Heroes of Republic: Ancient Roman Super Heroes

[StrigaRosa]

"Davinia? Davinia? Davinia!"

That was a blessed distraction; it is a rare mercy when one is so immersed that they ignore voices shouting inside their brain.

"Sybil, what is it?"

"I got a ping on Aeneid."

Relief.

"Please tell me she is still in Rome."

"Yes, I sensed her near the…"

"That would be all I need." It is almost impossible to shout over your thoughts, but Davinia had practice. She sped into her cell, dropping her veil and shawl; she grabbed her tangerine uniform on the way out. "Did you find Sextus?"

"No."

"That is not the answer I require, Sybil!"

A moment of singular hesitation for one of bronze and silica.

"I have something for you besides faint hope; I registered him passing through the Tarastine Gates." Sybil left out the part where his Spark attuned itself with them and blinked in and out of existence; one cannot call themselves an Oracle without keeping some secrets.

"That is so far south…" Davinia mumbled as she changed clothes. "Nevermind, I'm going there. I know him and I know his awful family; he can struggle to stay above waterline and still not ask for help: so I have to ask to help him instead. Idiot."

"It would be unwise." Sybil advised. "You said it yourself, it is too far away. People are bond to notice your absence—especially after you messed with the publicani."

"What should I do then?"

"Tell Aeneid that, it is her subprocess to run. It was her responsibility and she can be there before you finish dressing."

It was true; but then why was Davinia so conflicted?

"She has more than enough on her bread." She could hear the metallic judgment on Sybil's silence.

Too long; it was too harsh.

"I don't think I deserve the silent treatment for that."

Nothing.

"Sybil?"

A static burst that made Davinia twist in pain; her frontal lobe exploded in a flowering cascade of mental stabs. Amid the aching nonsense: a single idea. Losing any meaning as it faded into background radiation.

"Help."

Promethia stumbled her way into the open sky and spiraled south. The bustling Urbe, the busy small towns and the sprawling fields supporting them gave way to the open road and patchwork Oscan and Samnite villages surrounding the ruins of the antique city of Cumae. Davinia struggled to reach the acropolis—not the rebuilt walls that harmonized the cultures of its three peoples, but the archaic spire (untouched and bespoke to the Sybil's demands).

The spire arched in its metallic glory, separating Celestial and Infernal as it lustrously dominated the sacred precinct. The pain intensified, the offending body revealing itself: delicate hairs of copper coiled around a magnetized stone bounded with a humming metal cylinder; spinning as a needle tormented a thick wax candle. The primal part of her brain shouted for Davinia to destroy it now! Anything to stop the suffering!

Davinia restrained her destructive impulses. She caught the glint of acid-filled containers and she sensed the invisible force of a spark. Stirring, giving life to the contraption, jumping between the silences of that cantata of pain. Pulling the metal connectors, a very much relieved Davinia dropped it for later analysis.

"Promethia!" Unusual emotion burdened Sybil's voice, her despair uncanny and disturbing. "Someone is trying to breach into my body. They silenced me, Davinia!"

Curses. Promethia's Spark resonated violently as she drew upon the power her Name had seized from Quirinus; it manifested as a tempestuous discharge that propelled her, manipulating winds with greater affinity. She never soared at this speed!

Acropolis and mundane city behind her, Davinia darted over the serpentine path; peddler carts filled with liturgical goods and the benches of petitioners laid abandoned and upturned. Sybil's priority was to warn and evacuate the odd Cumaenians that hung around her grotto. Promethia dove deep into the crevice that separated that Infernal place from the material mundanity.

The racket of pickaxes had destroyed any hallowed presence the site had.

"There are six of them." Sybil seemed to have regained her eternal composure at the imminent entrance of Davinia. "Go. You have made yourself ready for this."

That she had. Promethia started with a trick she had been practicing since her awkward attack on Veii: she warmed the air on the tunnel leading to the grotto, causing a disturbing roar to rise. Davinia finished with a flair of arms as she advanced, causing most of the moisture to leave the inner chamber.

Six, they were. Five of them carried shovels or pickaxes and they were engaged in their use, hitting anything suspicious that might reveal a passage into the inner sanctuary—or they were, until the drastic change in temperature and humidity stole the wind from their lungs. Their garb was obviously Punic: not the foolish imitation of the Veietes, not of the friendly colors of the warm diplomats and officers. Painted clay masks locked in a mocking grin covered their heads, heavy tunics of red and black their bodies, purple shawls their arms and necks.

A chill coiled around Davinia's spine: something dangerous and foreign was threatening one of the few spaces private to her; and she hatred the disgust she felt. Her stomach turned, her shame growing as she realized the intent on those masked faces.

They would not settle this without a fight.

Promethia still resisted, discharging successive blasts of suppression air. She pushed two of the Carthaginian agents against the altar and the massive effigy honoring the Cumaenian Sybil, their clothes entangled on their tools and limbs; their companions proved themselves harder to pin: three of them folded into themselves, abandoning the realm of the concrete for the liminal domains left by collapsing quanta.

"Occultists." Sybil and Promethia thoughts echoed; Davinia could barely hide her fearful curiosity as she rushed towards where the Punics stood merely instants before. She tried to keep moving, to focus on the half that still shared a world with her: in vain. The occultists unfolded across the grotto; the Triumphant ran right into two knives that materialized in her personal space, slashing a thigh and a flank.

Promethia rolled with the pain, cauterizing the wounds; too little, too late—they got her. The knives disappeared, reappearing in the hands of the invader that was avoiding the fight. The mask of the Carthaginian seemed to intensify its smirk; a slit rotated and expanded, revealing a bloodshot eye.

"They have a blood sorcerer." Sybil warned; Davinia reassured her she knew how to deal with these magics.

She rammed towards the sorcerer as their fingers locked around her blood; Davinia halted, dark viscous fluid erupting from her mouth and ear—but her hemorrhage would not deny the momentum she had gathered. Triumphant and magician tumbled over each other, Davinia clumsily rolling to the side, ready for the inevitable and dreadful follow-up.

The occultists reappeared near the blood sorcerer; the latter grabbing the nearest of the former and anointing them with Davinia's blood. As both chanted in Ancient Canaanite, Promethia rose with a fist and elbow, hitting them both. She capitalized on the surprise, pushing them towards the others: in the tangled confusion, a mad giggle—two hands reaching out to the rim of tunics and the loose ends of shawls, igniting cloth and hair.

The giggle turned into full cackle as Davinia realized the brutality of fire and blood that desecrated her surroundings. The last three combatants charged her, hoping to tackle her before she unleashed her unrestrained Spark. Too late: no finesse, no careful calculations and controls; Promethia freely lobbed fireballs at anything that moved.

Adrenaline, subdued; blood loss made the earth shake. Davinia stumbled towards the vandalized face of Sybil, finishing the desecration by throwing against her closed lips.

"Davinia." Sybil reached out to her, with as much sweetness as her simulated voice could evoke.

"Say nothing, there is no need. You always had my back." The Vestal shook, eyes widening as she realized how lucky she was for not killing anyone—and the terrible danger she just threw herself at. "All I want is to do the same."

"Come inside." The stone head slid sideways, opening a secret passage. "Let me clean your wounds."

Davinia did not protest; she knew only chatting with Sybil was keeping her up. She just wanted to lie down and sleep.

"What in the name of starved Manes happened here?"

"They must have detected my active monitoring; I am impressed they could triangulate my main body from a few protocols."

"And to act on it in what, a few hours?"

"That is worrisome; Carthaginian agents of considerable skill are well-integrated in Italian communities; spread enough they can appear anywhere. There is no other explanation for their swift reaction."

Davinia forced herself to laugh.

"Sybil, they knew how to fold space itself. I refuse to give in to paranoia when there is a rational impossibility to account for this."

Circuitry can be just as exhausted and stressed as muscle and nerves; Sybil was ready to share this moment of joyful decompression.

"We must be vigilant. Pay attention to…" Sybil had a point to make, only to be swallowed by silence.

No, not again. Davinia limped her way back to the grotto and to the entrance, steeling herself against the second round. The day darkened, seized by shadows that came not from clouds or light trickery: Aeneid loomed over Promethia. Her sullen sunken expression made her look even ghastlier than she did this morning. She wrapped her cape around the detached top of the spire which rested over her shoulders; her eyes were enshrouded, making it impossible for Davinia to see if they were Sparkful.

"Hidden in plain sight; how fitting for your type." Davinia was not sure how the identity disrupting charm attuned to her Triumph worked with another Triumphant; since Lidia was staring at the empty air above her, the Vestal assumed it was working and Lidia saw herself. "I have seen what you did to the world and our people."

"Aeneid, what are you doing?"

"I will end you." She was on top of her, still talking to the air. "I be damned if I let you fester next to my city."

"What? I love Roma as much as you do!"

"You love nothing; you're not even real. Just a trick of light across woven glass, standing between the people and your bronzed form. Out of my way!" Lidia grabbed Promethia's shoulder to shove her aside; a betrayed Davinia whimpered, Lidia's eyes whitened and widened—she looked down and saw the blood spattered across her uniform and legs. She could feel her trembling under her touch, the pain and disappointment.

Lidia looked down; if out of recognition or shame, Davinia was not sure.

"You are real. You're…" Aeneid shook, releasing Davinia; her trembling hands reached for the other woman. Wounded in so many ways, Promethia stepped back, both out of dread and to block Lidia's progress into the grotto. "… her? Cannot be, but I… you. Let me in, please. I don't know what that machine told you, but it is nothing but a construct of cold evil and malice! They have caused suffering in a scale unimaginable: no joy can flower while its kind remains."

"Sybil is not like that." Davinia calmly declared. "She is my friend."

"That does not matter." Lidia shouted, immediately regretting as she heard her own words. "I mean, of course that matters. But it… she is a tool of hegemony and exploitation. The amount of suffering I can prevent by dismantling her is worth any personal grief."

