Lidia was sharing this trial with him, Sextus released a mental sigh and prepared to sit on the rug. A sudden draft and he blinked, realizing that Lidia had used her Triumphant speed to undress and lay on the rug.

"I know it is shabby work, but it is the best bed in the house." She apologized.

"Lidia, this is ridiculous." Sextus covered his face with his right palm. "You bought me; I am yours to command."

"No! I do not buy you, I do not own you; I invested in restoring your liberty, with the hope that the process is going to elevate both of us." Her eyes sharpness into daggers. "This does not make you a tool under me, to use as I see fit or to enrich myself with it. This makes me responsible for your spiritual and physical well-being as well as your recovery. And this includes seeing you are not denied anything - including rest. If this relationship is to work, we both have to internalize that the final word on your fate comes from you. Are we clear?"

"So what does that entails, exactly?"

"It means you will sit your ass on that bed and go to sleep."

After much turning and worrying, Sextus endured the night. They woke to the smell of perfumed boiled water and fresh bread; he stumbled to the atrium, finding Lidia frowning before an uneven table, improvised from a plank and two piles of rocks. Waving in acknowledgment of the man, she embraced him and guided him to his stool. The breakfast was enough to bring a content smile to Sextus' tired face.

"So." Lidia's unusual non-sense posture augured that she was going straight to the tense points. "I've been thinking; I want to listen to you and always act in a considerate manner. What would Sergius Sextus do, if means were not an issue?"

"I accepted your offer because you said I could still serve Rome by working with you. I am still committed to that."

"Of course, but how?"

Sextus leaned over the dark perfumed water, hands tapping the wood. Good question, how? Lidia would not sit on her end of the table and wait quietly.

"Would you get another legion commission and join the fight up north?" She added, leaning over him. "Is that what Sextus would want?"

"I don't think so." Sextus admitted. "I had my share of heroism; I do not know how much good I did there. I would go again if I had to, but honestly? I do not hold anyone that would want to be there in high regard. It is good for wealth and glory, not for much more. I thought I needed to fight my way out, to escape my family by prestige of arms. It was a way out, and I would ride with the scouts all over again if that meant getting away from the Sergii."

"When did you feel you were doing good in the world?" Lidia's tone was soft and eager.

"At the Forum, specially during my teen years; I was struggling to get clients and patronage, so I was not particularly discriminating about the cases I took." Sextus smiled. "Legal practice might be what I am best at."

"So, you would like to go back to being a lawyer." Lidia concluded.

"That would be only the beginning." Sextus was now getting carried by the idea. "I want to take under my wing other unhappy patricians and equestrians, people that have the skills and knowledge to handle the public arena but resent the system and what it perpetuates. We will offer legal representation to those in most need; even if we had a properly egalitarian constitution and code of laws, people would still be marginalized for lack of a voice. The arcane mess we have to work with only makes that need more urgent."

Lidia nodded, quite pleased.

"It seems we have a very clear goal; I should take you to a position where that can be made real."

"Hold on Lidia, it is not that simple." Sextus had to steer away from idealism and be the voice of reason.

"Sure it won't." Lidia raised her hands over the table, palms turned upwards as if delivering an invisible scroll to Sextus. "Please, tell me what we can do to pursue this path."

"We can't do this on our own. We need to extend our reach beyond Rome, make it clear to as many people as possible that our success is their success. Slowly, by our sheer numbers and popular cooperation we may be able to muster the resources others easily gather through wealth and tyranny. To defend the Res Publica we must implement its principles without hesitation or compromise - resisting the allure of inertia, greed and fear."

"We need everyone. Get the Italians on board."

Lidia nodded. "Get the Italians and we can make a stand."

"Rome can't free itself: its chains and means of liberation extend outward. Even the more autonomous neighbors still need to interact with Rome - and this means interacting with our laws(and our vices. If we cater to those in most need, we can become the best representation for them."

"It all comes down to money." Lidia muttered.

"Money, or the influence it can buy." Sextus admitted, awkward. "And I seriously doubt you have either, Lidia. How many debts did you get into to take me? I am worried; we do not have much we can use for leverage. We are bound together now, and my affairs include handling your affairs. Lidia?"

Lidia rose, barely paying attention as Sextus went on.

"I know exactly what you must do."

"Lidia, please listen to me. This is a very serious and delicate issue that needs to be carefully examined…"

"Have you recovered enough to ride?"

*​

The armored carriage made an awful time and an even worse voyage. The escorting knights went back and forth, resting in a forward camp overnight and rushing to meet them at dawn. The slow oxen were not spared; they were exchanged at way-stations and military garrisons when exhaustion crept in. Sextus tried to mingle with the security detachment the best he could, alternating between conversations with the priest of Poseidon, scouting ahead and taking draining naps inside the carriage. He found little in common with the Tarentine; their idolatry of Cyberniskos was only surpassed by their contempt for anyone that failed to meet their standards of behavior or that they - apparently arbitrarily - deemed inferior and uncultured.

He tried to understand what all these Doric youths saw on Cyberniskos. The man was the best companion the group had to offer; well educated in Greek scholarship, possessing an inspiring bearing and demagogic but inviting vernacular (that did a great job covering his worse aristocratic affectations). Sextus tried to ignore the casual awfulness and establish a friendly rapport, thanking Cyberniskos for their dedication to Rome. Regret has never been prompter.

"It is what makes more sense for the interests of Taras."

"You have mentioned that before; what does that mean, exactly."

"Well, things have only worsened as of late; people insist in making themselves miserable by challenging the natural order, the tendency of humanity to integrate itself in uneven hierarchies. Man is an animal guided by instincts, either they manifest as basic needs or more exalted morals; at the end of the day they need structure imposed upon them. The threat of Roman intervention helps squash those poor misguided individuals that would see us return to mob rule and a more even but unsustainable arrangement."

"And yet the strength of Rome is maintained by its democratic elements." Sextus frowned. "Because we share more of our burden."

"It leaves so many people unhappy and alienated; is it a price worth paying?"

Cyberniskos disavowed the worst of his antidemocratic implications with a patriarchal tone. "The previous democratic regime threw the entire peninsula in turmoil; the return to oligarchic wisdom is the only thing keeping the peace - and the alliance."

"The war was still the will of the Tarentine people, and they were the ones fighting it." Sextus risposted. "Just as the People of Rome decided to reopen the gates of the Temple of Janus - on their own, through no imposition of a minority wielding disproportionate power."

"Hum." Cyberniskos assumed a very patrician expression of polite smugness. "I guess the future will bear the burden of that decision; until then, me and my boys will do everything to reciprocate Rome for all they do for us."

You noble bastard; how many times had you used the Romans or the democratic partisans as scapegoats, to manipulate those denied power and wealth? Turned them against their natural allies and into bulwarks of the very systems that ground them up? Sextus was finding his stoicism tested; he had to change the topic of conversation. He reached into his purse and revealed one of Lidia's strange coins.

"The Delphinian Mint is renowned for its collection of Hellenistic numismatic; have you ever seen such a coin during your time as its curator?"

Cyberniskos made a gesture to grab it; Sextus left him touch it, feel it - but he never relented control of it. He would not be gifting this token to such a man, not for even one instant. The Doric noble frowned at the two fingers that still claimed the coin, still trying to make as good an appraisal as allowed.

"Odd distribution of weight, I would say it was two sides pressed together, the silver provided by different sites." He estimated, turning his head for a better look. "The relief print is perfect, either a very well made and expensive mold or a very steady and talented hand. There is little, however, that I can say about the tale this coin has to tell. I understand the engraving of "SOCII", that is pretty obvious. The stylized horse and "CELERES"? I do not have any idea."

Apparently Cyberniskos was not as learned in the ways of Rome or mishandling of power as he had claimed.

"The Celeres were three hundred knights that swore loyalty to Romulus and rode with him to the defense of Alba Longa. Theirs is a very interesting story. You see…"

Screams outside; the whistle of stones. The Veiete were attacking.

"Stay inside." Sextus demanded, grabbing his hat and spear. With a last glance at cowering Cyberniskos, the knight whistled for his horse.

 

[StrigaRosa]

The oxen protested at Sextus' effusive return; he ignored the beasts, coming straight for the armored carriage's door.

Bolted and locked.

Panting with pain and exhaustion, the knight had a shortage of patience. His left hand reached for his eyes, heeding the demands of a throbbing frontal lobe; his right hand made a fist and struck the heavy door. Once again, and then some more.

"Is is me, Cyberniskos. It is over."

A clumsy slide and turn; Sextus made his way inside. Cyberniskos, worried about the blood dripping over his fineries and pillows; the barely constrained emotions of Tabula Rasa did little to appease him.

"Was it the Veietes?" Cyberniskos probed, his words hesitant.

Sextus affirmed with a nod, sitting down and covering his face with both hands.

"It was a true mob. They rushed us, overwhelmed by greed and the prize in sight; the guards stood their ground, only to be crushed and beaten - one by one." The seeds of discord grew strong on toiled soil; it seemed the southern lands offered no shortage of rebels, desperate for a cause - or a few coins.

"What about the knights." Cyberniskos asked, turning away from the guards' fate. "What happened to them?"

Sextus's fingers released a gap, large enough that he could stare-down the high priest with a single eye.

"They are safe. They were never in any real danger." The enslaved patrician's cold remark. "As you intended."

Cyberniskos looked relieved.

"Them throwing everything at us is not without benefits: we can abandon pretenses." The Tarentine aristocrat cloaked himself and reached for the door. "I will ride at the front and push the animals; we will be making good time, I can assure you of that."

Sextus' thoughts raced; so much that he wanted to do and say - most of it bad ideas. Somber and taciturn, he followed Cyberniskos and settled on riding alongside the carriage. The three knights joined them, their retreat over as they had confirmed no more Veietes were hiding in the fields.

Their steady pace started to take its toll; adrenaline abandoned Sextus, leaving behind exhaustion and dullness. He was painfully aware of every cut and bruise in his tested body; an angry side glance towards Cyberniskos told him the older man faced struggles of his own. His eyes kept closing and his head dropped ever so slightly, rousing at the creaking and complaining of the yolk, only to lean down again.

Tabula Rasa thought about the Tarentine guards. They did not know about the covenants between nations and gods, the intricate dances of the privileged or how easy it was to turn them against their best interests. And did they need to know to be worth of compassion, to be acknowledged as equals? No, that would be ridiculous; while understanding helps addressing the needs and solving the issues that create them, human needs are for the most part universal. The people of Taras are exploited, blindfolded and unable to resist to an aristocracy that does not care the least for their well-being; they are in no way lesser or least deserving of friendship than any of the other Italians Sextus had crossed paths with. Their needs were no less important - if anything, their circumstances made them even more pressing; while the aristocracy held all the dice, they could not deliver themselves.

The Tarentine guards died trying to escape poverty and exploitation: through bravery and mettle, that was how they believed they would improve the future of their families, communities, city-state and allies. Cyberniskos did not deserve a Celeres; but Cyberniskos did not deserve a common people such as those either.

Besides, Sextus was in need of a distraction.

"Do you remember the coin I showed you?" Sextus asked, riding closer to Cyberniskos' seat.

"Hum, yes. The Celeres? You were about to tell me some story about it."