Davinia was at the verge of tears.
"Who is being cold and malicious now, Aeneid? Do you wanna follow blind, detached arithmetics? Is that a state of mind you want to carry?"
That seemed to resonate with Lidia; she reached for Davinia, rejected once again. A heavy clang made Promethia turn; she stared at the top of the spire, rolling back and forth against the tunnel walls. Davinia turned in time to see Lidia reappear, covering head and neck with the cloak and walking away. Just slowly enough for fear and shock to turn into bittersweet understanding—and a pinch of regret.
May 18, 2019

 

[StrigaRosa]

Goodwill paved the road for openness. Promethia returned to Cumae, making sure that the community was recovering after the mystical tug-of-war in which they became the rope. Altruism and a sense of responsibility were not all that moved Davinia as she returned every day; if Promethia became a regular sight in the skies of Cumae and the roads between its many villages, she hoped to cultivate a relationship of familiar trust. Just in case this would happen again. Definitely not because she was buying into Sybil's paranoia about Punic infiltrators in every town. No, no paranoia behind her actions.

She even fixed the top of the spire. It was barely bent and sort of pointed in the right direction.

Davinia's travels gave her a new appreciation for the absurdity of Cumaen life. Something about those trails and goat paths was unlike anything experienced in Rome. The shadowy galleries of the Urbe herded anxiety and cornered into hot spots, where discontent may be handled. In Cumae, words whispered at the crossroads and side-glances between travelers dispersed like pressure across an interwoven web: there was no telling when it would break—or wrap around you.

Okay, so maybe Davinia was letting some paranoia inside her head.

Promethia started to get an idea why people avoided the crumbling polis as she wandered the markets of Cumae. The city was dead and disruptive, unaffordable for the mind and chilling to the body. Davinia kept going back to peddlers, arguing tiny details about weather and the disgraceful failings of the local government; anything but being alone in those ill-fated streets. The old circular buildings tricked the eyes and gave her migraines; there seemed to be a constant vibration permeating the silence. And she swore even winds faltered and turned direction between the stones: the rules of the world made an exception around Sybil's den.

Davinia was in a sour mood. It did not improve when she saw Lidia.

She was in the middle of an odd group: fishermen from Caieta, probably part-time smugglers interested in this forsaken market. The group was loud with tales from the North and beyond. They reminded Promethia of how little she knew of Aeneid, their eyes met; their Celestial Sparks resonated.

Lidia was in front of Davinia before she could blink. She turned away, her nose twitching in disgust as their uniforms brushed against each other, orange meeting flowing red but running from the field of dirty white.

"Sorry for the last time." Lidia blurted, her words rushing like a broken dam. "I have seen you flying around; big fan of your work and look. Why don't we try this again? I am…"

"Stinky." Promethia took flight; she felt the warm on her cheeks—she was sure it would not show up on her skin tone, but what if Lidia saw herself blushing? Davinia felt guilty about the lie; she smelled of cut grass on warm fat and olive oil.

Aeneid started to follow her, but she soon began to anticipate Promethia's path. Just when they would meet, Lidia stopped. She waved goodbye, disappearing on the yellowed mists of Lake Avernus.

What? Davinia flustered. She landed on the shore of the lake.

It was warm, eerie and haunting; the Vestalis covered her mouth as she leaned over the rocks and sulfurous aggregates that shone through the mist. The wealth of potential; Arpineia and her priestly sisters might do so much with the secrets of the Underworld, laid bare by Avernus—just enough to bring a twinkle to the eyes and guide it to promises.

Underworld. Could an entrance be there? A physical, legitimate gateway between worlds. Davinia would raise an eyebrow, but she would would be skeptical if someone else told her about the Cumaen Sybil. Or the Black Stone of the Forum. Her heart raced with anticipation. Descend into the Underworld? Would she dare? Looking for forbidden texts and mythical locations was how she got into this mess; but her previous misfortunes did not lessen the allure of the Beyond.

She wanted it so much.

Another world, interwoven with this one. Past, present, future; meaningless terms when one had crossed the threshold of mortality. The shining, hot ring of eternity tightly happening around the atoms of the real. Davinia could barely breathe with excitement.

Or it may be all those telluric gases.

Davinia rose and approached the bubbling waters. She found her curious happy face looking back at her; she smiled, enjoying seeing herself the most like herself. It thinned into a smirk, a line; it disappeared into a frown. This private encounter was meaningless: herself, this self, the truest self—what was that without recognition by another? Her carelessness with her Spark and learning scar assured nobody could never recognize her as a whole.

Arpineia, Davinia and Promethia. Separated to the world; lonely together.

Oh Vesta, how much she longed to be seen; for someone to see her.

There was a way. If she was to become important enough to someone; they would look right at her and actually see a whole person. But that was just her theory; the thought of nobody caring for her was heart-shattering.

She would be truly on her own.

A blond and red blur breaking through the mists interrupted her, rushing towards her with determination. Lidia slowed down as she blurted out everything on her mind.

"Salve, good to see you came back. I was saying, I want to know you! Well, I know you, you know me; you know, our Triumph and all that. " Lidia's head leaned left and right as she fidgeted with her fingers. She pointed to herself and to Davinia. "Aeneid. Promethia. Dis Pater, that Triumph sounds awesome, what is the story behind that? Anyway, I am Lidia. Well, you might know me as Lidia Bella, but that is a character I play at the gymnasium? Not me, me? But I am Lidia. Anyway, I would love to call you something besides Promethia."

Davina stared back, stunned and dumbfound; she positioned herself between Lidia and the lake—last thing she needed was for the other woman to see her reflection. Lidia had a round grin, eyes widening as she gave in to panicked awkwardness.

'But Promethia is great! Did I forget to say I love Promethia? Because I love Promethia; it is badass and implies… OH! Your Triumph must have been something so daring."

Arpineia's expression blanked. Every word the other woman said became background noise. Promethia got airborne, her feet dangling a few centimeters above ground.

"I have nothing to say to you."

Davinia rose in the sky. Lidia did not hesitate, racing atop the nearest hill, up and down. Promethia gained height, looking down on the red and white streak. Davinia gasped as Lidia recklessly threw herself into skies, arching over her. Then she winked. Aeneid will plummet, the idiot! Without thinking, Davinia grabbed her, slowing Lidia down as she stirred them to safety. Lidia landed her arm around her waist as they touched down.

"I realized you were not being sincere."

"Why do you have to be like this?" Davinia shouted at her dumb, delighted expression. "And why now, of all times?"

"It is very hard to meet another Triumphant, especially someone like you? I think we would not regret getting closer. And I would regret not approaching you."

"Is this close enough to you?" Promethia's eyes reddened with platonic Triumph. The air surrounding them sizzling. "What's do you mean, "someone like you."?"

"You know. A girl. Like you. That is just my type?"

Davinia inhaled hate. Lidia yelped in surprise as Arpineia seized her arm and pinned her hands together. Davinia twisted her scarlet scarf around Lidia's upper limbs. An arching column of flame spiraled towards Lidia, making her curl over herself; the opportunity allowed Davinia to pull the brim of Lidia's cloak and tunic with enough strength to rip.

"I am not your type." A halo of light danced on her back as dying flames crept in. "You don't get me to mark me as any type."

Davinia raised a worried eyebrow as Lidia stood still, her breath growing heavier. Disgusted in the realization—or rather, disgusted at how intrigued she was—Davinia released Lidia and dumped her on the ground.

"I just keep tripping on my sandals, don't I?" Lidia curled into a ball, resting her chin on her knees. She suddenly looked so tiny and vulnerable, sniffling between words." These last weeks have been too much; enough to make me stop feeling like myself. And…"

"And?" Davinia crossed her arms, wondering if she would get to step on her.

"Things started to look up when I met you." Lidia smiled at Davinia. "I was looking forward to something, and it was seeing you again."

"Juno Capitolina, you're the worst." Davinia made her best impersonation of Canuleia's eye-rolls. "I will leave now."

"Wait."

"You better quit while you still have clothes to burn."

They chuckled, embarrassed.

"I am the current leader of an assembly of like-minded peers: the Crows. Do you want to join us the next time we do something? Hang out the next time you are in Rome?"

Davinia took flight again, laughing uncontrollably.

"The answer is no!" She pushed her hair aside. "If you want me to say yes, ask me, not Promethia!"

She disappeared into bronzed sky as a very confused Lidia stood still, index raised.

"But you never got to tell me your name…"

 

[StrigaRosa]

The shrine had seen better days.

The walls were thin and empty, a box that kept the sacred from the rushing engines that surrounded them. Arpineia found her breathing faltering, her discomfort growing; fetters weighed her mind as they forced her to wait.

Creaks and turns made Arpineia turn to meet her host. A young woman rolled in a chair, her back against the light as she searched for something. Arpineia blinked, focusing on what the other woman was doing; she could hear tendons stretching, knots being tied and leather straps brushing each other.

"You don't need to do that, keep yourself comfortable." A metallic clang and something being locked and fixed, followed by a distracted "hum?".

"I appreciate those are heavy and stubborn, and they can be quite tiring even when one is well-fitted. I am comfortable if you want to stay seated."

The woman ignored Arpineia, approaching her with a determined limp; she refused to interpret the other Vestalis' words as kind. Her eyes were angry and contemptuous as she tested the mount of her prosthesis with tentative steps.

"These are not made for your comfort, Vestalis; they meant for mine."

Davinia lifted her head, turning her nose as she adopted a more dignified and composed stance.

"Right. Is my illustrious colleague ready to receive me? The day grows short and I would rather return to Rome today."

The Class II Vestalis sighed at the request. Closer, Arpineia recognized the straw hair and pale skin of a bureaucrat, with green eyes precise and quick in judgment. Her eyes tapped on the wax tablet that hung from her hip. Everything she did sung how much she took issue with Arpineia presenting herself as a peer of Tarpeia; Tarpeia oversaw a real and productive Department, and who knew how Arpineia's people squandered the money of People?

"It is unfortunate you had to wait this long. We use expect to receive a letter before any visit; perhaps something to consider the next time? I'm sorry, Vestalis Arpineia." She was not, and it was not an invitation for further visits or a closer relationship. Tone and body language suggested that the Vestalis would rather Arpineia never return to the complex.

The inhospitable host led Arpineia down a rope-flanked brick stairway. The noise was deafening, the water collecting from multiple reservoirs; it congregated into a coursing, rushing stream, giving life and movement to different mill models — a history of the College of Engineering in canvas, frame and geared wheels.

"I can get behind this spinning." Davinia shouted over the rumbling; the other Vestalis did not answer but Arpineia swore she saw the hint of a smirk. "I never got your name, sister."

The host shifted her weight and leaned on the rope, resting while she repositioned her assistance leg. Between gentle taps and impatient groans, she indulged Arpineia.