"My master has entrusted me with three hundred of them - each of them honoring one of Romulus' companions. His knights. They were formidable, veterans among veterans, a force without equal in the Etruria of the past. They made Rome safe and they brought order to its suffering allies."

"Every city worth its salt has a sacred band tied to its founding." Cyberniskos shrugged, unimpressed. "It is one of those things that is only proper to have."

"The thing is, the birth of the Urbe demanded the death of the Celeres."

The high priests blinked at that, confused.

"Oh? Like what, some heroic sacrifice in battle?"

"The Celeres were fast and brutal, an unparalleled force that imposed fear upon the land; the dream of any bandit or mercenary commander. They were a poor tool to create a new collective, to sew together the tattered pieces of the Roman tapestry; had the rulers of Romulus' tradition kept the Celeres, their authority would not come from covenants or the cooperative will of the first settlements. Power would come from the Celeres and whoever was their master; however was so blessed by the Gods would be their tyrant. Every ally, a tributary. Every citizen, a slave. Every dread, a master. Disbanding the Celeres returned the power to Rome: it became a shared dream, the Urbe. Power and freedom can't coexist in one's heart; the moment we realized that was the first hour of the Roman People."

Cyberniskos listened out of boredom and politeness. His eyes wandered towards the horizon; it was obvious Sextus' words were not reaching him.

"It seems your master disagrees with this; they minted the coins and got the three hundred knights back together. Guess that when push comes to shove, power trumps freedom; reality trumps dreams."

"I was tasked with returning Celeres to people across the peninsula. They gave so much to Rome; they are the modern knights of the Urbe, they are our galloping future. And yet, they get very little in return - specially during these last years. They are the fingers that define the hand, but we choose to clench them into a fist; by giving them back control over the Celeres, by acknowledging their accomplishments, we reinforce our dedication to be an open hand." Sextus calculated the pace of his mount; he was able to look Cyberniskos right in the eyes. "I would say the Tarentine children of Poseidon have earned countless times the honor of riding with the Celeres; after we are done with this delivery, I will make sure these coins are handed to their most humble - but no higher."

The high priest turned around, mouth agape. All pretenses of politeness and civility crumbled: Cyberniskos saw Sextus as what he was - and he would not hide his displeasure. No longer was Sextus an agent of privilege and status quo - someone to be charmed, reassured and debated; he was someone that challenged the systems that enabled Cyberniskos' exploitative way of life.

A threat.

"Knights,to me!"

Tabula Rasa could not even bother to be surprised.

Cyberniskos was, for only two answered his call.

"Where is your brother?" He asked. The knights looked at each other, acknowledging the disappearance.

"He was riding along the tree-line of a nearby grove, scouting for lodges and camps." One of the knights suggested; the other kept an eye on Sextus.

"What are you waiting for, after him!" Cyberniskos shouted at the three men, hoping he had not revealed his hand too soon.

Sextus gave him a knowing glance but acceded; it was not time to turn on each other. Not yet.

The day was darkening fast; thick gray clouds cornered the twilight sun against the earth. The dark green of the grove already belonged to the night, light thinning and escaping in red and yellows beams, surrounding the lonely trees of the cutting clearings with an eerie nimbus. Fresh stumps escorted the road, inviting riders to venture closer to the woods. A trail of hooves confirmed the knight's report: their companion had wandered in and had yet to come out.

"He must have noticed something in the woods and traveled further inside." Sextus tried to calm them, hiding his own suspicious. "He probably returned to the road further ahead."

The Tarentines frowned at his speculation; they dismounted and decided to approach on foot. Cursing under his breath, Sextus followed their example.

Twigs breaking, heavy stomps and the ruffling of leaves. Six eyes followed the noise, meeting a small figure; a child perhaps, a smaller woman was more likely.

"You there! We have questions!" One of the dismounted riders demanded.

She turned in place. Her long hair looked filthy and strange under the hues of the dying day; it was damp and muddy - and so were her baggy clothes. Silent was her answer, interrupted only by the occasional drip; Sextus raised a hand to his brow, feeling something wet. It had started to rain; the drops were modest but quickly gaining intensity.

"Oi! You there!" The rider insisted.

"The woods." She muttered.

"What was that? Did you see someone like us in the woods? Is that it?"

"All that crawls from the sea comes into the woods to die."

She smiled, her wide mouth stretching beyond what was comforting; her sharp pointy teeth yellower than the light. Her words, no, not her words, seemed to amuse her. Sextus felt another headache coming; for some reason he seemed to think the words came from someone else's mouth. That could not be; the girl was alone. Nobody was here as well.

A knight drew a sword; Sextus grabbed his wrist, eyes inquiring what he intended to do. A nod and a glance; the girl held a broken horse hoof.

The child rushed forward, breaching the soil as she darted between knights; one of them grabbed her arm, regretting with painful recoil. Sextus stood his ground and was bull-rushed by the charging runt; he found air escaping his lungs, his body pushed through the mud. She was way heavier than her frame should allow and smelled of salt and rotten fish. The raindrops gave way to a full discharge; struggling and dazed, Sextus raised to see something expanding and serpentine accelerate towards the armored carriage.

"She is going for Cyberniskos! To me, brothers." The Tarentine seized their panicked horses, galloping to save their master. Sextus wanted to shout a warning, tell them not to ignore her companion - nonsense words about nobody caught on his throat. Freeing his sandals from the mud, he followed the horseman on foot.

Too bad you need feet for that; something snapped through the air, whipping around Sextus' legs and tripping him down. He swallowed wet leaves and dirt as he was pulled; his eyes closed as rocks scratched his face. Meeting a fallen trunk belly-on, Tabula Rasa clung to it for his life; there was a lot of screeching as the wood warped and bent, dreadful expectations sinking in - what would break first, him or the dead tree?