"Minucia Augurinia." She introduced herself, looking over the water and pointing at one of the newer mills. "That one is mine; I'm gambling my Class II promotion on it."

Arpineia leaned, surprised at Minucia's admission; despite her age, she was still a Class III Vestalis. Davinia took a leap of logic and assumed that her association with the clan Minucii delayed her development. The oddest class traitors of the history of the Republic, the Augurinii joined the plebeians and used their wealth and privilege to champion their causes. That plebeian defection may have turned them into a lineage of Mars-bound heroes, but it also made them an easy target for pettiness and slander. Their patrician kin had memories and denied Minucia's contributions to the Republic. It was only in the last years that plebeian Vestalis like herself (and Tarpeia, but Arpineia believe her contributions as the real game-changers) opened the way for women of common birth to tend the flame.

And what contributions, what a talent! The model was harmonious, easy to scale and install, but even that was tertiary to the brilliancy of wheel design. The blades curved, cupping water and generating power with only six of them; a good thing, for Arpineia's trained eyes recognized three different metals or alloys assembled on each of them, layered as shining leaves.

"Cute expensive thing." She whistled. "That is quite close to the optimal wheel, the one that Apolonia described mathematically."

"As close as we can get." Minucia's smirk returned. "For now."

They made to the base level of the complex, flanked my piles of sawdust and sand raised on wooden platforms — an emergency measure in case of flood or fire, the final resort to restrict damage to the sacred perimeter. Minucia looked embarrassed.

"I realize we did not distribute them as the divinations for wave harmonics demand." She apologized. "We would need to dig into the river-bed or raise the entire thing a dozen perches or even a whole actus. It is not safeguarded against earthquakes."

"We need to discover which divinity we must appease with sacrifices." Arpineia lamented. "The oldest records suggest a pregnant sow in honor of Moneta, but nobody ever confirmed it works."

Minucia giggled, nervous and alarmed.

"Oh no, we are sacrificing a horse that has never seen light or mare to Maia." Davinia raised an eyebrow; that was an odd choice. "It is an Etruscan thing. Tarpeia suggested we consult a haruspex from her hometown and that is what they suggested."

"Why are you this far from anywhere, anyway?" Arpineia asked. "I took forever to get here; it keeps you away from your sisters. This is what I came here for: we miss your gals."

We miss you so far as we end up pulling your weight in running public affairs. Arpineia appreciated the deflection, but she knows how damaging an isolated Engineering would be.

"These are communal lands that have been deemed unsustainable. The People does not let the Senate sell or rent them to private citizens." Minucia explained. "Tarpeia saved the Temple a lot of money by moving most of our workshops here. All by citing common good."

"But this place is so isolated! Engineering needs such fine tuned tools and expert crafters! How can you even get what you need? And what about all the work force for your foundries, workshops and warehouses? The nearest village is a day away."

Minucia tapped on Davinia's shoulder, pointing towards a multi leveled dock. Ships loaded with refined ores and bricks stood besides enormous rotating crane — including one that was able to lift an entire vessel!

"We are fine on our own. Tarpeia's only complaint is that we cannot even be more self-sustainable and that she still has to leave the complex twice a month. And the food situation, of course; it is so bad we have to abandon the site during winter."

Arpineia second-guessed her decision to talk with such eccentric character.

"Well, we are here." They turned around a strange multi-chambered kiln and approached a long wooden building that stretched over the river. Minucia smiled nervous as she signaled Arpineia to enter. "Good luck."

Temperature dropped as she entered the insulated workshop, the hammering of water against rocks, bricks and wood frame. The effect was similar but lesser to the underground ice houses used by the Department of Life and Death. Arpineia shivered, picturing nature breaking though and asserting its domain over human usurpation; she was dreadfully aware of how her safety against mercurial Gods depended on Vestalis' engineering.

Three women stood in the middle of the room, backs against a massive board and spread around a long stone slab; It struck Davinia how similar it was to the food counters of thermopilia, with large uniform holes carved and isolated bottoms, where basins of bronze held water at different stages of ebullition. A tall, spindly woman with a shaved head loomed over the boiling symposium, one hand over a water clock and the other marking the occasional number on the board. An energetic partner danced across the room, stopping by each basin and gesticulating with intensive intent. Sour and focused, Tarpeia signaled back and pointed at different experiments; it baffled Davinia how young her peer looked: tiny, sickly looking and wearing baggy clothes and a loose apron; Tarpeia had the energy of an ant lifting a bull.

"Hello?" Davinia asked, her voice swallowed by the loud waters. As they kept working, Arpineia took a moment to study them. They were in the middle of an agitated discussion, using cave senses and cave signal language, rapid-firing questions and hypothesis at each other. Cave signs had lost relevancy and not all modern Vestalis took the effort to learn them. Those trained with the Department of Natural Resources were a notable exception to that sad tendency; the only thing worse than Viviana's eyesight was her hearing. Any Vestalis that did not learn the cave languages, preserved by the College since time immemorial, denied herself the joys of Vivianas's wisdom and friendship.

Davinia accepted the happiness of being unnoticed with a smile, following the silent conversation. Tarpeia alternated between pointing out to basins or verbalizing what Arpineia assumed to be the different heat sources: palm oil, olive oil, resin, coal, firewood. The wandering priestess displayed an incredible speleological vocabulary, replying not only with the status of the boiling water but also rambling into an unrelated hypothesis; Arpineia narrowed her eyes, barely keeping up with the frenetic surge of complex terminology, catching something about thermal dispersion, air flow, the possibility of impurities and irregular basins. The third Vestalis nodded as she noted whatever the other two said, giving the occasional wink or wave, asking her more eager colleague to slow the pace.

There was a loud whistling that caused the three engineers to jump to action. They rushed to a specialized chamber, slowly letting something ascend. Davinia gasped.

The Mule. The Seventh Braid. Or, as Class III initiates whispered, the Deathsphere.

A concave boiler rose, heating a bronze sphere that rotated at the pleasure of whistling nozzles. The three Vestalis gathered around it, sweating as they took notes. The engine was at its limits, shaking as it gathered rotational speed. They ignored it, continuing their effusive note-taking.

Davinia trembled, dreading the release of the Deathsphere; she formed a fist, stress demanding she unleashed her Triumph and seized control of fire. Davinia calmed down and reached for her drenched scarf, fiddling around until she felt cold iron; she pricked herself on it, blood tickling as a valve released, reminding her of her mortality. Sure, a divine spark could save them in a snap, but save them from what? To be mortal was to be dying, Gods had no right to pull them from a state in which they wish to be; all Promethia would do is ruin their experiment by damaging their delicate instruments, or worse, by inserting errors into their data. Save them from learning.

A loud crack and an imperative descending wave from Tarpeia. At her signal the ground opened, the Deathsphere crashing down; in its anger the Mule unleashed blasts of deadly steam. The tallest Vestal dropped the water clock, pulling them to safety. Exhilarated, they hugged and laughed, celebrating their achievement; Tarpeia lost the smile when she noticed Davinia.

"Hello!" The eloquent and eager junior signaled her. "I am Horatia Barbata. I love your hair."

Arpineia reciprocated with an awkward, kind smile. She was wearing a casual tunic, two braids holding her forest of hair, and even then she felt overdressed compared to her sisters. Their work clothes, short tucked hair and well-worn trousers spoke of a different world. Away from performative piety, fearful ignorance and the opportunity to hook the engines of progress to the wheels of society.

"Long-travel." Davinia signaled back, struggling to put her cave teachings into a coherent message. "I hope I am not interrupting."

"I'm glad you came." Horatia was amazing at this, not missing a beat even when covered in sweat. "I love your work, you can even say I am your fan. Pity about the Department change."

Damn, those hands could cut. And so could Tarpeia's.

Her movements were ponderous and sharp, her message curated and direct.

"Why are you here? We will not be discussing funding for another season. This should have been a letter."

"That is why I came here." Davinia signaled back. "It worries me we have no relationship beyond those chance meetings. That path does not lend itself to shining."

"I think you mean prosperous concordia." Horatia suggested from the context. "Sorry."

"Have I considered I like to be this far from Rome?" Tarpeia pointed out with stark gestures.

"Distance only makes relationships more important." Arpineia pontificated, frustrated with the roaring waters. "Can we go somewhere else? I have intricate points to make."

Tarpeia lifted a finger and held it for an intense second. The waters stopped. Arpineia looked around for panels and levers that might manipulate such massive volume.

"How did you time that, what is the trick?"

"No trick, only scheduling." Tarpeia covered the hole that had killed the Mule. "We needed to clear some reservoirs to test some pump prototypes, so we used the opportunity to do some thermal capacity measurements."

Davinia had approached the board filled with marks without realizing.

"Fascinating."

"Yes, it is." Tarpeia interrupted her. "But it is not why you came."

"Right." The moment, the opportunity she sought; it was happening now, but Davinia was having second thoughts. The argument sounded silly: "We should support each other because nobody else would." Tarpeia and Engineering were doing well on their own. Arpineia was the one in need of assistance, why would they lend her a hand? Because they were the only plebeian Department heads? Ridiculous — even if that appeal to solidarity resonated deep in her heart. "I understand that you are pushing the limits every single day, that any moment you spend outside the workshop is an unwelcomed distraction; however, seclusion denies you opportunities."

"I don't see it that way." Tarpeia signaled at Horatia, telling her to bring some joining tools and tubes. "We know we are making sacrifices by moving our operations here, but nothing as valuable as the work we can perform unrestrained. We get the same stipend here; the savings alone are reason enough to move."

"I agree." Arpineia sought to disarm her colleague with an early concession. "You should not divide your resources and people; you don't need to that when our Department may act on your behalf. Is that not why there are seven of us?"

Tarpeia chuckled, turning to see that Arpineia was being serious and allowed an incredulous laughter.

"I'm sorry, I suppose you expect us to take your opinion on who to accept? To delegate crucial tasks to you? To let you represent us among peers and in Senate hearings?"

"Are they that crucial? I though Tarpeia just admitted they were worth sacrificing. Why is this proposal so unreasonable?"

"Fine." Tarpeia put her tools down. "Go on. What would your people do for us?"