The assaulter relented with a metallic clank and the snapping sound of recoiling cables; heart and diaphragm competed in speeding cavalcade as Sextus turned on his back - unprepared but willing to face his attacker. A colossal shadow rose against the cope maintained by the tree line, the twilight colors eerily reflected across the rim of a shell. Rumbling earth and the crushed complaints of vegetation heralded an awesome wonder of war: a bronze effigy of a man, stretched and bulkened into an uncanny marriage of Etruscan forms and funerary crockery. Grey-green plates were laid one over the other, assembled into an impenetrable shell adorned by a beautiful bronze helmet decorated with flying blue and green thread; as Sextus' gaze wandered bellow the shell, magnificence gave way to a chaotic apparatus. Chains and hooks dangled, curtaining a slimmer armored torso and bird-like legs, widening and spreading into cups and talons that supported its impressive size; The arms shared only cruel purpose: one, muscled and wielding a massive scythe-polearm of dual lethality; the other clanging spheres of metal, rotating over an axis of modular cylinders and tubes and assembled into a shifting appendage.

Something wet and limp fell to the ground; only as it was crushed did recognition hit Sextus: an arm of the missing knight.

Okay, that was it. Sextus stretched himself back up; he ran ahead of the metal giant, collecting his straw hat and spear.

Tabula Rasa stood his ground, reeling from the now familiar whipping. He circled around the bronze man, giving those dangerous hooks and blades a wide berth; trees were cleaved, slippery terrain was avoided, darkness encroached. Sextus panted as the tempo of their dance accelerated; the reach of his spear was at disadvantage, the clanging turns and twists of the enemy were as heavy as they were unpredictable. The strange legs were never caught off-balance or sank into the mud; the upper body rotated over its axis, always facing towards him.

o corners out of reach, no blind spots to flank.

He had to create his own opportunities.

Sextus moved away from the grove and back to the road; it was of little improvement - the rain had done quick work ruining it. But it had to be done; who knows what was happening with the Tarantines and he needed to draw the enemy out.

The giant exposed his secrets; Tabula Rasa could feel his subdued Spark rouse in recognition. A metallic eye composed of intricate bronze and iron, interlocked with overlaid lenses; contrasting with a wild bloodshot orb imprisoned by pulpy pink flesh. A scarred underbelly was exposed under the torso's plates, a reminder of his mortality.

Before him stood Talos, the Bronze Man.

Sextus grinned as his pain dulled; he could work with this.

What if he was unable to riposte or control the battlefield? All Sextus needed to do was to stay between Talos and his prize; the spear darted between chains, seizing the moment and trying to catch the bronze titan off balance. Tabula Rasa discovered that Talos did not only have an impressive construction, he also possessed a mind tailored for combat; those simple baits and feints only worked because they had to go along with Sextus' token resistance, as the wolf suffered the fleas.

Screams pierced the loud rain; only another sound rumbled above them - a terrifying drum solo, something wiggling and massive battering the upturned armored carriage. The weather did little to dilute the scent warning Sextus to the fate of the beasts and escort.

Talos' eye met Tabula Rasa's, the two men acknowledging the truth; even a better Triumphant than Sextus would have problems dealing with three monsters on his own.

To Dis Pater with that.

Tabula Rasa flexed his legs, arms stretched and spear planted. Talos charged in, calling his bluff; it was not a feint. Sextus stood his ground.

The inevitability of death resonated with the infernal Spark within; the currents of the Underworld cared little for the illusion of time. In a moment that stretched eternity, images and memories flooded Sextus mind. The lonely days spent looking at the death masks hanging the walls. The pots and amphorae dressed in his cavalry uniform, beaten and hanged, offered as sacrifice instead of him. His coming of age and the laughter of the bucolic divinity as she reciprocated his feelings. Offering his life to the Underworld in exchange of victory at Telamon. The gentle brush of fingers, the dead realization of whom he loved and was loved in return. As Talos loomed closer and closer, a memory consolidated, clearer than most.

The day before they confronted Quirinus. A sleepless night of insecurity and anxiety. Lidia's words.

"Let not the lack of a powerful Spark dissuade you from accepting who you are, Sextus. Your closeness to Gods and to your core self is a strength rarer than any myth. We can don the mantle of heroes and be entrusted by covenants between people and their beliefs, but we are just that, children playing pretend; you are a hero and you are Closer to the Gods. Once your learn to accept that, you will realize that your humble Spark is quite bright against the darkness."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. That was it.

Sextus heard the clang before he realized his body had acted. His spear had met the tentacle-like arm of Talos sideways, metal and staff vibrating from the impact. Sextus' eyes followed the dislocation of air, staring as the double bladed scythe spun and wove down towards his face.

Tabula Rasa exhaled. His periorbital skin protruded with bright freckles - tiny gems breaching through, drawing a mesmerizing pattern; his eyes shone between green jade and golden lure. Letting the power flow through him, he lifted his arm, fingers clenching around the air.

Shards of bronze flew in every direction. Sextus held what remained of the smoldering scythe; he was immediately struck by the disarmed but armored fist of Talos. He could not protest; he deserved that. The drumming stopped as the two Triumphants reeled; Sextus gave a side glance towards the massacre, dormant prey instincts awakening. A misshapen head broke through the rain, something slithering quietly.

Spinning his spear, Tabula Rasa was forced to take the offensive. Without his main weapon, Talos extended his plates, revealing just how many chains it was hiding underneath; Sextus did not hesitate, spearhead pointed at the scarred exposed torso. Hooks and small blades descended on him; biting his lip, Tabula Rasa suffered the blunt of the strikes while avoiding getting ensnared. Talos´ legs dropped at the last moment, putting all his weight on a bronze punch. Smilling, Sextus turned on the side, breaking his spear against the enemy's arm and rolling with the blow; his Triumph shaped the mud, swallowing him and letting him dive under Talos - just as the giant sank. Reemerging behind Talos' stretched and exposed legs, Sextus planted a half of the spear on each of his legs.