"Education, education, education." Tarpeia smiled with warmth at Arpineia theatrics; she had no problem admitting she was good at them. "How many girls of all the sexes go through life without exploring their potential? Stuck in a farm somewhere, languishing in the Urbe, exploited in the battlefield; all this cruel system denies us the explosive intellects of our age — of any age. How many Ecellos, Aretes, Enheduannas, Damon and Hypathias could be nurtured in the arms of the Republic? How many have we lost already, because we never gave them an opportunity? I tell you what, none of them is going to Engineering if we don't groom them from an early age; it is the Department with least retention rate and with an overwhelming majority of early retirements."

"This is exactly the kind of talk that gets the Department of Innovation and Progress in trouble." Horatia signaled; there was no disapproval on her gestures and expression.

"It beats wondering what they even do." The so far quiet Vestalis spoke; after the fact, Davinia insisted on learning her name: Calogera. "Except making a very strong case that seven of what should have been six was a poor decision."

"It is a great idea." Tarpeia admitted. "I would even drag myself to Rome just to see that happen; however, there is a critical flaw in such arrangement."

"Vae? What would that be?" Davinia asked, optimistic.

"None of you is competent enough to distinguish the talented from the entitled." Tarpeia replied. "You think you are as learned as a woman can be, but you do not question; you only seek when you already have decided what you are seeking. This is not the Academia, this is the Vestalia: we formulate hypothesis and bring them to the flame."

"I have scrutinized every sister that joined my Department." Davinia lost her polite mirth. "And I offered alternative career paths to any of the Vestalis found lacking in piety and knowledge. I can understand your reticency; however, I am still a head of Department and I will admit insult to those under my rose."

Tarpeia waved in dismissal.

"I do not mean to demean your work, I am just stating the matter of things."

"I beg your pardon?"

The tiny Vestalis turned the wave around, encompassing the place.

"Our subject is fire; our business is fire. Each of our Departments is an aspect of fire."

Davinia's eyebrow and interest peaked. Vestalis were the flame; it was just not as prestigious a statement as it once was, It became an embarrassment, a rather crass reminder of a bygone era. It was all fine and well when the old Numaean kings and queens brought the College to early Rome, when their school of natural philosophy dictated all matter to be fire — everything that existed was a corruption, transformation or coagulation of essential flame.

Well, those were the days; when to be the flame meant to be a steward of everything. Too bad that had been mostly disproved in favor of indivisibles (atoms were pretty popular among the contemporary literature), or more distressing, an ignorant disgust for anything as ordinary as worldly matter. Arpineia and Ovidia played around the life-giving element of matter in their youth; she remembered it as gooey, sticky and fun to purify.

Tarpeia was no dummy; for her to speak with such passion about fire hinted at new data. Heretical thinking, maybe even a kick to the paradigm. Davinia's hips rubbed together; nothing got her wetter than the prospective of a paradigm shift.

"We are the flame." Arpineia repeated, feigning to be uninterested. "But what is a flame, anyway?"

"A flame is everything!" Tarpeia almost jumped on the bait. "The reason things move, change. The thing is, everyone has been wrong. It does not exist, it is not matter. It is beyond and between."

Davinia was shocked. As someone that had been blessed with the Triumph of Stolen Fire, she knew Tarpeia was right; nothing is as scary to the inquisitive mind as certainty.

"So it comes from… somewhere else? A fruit of inward reflection, of so idea locked in wood and charcoal; a platonic form trapped and released?" One last question to clear doubt. There was a special sin, born from sincerity and clarity; truth should always be confided in hushed tones before it was allowed to take flight.

"Reaction! Energy! Power!" Tarpeia almost shouted. "This is what we are measuring; I may even say that is what everyone in the College seeks. Well, almost everyone, and that is why I can't entrust education of Fabricatum Vestalis to you."

Arpineia blinked, her figurative neck recoiling from the whiplash. Was everything an excuse to dunk on Innovation and Progress?

"We can do it."

"No you can't! You produce nothing yourselves. You are not the combustion, the ignition, the hearth, the fuel or the breath! All you can do is learn from others less than they know; if you we let you be the teachers of others, they will learn even less. Until nothing remains, or even worse, something indistinguishable from ignorance."

"My Department is the indicator of the health of our fire." Arpineia stepped forward, approaching Tarpeia with a challenge. "We are the flame, shining, bright, perpetuating itself and preserving the means to do so. We can do it, just as you can -- because you did it."

Tarpeia turned away, continuing to work on tubbing.

"I'm sorry, I just cannot give you my resources and people just so you can squander them."

"Let me prove it to you." Arpineia turned to the board. "I can help you with this."

The other Vestalis turned to each other.

"She is actually a good mathematician." Horatia signaled.

"This is not something you can do with geometry and by drawing circles." Tarpeia grumbled. "You don't need good. You need one of the greatest Pythagorean mathematicians."

Arpineia was already writing on the board.

"This is easy, actually." Davinia looked around, looking away from her Etruscan annotation. "You were right, these formulae are intensive work. We need to solve these, and keep solving, and keep solving. It will take time, but we will get it. We will get a way to calculate the thermal capacity and how to quantify energy exchange. We can know fire."

"Can you compute the equations into something nice?"

"Give me forty."

Tarpeia cover her mouth, tears in her eyes.

"Days?"

"Decades." Arpineia turned around. "It is not work for one woman, it is not work for seven; even seventy. We need to improve these numbers, we need to burn as one."

Too much betrayal and outright manipulation.

"You are lying. These must be just gross approximations." Tarpeia sobbed. "They told me you were petty and opportunistic, Arpineia. I cannot have this, I cannot have you delaying and impeding my work for some selfish reason. This is low, even compared to what they told me about you."

"Tarpeia, I am not misleading you. You are right, it is bigger than any of our individual Departments, it may be the most…"

"Get out." Tarpeia cried. "Leave my workshop!"

*​

Night came. Tarpeia dismissed the other Vestals. In front of the board, Tarpeia sat and nibbled on some hard bread and olives. Despite Arpineia making her day sour, all that awesome data begged more impactful questions. Tarpeia leaned on the elegant math, replacing it with alternating values and solving the skipped variables. They were consistent with known studies and data that nobody else had access to: enough to get a crude, relative measure of temperature. Arpineia had looked at her data and computed a mode that might predict simple changes in closed systems.

That was never the issue, was it?

She knew Arpineia knew her stuff, that was what made her gritting so dangerous.

Tarpeia leaned back, staring at the darkness that had seized the workshop and the distant lock and turn of pumps. The loneliness was striking; she came from a big family and grew up in a construction guild, a place busy day and night. Everyone working and sharing their interests, helping each other and taking care of the people. Tarpeia expected the wealthy and prestigious Vestal College to thrive through deeper connections, an extension of her secular experience. She might picture classism and disappointment, but not this emptiness. Tarpeia looked back to the board filled with equations and measurements. She too was good at recognizing patterns and predicting outcomes.

The long road ahead would take her further and further into a state of mind she did not wish to embrace.

And yet.

She went into a foldable desk filled with belongings and opened an elm-wood box. Tarpeia rejected the fetishization and hoarding of tokens of affection, preserving only a key selection of correspondence that were better memories than kindling. She opened the letter she sought and approached the light.

Salve Tarpeia,

Congratulations on having your civilian work recognized as important as your priestly duties. Addressing such grievous injustice fills my heart with joy.

There are not other women like us within the College. We are breaking new ground and, for good and ill, everything about how we act and express our influence is establishing precedents for plebeian and foreign Vestalis. And everyone knows that.

They will use us, they will make our image into something that matches how they already think of us — and how they want people to see us for all time. They will try to throw everything at you they believe will make you distrust yourself: your experience, your youth, your class, your wealth. Stand by your work; it earned you a place at our table and established your authority on the field. Anyone that decries that with soft words and doubts has no place in your mind.

I can feel the love you have for your work, the sincerity you pour in every engine. And that is why I cannot give you more advice: to do so would make me join the ranks of the peddlers of doubt. We may seem similar in our background but we have a fundamental divergence: I am powered not by some passion or quest. I am a selfish being. I want to make the Republic better for me — in the self-centered belief that doing so will make it better for everyone.

That makes me more dangerous than the patrician opposition; they will close the door on you and give you an easy target to overcome, while I will be the friendly face that may be too wrong to even know she is misleading you.

Be selfish with your passions. You know best for you.

I am looking forward to the next twenty-eight years.

We are the flame.

Arpineia, Vestalis Class I of Innovation and Progress.

Tarpeia folded the letter and curled into a pensive posture. The flame has no choice but to burn, but nobody ponders how she feels. Arpineia ignited knowledge and Tarpeia could not just act in ignorance.

Why did she even send this letter?

Well, Arpineia was helpful enough to write the reason. We are the flame. We burn.

Tarpeia glared at the trapdoor that hid the destroyed Mule. Stand by her work? Energy, change, motion. Action.

She would fill these halls with noise and fire.

 

[StrigaRosa]

"I don't know what his problem is."

"Yeah, come on! It is just trimming his nails."

"Never again, nobody that selfish is worth the effort."

"A pity, because he is super cute."

"Salutations, Vestalis!" A heavy-breathing patrician entered the second courtyard of the College of the Vestals, past the private threshold. The man was flustered, face half-covered by a dirty wool cloak; he only had himself to blame, going around running in a toga. What non-sense. Why even have patricians if they are just going to behave like that?

"Salve, citizen." The closest Vestal approached as the other adjusted her veil. "What is the urgent matter that brings you into the House of the Flame?"

"Well, not inside the House. They still allow this, right?" A nervous giggle as the man kept sweating. "It would not do if I worsened my position with sacrilege. Vae!"

The patrician found his senses and presented a pair of scrolls—sealed, a senatorial and a personal seal on each of them. Biting her lower lip, the closest priestess folded her tunic and received the scrolls.

"Under which name and subject should I store them?"

"Gaius Numicius." The man showed his iron ring. "It is my correspondence with tribal leaders of the Republic of Epirus. For my safety, they should not be on my person; for the interests of the Republic they should be entrusted to the Vestals."

The two women exchanged glances; the man escaped was gone as quickly as he had rushed in.

"I think he wanted Law and History." The veiled priestess suggested.

"He should have learned to distinguish Department ribbons." The colleague answered, picking the scrolls.

*​

Davinia stretched herself, shifting her weight and trying to find comfort in the floor. She held opened scrolls, comparing old seals of similar documents and using chair and benches as extra workspace. She was humming as she studied the intricate dialect of Greek in which they wrote the missives. Arpineia's long suffering Second Class assistant was tidying the place, securing rarer scrolls at the same time she made sure that her superior was fed. Nibbling on some bread and minced nuts and olives, Davinia kept reading.

"Do you need help?" The Second Class Vestalis offered. "All my Greek is awful rote learning, but it will be another pair of eyes."

"Mhmh." Arpineia muttered between mouthfuls. "No, don't. I need your brain, not your eyes. I got the crux of this. So, Epirus. Nice people, messy land, just on the other side of the sea. Lovely habit of throwing bricks at tyrants, less desirable Roman-killing history and ambiguous on Punics. They have secured their independence from neighboring hegemons and they are trying the beauty of a mixed constitution with checks and balances. Delightful development."

"Vae, mostly. But I am sure a woman from Argos threw the tile." The subordinate narrowed her eyes at the offhand manner her superior spoke of Pyrrhus invasion of the peninsula and how much the hegemon threatened Rome and Carthage. "I'm sorry, I'm sure that is irrelevant to the matter. Please continue."

"All right, so they are trying to make that, but the Senate has been giving them the cold shoulder. Which is unfortunate; if these letters are accurate, they are emulating Etruscan-Asiatics democracies instead of the Hellenistic ones. The non-Greek majority of Epirus makes up the three most powerful voting blocks of the League; this community is off to a great start, and if it can survive past inception? They can become an influential member of the federation. But you know they won't make it; not on their own."

"Oh no." The young girl covered her mouth, geopolitics hitting her like the rostra of a trireme.

"Hum hum." Davinia swallowed another piece of bread. "They're right next to one of the three big hegemons and their self-governance is a challenge that demands an answer. But Rome can help. Senator Numicius has been communicating with Epirote diplomats in other Italian cities, trying to construct a case for Senate consideration. Very civic-minded of him; if plebeian solidarity may lead to Roman help, the role of the Senate is to advise the Peoples. How can they consider the issues and advise the proles and the plebs if they are just as ignorant?"

"That never stopped them before."

"And it is beneficial to capitalize on resentment against Epirotes."

"It is understandable. The Peoples still remember how their relatives died to stop the invasion, the sacrifices of the allies and the awesome elephants. The resentment makes even the suggestion of diplomatic channels a political risk. Senator Numicius invoked our sacred duties and discretion for a reason; if word comes out that the Senate is dealing with Epirotes there will be massive upheaval, and not only among Romans. The social forces gave too much to protect Italia; there will be discord in the federation."

"I disagree. In fact, that is not an acceptable position to take. Syracuse was part of that war, and we have been on and off allies since then. Epirote tribes did not even start the war; it was imposed on them by a tyrant. And even Pyrrhus role in the expedition was questionable; the last two Senatorial generations have downplayed the role of Tarentum in the war, even if they started it lured Pyrrhus with the fruits of our labor. Why Epirus's plight is ignored, while patricians and Taras aristocrats dine in silver and marry into each other clans? It is all about class; that is the why the Senate tells the Peoples they should love Tarentines and hate the Epirote: they believe they have more in common with Magna Grecia aristocracy than with any other popular group."

"Vestalis Arpineia!" The young patrician Second Class Vestalis protested. "That is unfair! Not everything is about class!"

Davinia put down the scrolls, rotated and pointed at one of the few decorations of her cell: on opposites side to her official portrait, tucked between two scroll cases, a landscape painting of the Conflict of Orders of CDLXVII. A dedication to the previous owner was written on the frame. "To my Hortensia: everything in this city is about class - or the lack thereof."

"The Senate is overwhelmingly patrician; they love to associate and profit from their dealings with Taras. Whatever benefits come from a war with Macedon are nothing compared with the damage of increased class awareness and flow of ideas due to closer ties between Roman and Epirote tribes. They are failing their civic duty; the People, their best interests and those of the Res Publica are not being properly served."

"Fine, I concede that is a reasonable interpretation." The younger woman accepted, recognizing an useless fight if there has ever been one. "Leave it to the Tribunes and Consuls, they can do something about the matter and not of them oppose intervention out of elitism. There are other reasons to be skeptical military campaign across the Adriatic, such as the way Rome disgraced itself at Illyria."

"A family friend served there as capsarior; they told us all about it." Davinia whispered. "It was a mess of villainy and opportunism, shrouded in ignorance and patriotism. It must never happen again."

The other woman nodded in agreement.

"How are we going to handle our pious commitment to Gaius Numicius? Should I make a copy of the letters and give them to Vestalis Canuleia so they are properly filed?"

"In due time, but we still have work to do; Senator Numicius delicate position and civic heroism demands Vestal pro-activity. We must protect them from legal or political persecution." Davinia picked one letter and showed it to her assistant. "See this? It mentions some gifts to the Senate on behalf of the League; however, that cannot be the case by the very virtue that Numicius is the only member in contact with them."

"They must have sent them to Gaius Numicius! If anyone learns of that they can trial him for treason! If there is anything that gets Senate and Tribunes to agree is the condemnation of someone accepting brides from a foreign government."

"Precisely." Arpineia rose. "The ship carrying the gifts has sailed to Tarracina; they are still waiting there, quarantined. I will go there, present these sealed letters and my Vestal status. If I claim the gifts for safeguarding at the Temple, there can be no doubt it was not the dealings of a private citizen."

"Will you tell Senator Numicius?"

"Probably not, he must be in the middle of some silly plot, intoxicated with bravado and intrigue; who am I to disturb his cloak and pugio fantasies? He has someone people as intermediaries, maybe he has a bunch of clients hiding in smuggler caves or waddling through the nearby marshlands, trying to get to the gifts before anyone else notices the shady deal. No, I will do this by the Ten Tablets—for once."

She was lying.

"That is good enough for the rest of the Collegia, but what if someone external inquires about you, Vestalis Arpineia?"

They exchanged tired glances, knowing very well how moot explanations would be.

"Just tell them I am inspecting the viability of the Engineering designs for the Pontine Marshes." Arpineia reached for a case and unrolled a letter. "Nobody should have issues with me trying to get more farmland to feed this wretched cesspit."

"Please write and hurry." The Second Class Vestalis pleaded. "The only thing in these halls hotter than Fire is the gossip. Who knows what Canuleia may do if she suspects anything."

*​

With Arpineia accounted for, Promethia could get loose. Arpineia packed a light load, giving away the car in favor of two donkeys. She was not even one mark down the Via Appia when a horseman gave her chase; it was inevitable—she was trying to avoid a lictor or entourage, but if she was pretending to be on official business, it would raise eyebrows for her to be on her own.

She did not recognize the rider. All lictors seemed the same to Davinia: patrician-passing plebs, beautiful and elegant, not very smart or skilled. The relatives you want to be seen in proximity to power but nowhere close to a fasce. This one was handsome but rugged, of a more balanced of built and posture. They wore an old soldier cloak decorated with a ring of goose and duck feathers; from their side swung two symbols of their status as lictor curiatus (a sacrificial knife and a voting rod) and an unpious-looking axe.

"Vestalis Arpineia, I presume?"

"You have me at a disadvantage." Davinia complained."You are not one of ours, are you?"

"I am yours, only." The lictor corrected. "Lycalo of Aricia."

"I don't recall picking a personal lictor curiatus.

"I was selected and summoned by Vestalis Maxima Veneneia herself." Lycalo pointed to a clasp with the sigil of bridge-makers: a bridge that also doubled as the hearth for a roaring fire. "She seems to believe a more conventional lictor would not do."

"Has she told you why?" A worried Davinia inquired.

"That all the muscle-for-hire and official lictors that escort you tend to die horrible and unexplained deaths." Lycalo admitted, rubbing his facial hair.

"Then you understand why I make do without a bodyguard."

"The chief Vestalis told me you would say that. Oddly, she also told me to mention I served at the sanctuary at Remi. I don't see how that may be relevant."

Damn you Veneneia. No way she could ignore a direct assignment from her; Davinia knew this was Veneneia being nice and letting her take the hint: if she had to come down and tell her to moderate her behavior, there would be heavy repercussions. But she also sent her a man from Remi? Someone that had worked with their Arician cousins? The Vestalis Nemorensis were an odd, reclusive bunch that had no interest in administrative or civic duties. They were all Closer to the Gods, to the oak nymphs of the groves and their fellow priestesses of Diana and Proserpina. The anarchic enclave organized around the worship of the Triad goddess was rumored to be stewards of awesome knowledge about the Stars and the Earth; how could Davinia resist when Veneneia dangled Lycalo in front of her?

"You know I am said to be Closer to Egeria? How would you feel that compares with your previous service experience?"

Lycalo lifted an arm.

"I would be a bad bodyguard if I spewed the secrets of my wards. Besides, does the average Roman lictor has any idea what a Vestalis is doing and the principles behind their work?"

Good point. Arpineia accepted with reluctance.

"Fine, keep their secrets." She pouted. Lycalo dismounted and petted their asinine companions.

"So, what about your own secrets?" The lictor changed subject.~"The channel inspection or terrain appraisal or whatever was that nice lady in your office mentioned? I guess that is not behind your journey."

"I don't understand what you mean." A flustered Vestalis attempted to lie.

"Not a single shovel, a measuring rod, topographic marker or even a groma." Lycalo concluded after a quick inspection of Arpineia's luggage. "Seems like a more social event."

At the guilty silence, Lycalo contributed with reassuring words.

"It will be safer for both if I know what to expect."

"You said you are mine, so you report to my Department and my Department alone, correct?" Davinia probed.

"Department?" Lycalo was confused for a moment, reaching the obvious conclusion. "Oh, I see. Your College divides yourself in Departments. Yes, I suppose I am to help you do whatever is that you do."

Davinia let that go: she was too busy making the mental note that Vestals of Remi did NOT divide themselves into fields of civic service.

"All right, get back on your horse. On the way I will tell you how naughty I have been."

*​

Tarracina was only a settlement by the busy unity conferred by the natural safe harbour; once you abandoned the Via Appia you found yourself in a world of tricky wetlands, homesteads on hills, pigsties and vegetable gardens in every convenient corner. Rustic walls demarcated propriety and gave some sense of identity and protection to the local clans. That vague commune was Tarracina.

Davinia pressed onward, towards the modern-looking pier, supported by small apartment blocks and warehouses, hosting foreign ships.

"Where are you going?" Lycalo stopped his steed, putting on a helmet with an upper half-mask of a curious fox. "The animals are tired and you cannot be much better."

"What are you doing?" Davinia replied, pushing her poor donkeys more.