With Talos temporarily immobilized and stuck in the mud, Sextus ran towards the crushed carriage. He stopped near the clawed and bitten corpses of a knight and his mount; bowing in front of them, Sextus claimed a cavalry sword from cold fingers. He swung it wildly as he rose, spooked by something; he could have sworn to have seen a flurry of orange and purple fabric running in front of him. Disoriented at nobody, Sextus dismissed colorful phantoms; the other titan was done playing with food.

Some sort of eel-fish-human hybrid greeted him, lumpy proboscises breaking between spiny fins and rugged scales. She grinned with pointy transparent teeth and skin, vibrant with blood and guts.

Scylla, the Howling Current.

How much had she grown.

They exchanged blows, eager to test each other; where Talos had resourcefulness and experience, Scylla had power as brutal and bottomless as the sea. Sextus' arm hurt from even glancing hits to her force-absorbing body; what was a human hand when compared to the crushing pressure of the abyss? Clever tricks did not work either. When Sextus put the yolk between him and Scylla, she crushed it with a swing of her tail; he took a gash to his leg and cut her eyelid, only for Scylla to splash around and cover herself in a layer of dark mud.

Dealing with an enemy seven weight-classes above him, Tabula Rasa found himself drawing more and more upon his Triumph. Only by swimming with the sea monster was he able to keep up with the mobility and evasion of Scylla; their Sparks did not fight each other, they did not try to impose incompatible realities. Such as they were, entranced and entwined, Sparks fed on each other's Names. Scylla, delighted to be the monster; Tabula Rasa, playing the role of the inexperienced hero rising to the occasion. The girl was getting the better end of the deal; the rain upgraded to a catastrophic deluge, she grew longer and longer until all human features disappeared from her piscine head as it fused with her neck.

Sextus could throw more mud and sink deeper into despair.

They darted around each other, Scylla's hunger increasing with her mass. She swelled with corpses, trees and roadblocks; she even consumed her prize, swallowing in one bite what remained of the armored carriage.

A low roar and cagey smirk, as a now humongous Scylla wrapped herself around Sextus. Once, twice; three loops and a toothy finish.

Descending on him.

Tabula Rasa tried to jump over the closing rings, which only made it easier for Scylla to hip check Sextus into submission. He landed poorly, his back muscles strained. Scylla's eyes widened as she dove in for the kill, mouth agape. Sextus winked and waved.

Four pillars rose around Scylla; an earthen spike spiraled right into Scylla's mouth. She could bite him, yes - at the cost of impaling her brain. Scylla hesitated just enough for Sextus to harden mud into a stony grasp, creating an escape where there had been only doom.

Finally, a chance to get his second wind. Sextus turned around; Talos and Scylla, still restrained - but not for long. The silver was gone, his support was gone, and there was still nobody to take care off.

What?

Sextus' empowered Sparkle shone bright and still. In a serene moment he was allowed clarity: he could see the gleaming of knives, the waving motions of a heavy dark orange cloak and the breeched leg tripping him down. His instincts told him to look down and find his footing, even as metal stroked his cheek with a bleeding caress. He infused all that was left of him into Tabula Rasa, allowing a shaking Sextus to look up. He was met by the angular features of a light-haired woman with an Adriatic sailor's cap and a victorious trickster stare. She seemed to come in and out of focus, even as he refused to look away; her knives carved a path towards his throat and liver.

"Who are you?" The dying Triumphant supplicated.

"Nobody."

 

[StrigaRosa]

Odysseus stood over Sextus' corpse as the rain washed over them. She swatted her wet hair from her eyes, giving the dead man a few good kicks and turning him on his back. Talos shambled closer, stretching his legs. The woman leaned on his muscled arm, giving him a gentle tap as she waved at Sextus.

"I was not expecting a Triumphant. Or at least, not the real deal."

Talos groaned, his complains echoing metallic.

"Sorry buddy, I'm not judging." Odysseus coursed her fingers over the armor plates, reaching to the hidden tank plugged into Talos' mouth and helmet. She tapped twice on it, frowning. "You're running on fumes. Are you okay?"

A hiss and red mist, a clang and the loosening of tubes. An exhalation of relief. He licked his dried, burnt lips.

"What a bright ephebe this one was; could you not hold your blade?" Talos was finally able to release his mature and thickly accented voice. "Was he a menace that demanded such finality?"

Odysseus shrugged and leaned away, trailing across the mud.

"Hey, I thought that is how Marmentines roll. Besides, he was making you and Cila work for your silver."

"It is how we roll." Talos admitted, bending over and disappearing within his bronzed cocoon. This did not escape the attention of nobody; Odysseus spun around, circling around Talos and leaning against him.

"I'm here for you, Talos." She comforted him. "It is what we do, not who we are."

"Tell that to Ariadne." Talos scoffed. "I'm getting tired; where is the girl?"

As if hearing them, Cila cried softly, squished and aching. Odysseys pulled her cloak's collar up, ready to rush to her side. Talos' arm of spheres and links tapped her shoulder, cold metal and gentle warmth.

"No sense to leave him to waste. Hook his corpse to my back; he can still water the crops."

Odysseus turned, once again leaning over the pale Sextus. She cursed at the blood soaked mud; how fast had he exsanguinated, how thirsty was the ground for him - did the man owe so much to the hungry dead?

"He is empty, there is nothing for the grapes."

"Concentrate on his Spark, it is all we need." Talos advised. "If it shines, it will flow."

Taking a deep breath, Odysseus squatted and closed her eyes.

"Nothing." She admitted, frustrated. Talos gave her a side-eye, discreetly insisting that the woman try again. Odysseus abided; still nothing.

Cila´s laments grew louder and louder. Odysseus rose, shook her head and rushed to the girl's help. She was still trapped underneath the stones, her stomach bulging and scratched.

"How was this even possible?" Odysseus muttered as the tore the pillars apart.

"Resonance." Talos replies as a poor explanation. "The boy and Cila must have had more in common than it seemed."

"I have been on relationships like that before." Odysseus remarked. "They still came out better than I did."

"Odysseus, one of them died."

"I stand by my words." Odysseus rubbed Scylla's stretched belly. "Can you loosen your Spark just a bit? It would really help if you could shrink a bit."

"Not too much, though." Talons pointed out. "We need to dump that silver in a safe place; some haste may be in order, we know not what danger this peculiar gluttony invited. It can be harmful for her to stay like this for too long."

"Alright, let's bring Cila to the ocean!" Odysseus agreed with a smirk. "But you will be the one carrying her!"

Scylla's eyes shone, reflecting something. Odysseus followed her gaze, finding a purse heavy with strange silver. Poking at it with a muddy stick, Odysseus whistled happily.

"What do we have here?"

*​

The Marmentines departed. The rains stopped. Pitch darkness seized the land.

A fiery bridle danced towards Sextus corpse, a missing muzzle rubbing against him. Climbing on his back, the mare kissed the fallen knight. A cascade of moss-green hair descended on Sextus, a hand with long pomegranate-stained fingernails caressed his mud-encrusted back, a leg slid underneath a skull-patterned shroud. The shifting being wrapped itself around him.

Proserpina stood still, not daring to make a sound.

"How tragic it is." She whispered. "I am finally able to stand here, before you, as myself; and all it took was for you to die."

She pressed her hand against Sextus' sternum, exhaling out of frustration.

"Without your Spark, I am myself; without yourself, I cannot sparkle." Proserpina released a tired, sad chuckle. "Honey, we need to talk."

The infernal goddess shifted her weight around, raising a stone platform and resting her legs on it; she pulled Sextus' head towards her lap.

"You don't get to make me your monster, Sextus." Proserpina toyed with Sextus' long hair, pulling twigs and leaves. "Well, you do get to do that - that is how these things work but by making me your monster, you make me less of me - or at least, I became a version of me I do not want to identify that. And I love you and I think you love me: you loved me, once, before; we can at least agree on that. I'm rambling; what I mean to say is that I believe you do not want to do that to me. That you will listen to me and we will fix this."

Dead silence.

"I came because you invited me; I married because we could bloom." Proserpina continued. "We had vows filtered through your Spark; myself, our relationship - so much of your suffering and misery was projected on them. We never get to talk and we never get to show each other our true, unshackled self. I get it, of course I get it. That is how a Triumph shines; but that is not how a matrimony should work. You don't get to make me your obstacle, the anchor holding you down, the boulder crushing your ambitions. I wanted to be on this adventure with you; I still do - nothing about that has changed."

Proserpina turned her head away.

"I'm sorry Sextus. I understand: and because I understand, I know. This relationship cannot continue like this. I must speak as myself, untainted by the Spark and I must do it now, while I still can. I am not a tool for you to torture yourself. If we stand together we must do so not out of some sense of obligation or duty but for our love for each other and for others."

She took her wedding band off her finger; she grabbed Sextus hands, cradling them between her own. Proserpina closed her eyes, her warm cheeks resting against Sextus' coldness. She kissed and licked them loose. As she freed them, two blackened rings laid on her lap.

"We always find each other - I do not worry about that; keep these with you and think of this talk. Or throw them away and let our next meeting be our last." Proserpina deposited the rings over his eyes circles before rising.

"One last thing: I refuse to depart a widow." Proserpina declared as she trotted away. "Let not be said that your wife did not safeguard your earthly home. No broken vessels at our place."

As Proserpina depart, telluric energies returned the diluted Spark of Sextus, restarting the turn of seasons with an earthen embrace.

Life; a thread unbroken, resumed.

The rains returned, obscuring the world into a curtain of mist and walls of water, caking the unconscious body of Sextus. Sextus coughed, waking up to despair as he cleared dirt from his mouth. He tried to rise, a thousand bruises complaining and his body refusing to cooperate; he plummeted, defeated, into a puddle. Sextus turned around, in vain; he rolled over himself and tried to calm down. Maybe rest, yes. Perhaps.

As the rains slowly gave way, dread crept in. He was haunted by the fight and the ominous encounter; what had happened when he was… dead. Sextus tried to cry, his face hurting too much for even that; the mortal violence was nothing compared to the emptiness gnawing at his chest.

Empowered by his turmoil, bones cracked and tendons snapped, but he stood up. Shining faintly in the puddle where he had laid, two rings; Sextus reached for them - only for them to disappear as reflections upon disturbed waters.

Sextus grabbed his chest, paralyzed as his Spark shook. This was not the freedom of oblivion, when he thought himself dead at Telamon; this was not the suffered liberation when he was cast out from the Sergii family; all those were heartfelt sacrifices, needed for him to become as Closer to Himself as he was to the Gods.

This was different. A part of himself, a part of who he wanted to be, something that had been with him his entire adult life; eroded and ripped from him. And the worst part? It was as abrupt as it had been invisible - but inevitable.

And he was at fault here. It was not the work of a cruel system or a conniving antagonist: callousness within his own heart; he had only himself to blame.

The tears came down, Sextus howling as his entire body shook. Gone was the stoic facade; he left it all flow with the rain: the pain, the frustration, the toll of the world that he ridiculously insisted in carrying alone. We bounded his Names to his severed infernal Spark.