"Looking the part. Vestalis Arpineia, stop." He pointed at a large building on flatland, fortified and gated with a lot of noisy animals and sitting right beside a dirt road. "There is an inn right there."

"Are you kidding? I come from a merchant family: I don't trust no innkeepers!" Davinia protested. "Besides, I need to talk with the community leaders."

Lycalo wiggled his indicator twice at the inn.

"You will find them there, trust me. I know how things works in places like this." Lycalo waved towards the docks. "There you will find the people in power—or at least those that make the money. But if you want to talk with the local representatives, they live there."

With a inquiring smirk, Arpineia let Lycalo prove he was worth of being her Lictor.

The gates were half open, half-closed, puddles and mud sprouting under then. The smells, noise and warmth emanating from the animals kept in the safe courtyard overwhelmed them . People of all shapes and ages ran around, busy with livestock and routine repairs and cleaning.

"Well… it seems honest enough." Davinia remarked as Lycalo helped her dismount. A man in his thirties dropped a bundle of hay and came to greet them.

"Stable for three and a room?" He asked Lycalo, noticing the mask and marks of office.

"Two rooms, on the same floor." Davinia corrected. "And you can address me directly."

"A priestess, humble me? Sure, sure. Will tell my moms and come back for your rides and luggage."

Davinia did not wait, raising and eyebrow and narrowing her eyes towards Lycalo.~

"I may have made my own arrangements ahead."

"How. We have been breaking our mounts backs riding here."

"I have my own ways."

"You are resourceful." Davinia threw a satchel at Lycalo and slung the other over her shoulder."Good thing you are working for me."

"Just another civil servant, steward of the Flame.

They entered the inn. It was bustling with activity but almost deserted of guests. From the inside it looked like someone had built upon a meeting hall and communal kitchens, expanding it to accommodate three generations of three families and a couple of guests. The matriarchs stood around, supervising the bar, kitchens and the endless turmoil and toil that set the hours of home-life.

"I have to give to you, it is like a village under one roof." Arpineia admitted, sitting in one table. She felt the wood, feeling the scratches and carvings left by children and their games. "I'm parched, but I see they get their water from wells. Get us a few glasses of diluted wine; I still have a lot of work to do."

"Do you want me to ask for some boiled water for some energizing infusion, if you will be working through the night?"

"Oh no, please don't! Maybe later when they have some cooking fire on. Just offer to help them get the amphoras from the cellar and, you know, give a look to see what water they are adding and how they are storing the wine."

Relaxing with a moment to herself, Davinia pulled out her notes and focused in re-reading. She added some notes of her own. She felt herself observed; stopping twice, she looked over her shoulder before returning to her letters. After the third time she caught the eye of another of the older adults, trying to hush down some patrons. He rushed towards the kitchen, returned with some hard-baked bread and fish paste and served it at the Vestalis' table.

"I'm sorry priestess, please heed no mind."

Davinia turned on her seat and leaned towards the kerfuffle. One of the other clients wore water-proof leathers and a dirty cloak; he kept his entire body shaven and had a face red from alcohol and shouting.

"You are okay with this! Your families are set either way, who do you care if they drain our lands?"

"Macillus, please. We all are together on this, what do we gain by poisoning our community?" The matriarch at the bar had engaged.

"You resent us, that is why! Because of how much we get from the marshlands and because you ignore the treasures within! You always looked down on us and you could not bear to see us succeed!"

"Friend, you have been suffering. How about I call your children and then, once you are rested we can talk about what we can do?"

"No! I know they sent someone from the Urbe, that they are carrying on with the irrigation plans. I want to give her a piece of my mind and you will not stop me. I will not see my kin destitute and have a bunch of outsiders move into our homes."

Davinia crossed her arms, frowning.

"We will make him leave, Vestal."

"No, let me listen." Davinia replied."I know my sisters have handled the engineering and viability studies. I want to know what the people fear for and the impact the project will have in their lives. This is a precious opportunity."

She had said that, but it was harder to do than she proposed. A lot of the arguments—if they could be called so—were baseless and irritated her; some of them were downright patronizing. She loved the project, it seemed good for everyone, a promising development for all surrounding communities: a bounty of food and communion, a scarcity of disease and rot. They spent years developing the tools, comparing projects, devising solutions; returning repeatedly to the drawing board to make new pitches and to address novel problems. Who were they to doubt the hard work of her Collegia? They just happened to live here.

They just happened to live here. And that made their concerns important; Davinia reminded herself: she was no different, she also lived in the here and now—nobody exists in the "long-term" or cared for "eventually". Why would she expect others to accept what she rejected herself? Lycaro sat down, worried hands tracing the contours of the wine jar as he eyed Davinia.

She stood up; Lycaro made his desire to follow her clear.

"Be careful with what you say." The lictor suggested. "Things are tense enough as they are."

"I'm just going to listen." Arpineia replied, with as much sincerity as she herself could believe in.

Lycaro leaned over the table, brow resting against his upturned palm.

"Excuse me." Most of the inn held their breath as Davinia did not wait for an answer, pulling a stool and sitting right in front of the protesting elder. "I cannot help but overhear and once I heard what you had to say? I was quite taken. I came here to observe the lands that will be altered by the drainage and re-address the viability of the original projects."

"Let me save your time then." The man groaned. "The project is bad. Go back to Rome."

A sudden silent, disturbed only by the scratching of wood on stone as Lycaro rose.

"I am half-inclined to do just as you say." Arpineia shrugged. "I have not realized how damaging to the environment and the local lifestyle our little pump would be."

Everyone was incredulous. Davinia just could not sell an idea like that on goodwill alone; she advanced with a greedy smirk.

"We are your biggest client." Everyone relaxed, ensnared my the pragmatic sincerity of self-interest that Davinia emanated. "Our stipend is already stretched thin; Vae Vesta, what would we do if the reagents were to grow rarer—and expensive?"

"Yeah, that is how things are. You priestesses should know better than to mess with us. We hold all the dice on this endeavor."

"You sir, have me defeated." Davinia formed a pyramid with her fingers. "I will advise my sisters to withdraw their recommendations from the Senate's consideration as soon as possible."

Now it was the three inn-keeping families that were upset; their livelihood and future depended on the rising popularity of Tarracina—and that will not happen if it remained a disease-ridden, meager marshland. As the elder marshlander emptied another cup in victory, Davinia's smirk widened as her eyebrows turned in worry.

"However, we do not see any benefit in maintaining a relationship that is damaging for both parties." Davinia unleashed the fullness of her equestrian breeding. "Perhaps an uninhabited place up north would see improvement through our patronage, and the learned hand of the College of Agriculture and Natural Resources could preserve the divine beauty of those marshes, while providing with new settlers."

The elder shifted on his seat, a bright beam of understanding piercing his drunkenness.

"What are you going on about, Vestalis?"

"The tragedies of the last months have left entire Cisalpine territories depopulated and caused the flight of even more families. I heard that some refugees, unable to make to the urban centers of the South, have been surviving on the marshes. Not all of them want to return—or have something to return to—after the savagery of the Celt. So, maybe they would reward our support in this hour of need with better deals? There is only hoping."

"But that can take years." The elder gulped. "And you priests have such unique needs.

The pyramid dismantled in a spider-like fashion.

"Vae. What are you trying to say, my good citizen?"

"I'm sure we can come with an agreement. For the here and now."

"Please, do so. Reach out for my sisters in the other departments. It would be unseemly for us to mess with the marshlander way of life."

*​

Afternoon of work gave way to a restless night. Davinia and Lycaro made their way to the courtyard. Four large tables and benches, rustic and made of varnished but unworked wood. A small frame covered in ivy was all that stood between them and the night-sky; potted flowers and aromatic herbs complemented the environment, making it a charming place to dine.

Davinia had carried reading material even to this place of secluded relaxation—the only true quiet corner of the inn. She kept working, pausing only for the occasional sip of the thick vegetable stew, a heartening meal flavored with fermented fish remains and doused on hard stale bread; enriched with the same potent herbs that gave magic to the night. Arpineia shifted uncomfortable on the bench; not so much the hard wood, it was the inquiring stares of Lycaro that distracted her from dinner and reading. The lictor had barely touched his stew, even if his glowing expression when smelling it confirmed their satisfaction with the food.

"What?" Davinia blurted, swinging her half-empty bowel. "If you have anything to say, get on with it."

"I am still thinking about that brutal shakedown." Lydaro admitted. "Have not seen many priestesses being this cutthroat outside of the sacrificial altar."

"There are few like me." Davinia laid the bowl on the table.

"I knew that. And it still surprised me."

Davinia sighed.

"Is this going to be a problem? Is this going to interfere with our work?"

Lycaro scratched his beard.

"No, I don't think it is. I just want to understand why you did it. I want to know what drives my Vestal."

Now it was Davinia that scratched her chin.

"I get it, I understand why it may be puzzling. I did not have to do that, right? I could have kept my head down, went up with the Epirote affair and let the donkeys of progress take their course. A lot of damage would be done that could be avoided by getting the locals to talk with us." Davinia looked away. "And if they may resent someone, which they were on the path to do, let them resent me instead. They will find calmer voices among Viviana's people."

Lycaro seemed to have found his appetite, attacking the stew with voracity. He abstained from commentary. Arpineia could feel emptiness on a full stomach as doubt gnawed at her. She wanted the best for her and everyone around her; she always pushed herself to learn more, to know more, to maneuver herself in a position where she could accomplish more. But a flaw laid at the heart of this belief: what if, after all she learned, with all she knew, even by being at the right place at the right time, she still acted ruinously? It was too dangerous to spend too much time locked inside one's head.

"I want to preserve everyone's prosperity and good fortune and do away with all ill. Am I wrong for wanting that? I don't know but it is what I want; and that sometimes takes me deep into the woods."

"Or the marshlands." Lycaro added. "I believe you work to do good, but how can you do so if you are unwell?"

"Of course I'm fine, would anyone not fine do what I do!"

"There is a difference between being healthy enough to work and distract yourself from what wails you. That you can still do it speaks wonders about your stubbornness and mental endurance, but there is a price to pay for this." Lycaro pulled out some notes from between his clothes. "Considering everything that happened, you just cannot be well."

"What do you have there? Have you been investigating me?" Arpineia was shocked.

"I did not have to. When you are a Vestalis, your suffering is never private." Lycaro unrolled the notes.

"What kind of lictor are you?"

"The one sworn to protect their ward: body, mind and spirit." Lycaro started reading. "A public falling out with your support network. Lost apartment for some undisclosed reason. Held hostage during the terrorist attack on the temple of Saturn. Caught in Triumphant cross-fire. Became Closer to Egeria in the sacred grove. Last survivor of a doomed expedition. Closer to the Gods after contact with Forbidden Lore. Caught in Triumphant cross-fire—again. And should I add "Attempted foreign affairs as a private citizen to the list"? This is a terrifying list, and it is only what is public knowledge."

"I do not know what to say, Lycaro. All those things happened, but I am fine."

"One or two of those would be enough for someone to need help." Lycaro rolled the notes back. "All of those? Within months?"

"Are you supposed to be help I need? I do not know you." Davinia riposted.

"That is true. No, I'm not the help you need. You need community care, but I am here to ease your burdens—just a little."

"I'm fine." Arpineia repeated.

"I believe you believe that." Lycaro replied. "And you can be fine now. You are something else, Arpineia; If you set your mind in pushing through, you will. However, do you plan to shoulder the crises on your life with a Dictatorship? You will not be done with this or the next assignment and then plant cabbages. You have what, twenty-two years left of civil service? Please, even if you do not address your ongoing issues, please, agree that this is not a sustainable load."

"Those are Veneneia's words." Davinia pouted, eyebrows crushed into a single apprehensive line. "You are too tactful a person, you would know not to cross those boundaries on the first day we met."

"The Vestalis Maxima admires and loves you—in her scorching intense way." Finished with his meal, Lycaro put the bowl down and left. "I am going to bed, Arpineia. You should not stay up late; you have a big day tomorrow, and you will not be dealing with peasants denied your opportunities for learning and study."

A very reluctant Davinia admitted Lycaro had a point. She was here to stop fights, not to start them or pick on the disadvantaged. Shuffling over her work bag, she pulled out her uniform.

Nothing like a night flight before bed.

 

[StrigaRosa]

High on skies, late at night: Tarracina was swallowed by darkness and silenced by the sea. Promethia looked down, wondering where to start.

She scouted the bundled buildings closer to the warehouses, a cluster of bricks and canvas. Lycaro was right on his assessment; nobody lived here, everyone was on their way to something better. Room after room of workers laying together, coughing and snoring after a day of heavy labor—wage slavery in which they found themselves in. Curious glances were all Davinia could afford before moving on to the other buildings.

Promethia approached the warehouses; nicely walled and tilled, tiny windows that barely let any light inside. Crossed arms, Davinia wondered how she could squeeze herself through those openings and how many times she would have to do that just to take a peak inside. As her ideas burned, she caught the glint of something on a rooftop. With a discreet dive, Davinia approached the source of the reflection: a rolling, lead-heavy, blue-green glass flask. Spinning over herself, Davinia cushioned and grasped it between two fingers. Tumbling the flask between her fingers, she noticed a viscous opaque substance within; waving the air in front of the tube's mouth towards her nose; it had a subtle, slightly soapy, comforting smell of pleasant neutrality.

Davinia's mercantile acumen turned as she studied the object. It was expensive, not something that could be crafted locally—imported and belonging to someone of means. What was it doing, rolling down a recently built warehouse? Promethia followed the falling path, figuring out where it came from.

Something or someone was moving across the rooftops, slithering with measured and slow movements. Promethia approached from high, flowing the discreet advance. It was a woman, wearing dark purples and blues, her posterior shifting under the tightest stitching Davinia had ever seen, custom-cut to cling like a second skin. There was a soft rattle of jewelry and glassware, strings of leather around the infiltrator's body restraining a strange arsenal without bulk or awkwardness—and more important for the situation at hand, with no rattling. Promethia was mesmerized, hovering closer and closer, trying to get a better view. Reaching the edge of the roof, the woman extended her arms, stretched and dangled her legs over the waterfront, distributing her weight. Moonlight and water-reflected drew a contour of her face: masked, heavy looking and face-concealing, with quite a pronounced snout or muzzle.

Promethia descended, hiding behind the adjacent warehouse. Poking around the corner, she continued to observe the stealthy efforts of the other woman. The infiltrator tied two ropes from the roof and dropped with careful probing steps. To Davinia's surprise the woman stretched and contorted, squeezing through the diminutive window. More impressive, she was doing it with only one free hand: Davinia noticed a small wooden box that she held against her wrapped torso. A helpless whimper: that was how Davinia acknowledged her loss of control over the situation. She did not understand what the woman was doing and how that related to the Epirote mission, but her detective instincts screamed about a relation.

Landing on the wet stone, Davinia ran around the warehouses, looking for any entrance. The walls were thick and access limited; there were only the tiny windows up high and the heavy wide gates. Because she knew what to expect, Davinia could hear the light footsteps of the spy, piercing the quiet moments between the slow wheeze of rolled sails and the turmoil of the sea. She had to get inside.

Hating herself for asking for a favor after the last time, Promethia reached inside and aligned her Spark with her mind.

"Davinia, what are you up to this late?" The metallic simulacrum of a voice echoed, usual celerity but sparse words.

"I'm sorry Sybil, I am in a bit of a trouble."

"You are. You creeping around at night: if you were not in trouble already, you are looking for it."

"Vae, vae. But can I have your thinking power? I have some blind heating to do and could use the boost and control."

"I'm still sluggish, but let me cool my innards and I will be with you. Done!"

Davinia closed her eyes and took a deep breath, feeding her Spark and opening her mind to Sybil. She could feel the gas trapped within the wooden gates, the flow between cracks, the iron through which bars prevented her entrance. She focused on the later, concentrating all the heat on the metal, making it heave and whistle. With nails flew out with a red cry, iron giving in to weight and dropping the bar into the ground with a loud clang. Hovering gently over the floor, Davinia opened the gates just enough for her to slip through.

She panicked when she saw a dock worker sleeping amid sacks of grain and wool piles. They did not seem to react to her—or anything else. Fearing the worst, Davinia loomed over the figure, putting two fingers against their neck. Feeling the soft breathing and a serene pulse, they sighed in relief. Footsteps around her, on the large second floor of the warehouse, a place for smaller and more precious cargo. Weirdness seemed to await Davinia at each opportunity: this time, a bright phosphorous and magnesium flash, accompanied by an intense smell of vinegar and metallic garlic.

The masked thief haunted the place, going through the different cargo, opening boxes and coffers—always with her flashing square in hand. A single piercing point of light danced around the walls, stopping only when another flash was released. The thief turned her snout towards something even more interesting: the port authorities office. Delighted, she put the box she held on the floor and rushed to this archive of bounty, ransacking the scroll cases and clearing the desk. With a victorious chuckle, she grabbed the most precious of prizes: the shipping manifestos.

They wrinkled into ash in her hands. The thief turned to see an ascending Davinia land in front of the stairs, one burning hand held high as she approached in a halo of confidence.

The thief cursed in Greek.

"Sybil. You still there?" Davinia projected mentally. "I could use some intel on this woman and what her little box can do."

"I can't sense anyone with you. You are alone."

"I'm definitely not. Gonna get to you on that later, busy now." Could it be Spark interference? Was she a Triumphant? Promethia could hardly see her, much less feel her resonance. Feeding the furnace of her Spark, Davinia forced herself to recognize the woman. She could feel a cloaked Spark, recognized by its absence. Slowly an idea was shared, manifest between the two.

"Circe." Davinia proclaimed, dismissing the flame and inviting darkness in.

"Promethia." Circe rolled the words in her tongue, soaking every syllable with a thick accent that Davinia had trouble identifying.

"Can we just talk, thief to thief?"

"I am no thief." Circe threw some ash in Promethia's face before tackling her. They fumbled on the ground, trying to restrain each other.

Better combatants had tried to pin Davinia down and she had learning a thing or two: she rolled back and refuted any advance. They were both up, circling each other, eager to put the other down; neither of them were fighters, and even if Circe was more athletic and flexible, their awkwardness was as dangerous as it was an advantage. They glared at each other, trying to come up with an edge that could grant them a satisfying outcome.

"Do we have to do this? What are you trying to get?" Davinia dropped her arms into a more relaxed stance.

"You took what I wanted, you filthy animal."

"Animal? You are the one wearing a pig mask!" Davinia remarked: it was a nice mask, now that she was close enough to appreciate it. Eyes protected but without obstruction, mouth and nose covered by the snout and it stretched over the face—clearly custom-made. And Davinia had just tried to pull it, so she could appreciate the strength of the fitting.

"Only so I can do this." Circe grabbed a trio of flasks from their leather restrainers and threw them into the floor. High in adrenaline and surprised, Davinia breathed a mouthful more than it would be wise to.

Her pulse became irregular, weakness infiltrated her very bones. Davinia could barely feel her limbs and a hellish itchiness covered her all over. Her vision blurred as Circe grabbed her box and walked away; Davinia tried to grab the thief but her hand resisted her commands. Circe entered the window, mockingly blowing a kiss.

"Scurry away little mouse, before they find you."

Promethia did not know where she got the extra reserves, crawling in pursuit of Circe. The distance seemed to stretch more than she could drag herself, everything looming over her, impossibly tall. The itchiness on her nose and ears were almost driving her to screams; she could only feel disgust at her clothes and scarf—she would tear them to spread if they did not weigh as if woven from lead. She did it, Davina could see the window, she could see Circle sliding down the rope. Promethia looked inside for her Spark, but even that seemed foreign to her senses and eluding Davinia.

All her will and purpose manifested as fire, burning the rope into nothingness. The last thing she could be sure of was screaming and a painful crash. Delighted, Davinia could feel herself disappear. Her body was a stranger which she haunted, the warehouse turning into a maze. She could feel herself scurrying in all four, hands and feet on the cold floor, an eternity to cross towards outside. The windows were not an obstacle; as she tried to plead for help and sound an alarm, only squeals could be heard.

Davinia found her senses in the rocky beaches flanking the docks, still dissociating as she looked at her hands and feet, bloody and scratched. Her uniform was soaked in sweat and saltwater, her scarf tied over her left leg. Sybil kept trying to talk with her.

"Davinia, will you stop squealing and focus for one moment?"

Promethia twitched her nose, scratching it by rubbing both hands together.

"Sybil, did you see that? She turned me into a mouse."

"She did not turn anyone into mice." Sybil asserted.