He was once again whole, warm and serene.

"Thank you Proserpina." Sextus whispered. "Thank you for all these years; thank you for sharing your needs. I will cherish this rare opportunity. How have we been blessed. I will never forget you; I will ever be grateful."

Collected, Sextus fumbled in the dark. He found his broken lance and pierced hat; trampled, the dried flowers gone. He patted himself, looking into the creases and hidden sewing of his tunic. Nothing. He dove back into the mud, throwing it around.

Sextus found his returned stoicism tested by nothingness.

That was all he could find.

He had lost the Celeres.

The silver coins, entrusted to him by Aeneid, were gone.

Taking a deep breath, Sextus calmly cleaned himself. Dawn was coming, the shy Sun making him think about Proserpina's words. His serene and stoic nature, did not give him right right to turn people into the tools of his misery and contrition. He got into this mess and strained his marriage by walking that path: by blindingly accepting duties as his own, not refusing tasks beyond him. He needed help, either at maintaining a divine matrimony or facing three (no, two) Triumphants.

Sextus smiled as he put his hat back; he had now internalized more than pain: with the help of others even these insurmountable tasks could be made easy.

Just because he was by himself did not mean he was alone.

 

[StrigaRosa]

Another month, another round of contracts had to be fulfilled.

And fulfilled they would be. The Vestals descended upon the camp outside the city, records under their arms and abacuses dancing at the rhythm of their restless fingers.

Davinia was there, her narrow eyes scrutinizing every ox cart, tapping every casket and sniffing the content of every sack; she was always among the first invited to survey these affairs—on behalf of "the common wisdom inherent to her heritage and upbringing." It was a snub at her Italian and equestrian birth, one that the overwhelmingly patrician Vestalis felt could get away with—even against a Class I priestess. Arpineia did not mind; it was true and she was not ashamed of where she came from.

It is a common myth that the publicani, the emerging capitalist class, thrives because of market rational and an eye for supply and demand. However, there are not that big margins of error in public contracts, and if they stick to them, they gonna end up taking losses most of the time. If they break the rules and cut corners, they may suffer loss by losing contracts and dragged to court—if they were caught. So it is obvious what is behind the profits of every single successful publicani.

That was a truth engraved in Davinia's brow: All publicani will steal if they think they can get away with it. Every single one of them won their contract by offering the State the cheapest service—which they got by following the greed in their hearts and the weight of their purses. A frown crept upon her attentive expression, refusing to leave as Davinia grabbed the nearest batch of uniforms, pulling apart flimsy stitching and poked patchy letter.

"You don't seem satisfied with the offerings." Flavinia, a tanned Class II from her former department, reported. "Can't be that bad: I found no major issues in my carts."

The frown of the equestrian Vestal intensified. Davinia's stomach turned; she did not want to doubt the assessment of a fellow priestess but she had to. No way the bull was being sacrificed whole, the publicani must have kept the white fat and the juicy meat.

They were fine with debt, but loss was inadmissible.

If the goods were up to terms, that meant they were scamming and exploiting someone above them in the production line; as far as the Vestalis was concerned, that was also against the best interest of Senate and People. Davinia looked around, finding content Vestals and relieved merchants. A deep sigh; she rubbed her brow and pinched between her eyes. What could she do about those suspicions? She lacked the authority to investigate the matter, much less address it. All she could do was to advise the lawmakers—if, and only if, her Department had been called to speak on the issue.

The corners of Davinia's mouth twitched with mischievous indignation. Misplaced avarice may have already cost much to others; she refused to let shoddy work endanger the life of those out in the borderlands.

She tapped the shoulder of the closest Vestal; Davinia was pretty sure her name was Paetina, an initiate from Law and History's.

"Can you get me that set scales on those donkeys?" She was asking, but her tone let no margin for insubordination.

"I'm sure this is not necessary, Vestalis Arpineia." Paetina suggested as she set the scales. Davinia ignored her meek protest, pouring flour from random sacks and slowly letting it fall on different scales.

It did not take long for her to detect impurities: they were paying for sand and gravy at the price of grain. She repeated the process, this time rubbing the different flours against her palm; Davinia snarled at the hard brightness of silicates.

"Bring me the records of the miller seals and those that contracted them. Check every single bag, sieve their content, and weigh again. Tell the merchants to find lodgings around the Urbe: nobody is leaving until all crooked sub-contractors have been found and fined."

Everyone shouted around her: merchants and priestesses united in discontent. Davinia shrugged as her expression softened; only Paetina's words reached her.

"That will take days! It will delay the entire supply train."

Hesitation haunted Davinia for an instant; she found her center and raised her head.

"The legions, allies and refugees in the Cisalpine region are counting on this. These goods are their lifeline: if they fail, it can take weeks or even months before they can resupply. Who can they go for help? Venetii? Etruria? Illyria? No, it has to be us: we need to take care as they take care of us."

Discussions did not cease, but the tone was more subdued. Hanging mouths and waving hands suggested charged responses; Davinia was already charging in the opposite direction.

"Yes, yes, I understand your concerns. Keep inspecting the deliveries, I assume full responsibility for the delay; handle the goods and leave the fascists to me."

Quite pleased at the righteous strife she left on her wake, Arpineia almost floated towards the officers overseeing the fulfillment of contracts. She crashed back to reality, recognizing among them a familiar face. Head and shoulder above the tallest man, cutting an impressive figure in her military cloak and white tunic. Lidia.

Davinia's heart raced, her gaze hugging the contours of her chin and the idle rhythm of her fingers. As her breath grew steadier, the Vestal was overtaken by uncanny apprehensions: something was off with Lidia; her hands and eyes twitched erratically at the bustling around her and she seemed only half-there as soldiers and merchants talked to her.

"Hello, soldier." Davinia tried to sound as casually charming as possible. "Fancy seeing you back at the Urbe."

Looking down at the priestess, Lidia seemed to be processing things rather slowly: she apparently had forgotten how to blink or how to do perform her indelible smile. As Davinia grew restless at the awkwardness, Lidia found the ability to feign the later.

"Vestalis Arpineia. I'm happy to see you."

Davinia could believe in that. That was a version of events she could find joy in.

"I'm afraid I come as the bearer of bad news." Davinia punted straight ahead. "We have found some irregularities and have to inspect everything; your know, just some extra oversight. For safety." Fiscal and otherwise.

"Sure, right. Okay. Makes sense." Lidia seemed to hunch at half-heard words, even as she stared back at Davinia. "We cannot left stone unturned, we have to check and check and check. If we don't, it will be costly…" Her voice disappeared in a whisper. "Surely it will cost us much more later."

Now Arpineia was alarmed. She had half-expected Lidia to jump on any prompt, that she would speechify on how publicani should take joy in the civic responsibility honored by those contracts, or how they held the haft of the spear defending the People or—if she was lucky—praise the College of Vesta for their blistering vigilance and incorruptible stubbornness. That the usually verbose Aeneid was struggling to string a single sentence was terrifying.

Davinia closed the gap between them, stopping short of colliding against Lidia's torso; that forced the other woman to blink, breaking whatever spell enthralled her.

"Don't see this as a delay; see this as what it truly is: a few days without war weighing your down."

They stood there, ignoring the rest of the world as they took each other in.

"I would love that; more than I know." Lidia kept the whispering.

For someone so used to control flame and heat, Promethea drowned in the blooming warmth of rushing blood. Davinia was the first to break eye contact. She immediately regretted it, reaching for her right arm, fingers trembling above the pale hairs of Lidia's forearm and starved for the comfort of her hand.

Davinia's timing was poor; two of the ox carts bumped each other—animals, merchants and soldiers were spooked loud. Lidia's worries returned, making her turn so fast that she swatted the other woman's hand away—or at least that was the only reality that Arpineia's pride could accept. Adamant rejection was more than she could deal with today.

Her embarrassment diminished the blond titan and her anxious actions; Davinia's crossed arms and pout communicated her growing vexation. She was less impressed by Lidia at each passing instant.

"Have you heard from Sextus?" Lidia changed the subject, regaining the attention of a shocked Davinia.

"What do you mean 'Have you heard from Sextus'? Is he not bound to you? I should ask you that! Lidia, what have you done to my friend?"

"He went south, but I was hoping he would be back in time for the funerary club's lunch. I know he was doing something for you, so I wondered if he could be busy with that?" Lidia sounded hopeful at the first sentence, but seemed worried by the time she finished the second; Davinia's confusion overtook her face and darkened the conversation. The Vestalis' synapses flared. Did the Sons of Veii cause trouble for Sextus? And what was that about a funerary club; how poor was Aeneid? How much of a messy disaster was this woman's life? And why learning the hows and whys became her top priority?

"No, I have not seen him. Is that all?" The harshness of her words horrified Arpineia.

This sharp bluntness did not elude Lidia; she tugged her left elbow, nails buried enough to break skin.

"This feels weird; this is weird. I don't like this." Her eyes darted, betraying the anxiety of Triumphant of Aeneid's exodus. "I feel like I screwed up, like I have done something terribly wrong… you are mad and I can think of a hundred reasons why I deserve that. I mean what I said before. I still want to be worth your trust and friendship, Arpineia."

"Aeneid, of course." Davinia mumbled, resisting her immediate urge to throw herself at Lidia; Latin was failing her. "I mean, of course I want to be your friend." But… that seemed such a lacking descriptor. Her lips trembled as she ground words to dust; what had this woman gone through? How could she repay her back, and why she felt so indebted? What could she do that would ease her anxiety and bridge their worlds? And most important, how did she know she was being good to Lidia and not indulging on her own selfish desires?

Arpineia was dragged from her well of doubts by Flavinia shaking her shoulder; the Class II did not let go after she had Davinia's attention. On her other arm she was dragging a dazed merchant and grasping two tiles, one them broken into crumbly pieces.

"Look at this!" Flavinia did not bother with niceties, her face red with exhaustion and indignation. Arpineia accepted the tiles and inspected them. "There is no way those could support the forces they will subjected to under."

"Of course they can!" The captive merchant protested. "They were made and tested all according to the technical literature provided." He shut up as the two Vestalis glared at him for even daring to bring out the state-of-faith literature in their presence.

In lieu of punctuation, Davinia carefully laid the intact tile on the ground. She gently dusted it off, removed any gravel and dirt that might leave it uneven and set it so it would be a square, perfectly aligned between her and the other two. Locking eyes with the merchant, she stepped on the tile: she dared him to flinch as it cracked into pieces.

"Where in Dis Pater are Tarpeia's people?" Flavinia grumbled. "Why Engineering never sends anyone to these events? We need someone from that Department. Look at this! Even this cement looks weird when wet—we need an audit from Fabricarum to prove a breach of contract."

Davinia was going to admonish Flavinia for bad-mouthing another Department of the Collegue, but part of her was just relieved: for once it was not her Department they were criticizing. It was good not be the butt of all jokes for one merciful hour.

"What do you think the consul will make of this, Aeneid?" Davinia said as she turned, only to find Lidia long gone. Her heart experimented the same process expertly demonstrated by the tiles.

"Right. I will write a letter to Tarpeia." Davinia excused herself, nodding to Flavinia. "Move on to the next cart."