"Nonsense! I ran between feet and I had to climb up a table to even reach a window! And I could only squeal!"

"You were tricked and your mind addled. You were more likely to fornicate Egeria than to become a mouse."

"That was different. Egeria was inside of me; this changed how I was in the world: me, me to others, everything!" Davinia started feeling her body, making sure she was back to her regular self. "I was transformed."

"You sure where, I can still see your whiskers." Sybil never sounded so tired as an horrified Davinia rubbed her cheeks. "I am sure you were a cute mouse."

"Cute? I have never been cute a day in my life!" Davinia felt like herself again. She pulled herself up and could feel agency over herself reasserted. Even her Spark seemed strengthened. "I only exist in beautiful and terrifying."

"And will your beautiful terrifyingness be going to bed or would she prefer a hole in the wall?"

 

[StrigaRosa]

Lycaro knocked on Davinia's door, even if the rooster had yet to salute Sol. He shared his opinion on Arpineia's eye bags and dark circles with a disapproving glance; a comb and a set of pins on his hands, the lictor greeted his mistress with a gentle wave.

"Where are you going with all these?" A grumpy Davinia muttered, horrified by her coarse voice.

"They expect a Vestalis, a herald of wisdom and flame." Lycaro mumbled, holding three pins between his lips. "I'm gonna make sure they get one, instead of a bleary woman in need of sleep."

Davinia groaned, dragging herself out of bed. She could only think about the thief and what they wanted from Tarracina.

"If you can do the six braids by yourself, I am not letting you go." Arpineia smiled between smug pouting."Ever."

"I need not do them. I just need to make it seem like I did." Lycaro nodded, setting two polished mirrors and attacking Davinia's hair.

It was two different creatures that approached the docks, causing workers and sailors to turn their heads, awe and surprise sovereigns. A client of the publicani corporation operation docks was interrogating the night-guards (about some strange arson that happened in the wee hours). They dropped everything to welcome a Roman Vestal and her lictor.

"What word from the Urbe?" The client rushed, tucked sleeves and sweaty brow."

Lycaro did not let them address Arpineia directly, denying them the privilege he had afforded the local clans. The Vestalis averted her eyes as the lictor intercepted, extending the voting rod sideways and wiping his cloak just enough for the vicious head of his axe.

"I will need to check your records." Lycaro commanded, before nodding to Davinia."Oh, and another thing: your people and everyone else will take Vestalis Arpineia wherever she needs to go. Deny her nothing."

Davinia kept walking, resisting a much-needed yawn. Warehouse's doors were opened before her, and a series of inspections did not uncover anything that could be a state gift: grain, smoked and fermented fish, vats of salt, planks of wood and bundles of drying leaves. Where could they be? Were the gifts still on the ships or had someone already taken them somewhere else?

"Has anyone unloaded the Epirote ships? "

"Right here, Vestalis." One of the dockyard workers pointed to a bundle of wool that escaped her attention. On top of it rested the treasures of Epirus: containers of cheese, racks of smoked eels, sealed amphorae of militites and the wild honey that granted its unique taste. There were some sacks next to it; Davinia opened them, her heart racing as she imagined incriminating items within. Chestnuts, dried grapes and pickled mushrooms.

"They are magnificent." Davinia muttered after a sigh of relief. "Epirus gifts its heart, not it wealth."

Whoever was dealing with Senator Numicius on the other side of the sea, they were wise and worth collaborating with.

The frown returned. Some nuts and aged milk would not attract a thief with such expensive toys. The two affairs could be unrelated, but her dormant investigative skills kept shouting at her. Odds suggested they were tied; she was ignorant of the how and she was taking a risk ignoring the connections.

Ties and tides flow both ways.

"Have the Epirotes been cleared from quarantine?"

"Yes, but they have refused the landing. We have been slowly bringing their resupplies and cargo, dividing them between the three ships."

The strange behavior of the sailor struck Davinia.

"I must come aboard."

The worker hesitated, confused at the request; Davinia clarified her demand.

"Get more supplies on a boat, along with whatever cargo is left. I will come alongside them." Arpineia pulled her long dress, preparing to rush out. She stopped halfway, turning around and pointing at the Epirote gifts. "Wrap these up and tell my lictor about them. These will come with us to Rome."

If the other workers were surprised by their august company, they did not hold a candle to the Greek sailors reaction when they saw a flame priestess in full regalia. They shouted at each other and at Davinia, throwing insults, blasphemies as well as utterly confused and puzzled exclamations; they gesticulated, punctuation lost in thick accents as they tried to make their perplexity known. As the captain of the ship approached Davinia, an aristocratic-looking fellow outmaneuvered him; rugged looks, built for muscle and war, wearing a heavy wool and pelt cloak. One of the few non-Greeks aboard.

"Priestess." He nodded. "I am Tharyps, selected by the League as an emissary to your people."

As he approached, Davinia embraced him, subtly lowering the man to her level.

"You need to tell the crew of the other ships to look for stowaways. Oh, and no wandering alone, have them keep each other's company." She whispered on his ear before releasing him. A flustered Tharpys said something to the captain in their tribal dialect, Davinia composing herself.

"Now, show me the gifts the Senate gave you."

Tharpys agreed, taking Arpineia down into the steerage of the ship. Davinia covered her mouth, eyes tearing up.

Samples of the true treasury of Italia, carefully packed and prepared for the journey across the Sea of Adria. Sets of Etruscan ceramic vessels, a veritable forest of adorable woodland animals; Oscan and Samnite clan tapestries, dyed with the rich and bright colors spewed by Dis Pater in Sicilia; golden jewelry from the Italian celts from the northern coasts. Tharpys was talking to her; Davinia heard nothing. Her hands caressed an intricately carved chest, opening it with a soft mechanical clang and revealing even greater bounty. Book after book, leaving barely a gap; Arpineia grabbed a bundle of them: songs. The Vestalis hummed them, as she opened a random book and reading the title: one of the modern plays—and one written and performed in Latin!

"Gens Numicii has accumulated art from Rome and all of its allies." Tharpys explained. "They wanted to show their trust and support for democratic movement within the independent Epirote League; what better way than by entrusting their collection to the four peoples of Epirus?"

"I have seen your own gifts; they are just as delightful and will bring much joy." Davinia presented a kind smile as she moved towards another sealed container. She covered her mouth, recognizing the familiar touch of canvas between her fingers. She unveiled it, already knowing the contents; Melantia was a genius and nothing delighted Arpineia more than the honor of posing for one of her paintings. "But why would you want this? I mean, I know why you would want a Melantia landscape, her boldness of color and composition is unrivaled, but… why? You could use supplies, equipment, or even silver for mercenaries."

Tharpys nodded.

"Those things could help win a war, but would also render victory meaningless. A donation from a single patrician family will never be enough to secure freedom, not when your enemy is a hegemon; we either have the full support of Rome or not."

"Still, why this?"

"There is a strong contention among our leadership that Hellenistic propaganda is just too insidious. What the hegemony cannot do military, they will accomplish culturally. This worries the non-Greek majorities, which do not want to see their cultural identities assimilated or appropriated. A show of Italian alliance, and how cultures older and new thrive and celebrated within a federal republic will do wonders to galvanize resistance. If it worked somewhere else, it can work here."

Divisive politics are the same everywhere; Davinia loved glorious messes, with her natural suspicion of easy solutions. Autocracies are pretty simple: and both Epirote and Romans had strong opinions on them. Arpineia rubbed her eyes and turned to Tharpys. She held her mouth open, wanting to give some commitment, comforting words of support and collaboration. Instead, the only noise heard was the hush and cackling of sudden fire—and the screams.

The couple rushed to the upper deck. Davinia heart stopped as she saw one of the other ships: a pyre, burning beyond salvation as its crew sought mercy on the sea.

"You are in danger." Arpineia told Tarphys, avoiding thinking about the wonders that may have been lost. "Get everyone out of the ship."

The emissary told something to the captain, which in turn repeated it towards the sailors. Half of them rushed to the boats.

"I will stay with you."

"Nonsense. Go."

Tarphys would protest. They turned to see the second ship burst into flames: the sudden vacuum, a dreadful sound.

"By the Grace of Epeiros." The emissary mumbled.

"Go!" Arpineia commanded. "I know fire, I can save the ship. Go!"

Davinia slid down back to the steerage, floating and darting as soon as she was out of sight. She pulled her uniform from underneath her clothing, stuffed her iron needle inside her scarf and delivered herself to Promethia. Closing her eyes, Promethia projected her Triumph outward, overwhelming reality around the ship. Any combustion would have to answer to her, bow to her igneous will. Davinia could feel her Sparkle straining, inverting as they used it against its bound affinity. Promethia held until she felt some paste trying to burn the hull of the ship. Could this be it?

"Why are you not going off?" Someone complained in Greek, followed by creeping realization. "Oh, no."

A hand poked between oars, grabbing Circe by the neck and pushing her against the side of the ship. Twice her masked head and hull met.

As the thief cursed and struggled, she could feel the heat as a circle of fire was carved in the wood. Circe groaned, a piece of hull projected at high speed hitting her stomach. Promethia released Circe, allowing her to fall into the waters.

"Have you cooled off?" Davinia's head poked through the hole. "Have you had enough? Because I have: I am done with you!"

"You! Latin whore!"

"None of those is even an insult. You are so annoying!" Promethia barked back, studying the igniting paste. "You are a tricky one, what is this thing?"

No answer, no taunts. She looked down and saw that Circe had disappeared, diving under flaming debris.

"Where are you, you damned arsonist?" Davinia flew outside, skirting around the water, turning left and right. She got a glimpse of Circe, sneaking into the ship. Davinia followed, feet first. Promethia was hoping to deliver a kick, but her resonating Spark betrayed her; Circe grabbed Davinia by the legs, spun her along and threw her against the mast.

"Fascinating; you are much smaller than what you make yourself seem to be. No wonder small doses have such drastic effects on you." Circle contemplated, rubbing her hurt neck. "But I admit, you have a surprising grip."

"Congratulations, you have figured out my trick. Have that consolation prize; the emissary escaped and you cannot get him." Davinia rose, posing victoriously.

Circe shrugged, waving her palm in two arcs, seven flasks between her fingers.

"I never wanted him; no emissary for me. I have no problem with Epirus; this is my one chance to get to the Numicii collection and you will not stop me."

Seven flasks flew, a gasping Davinia darting to intercept them, manipulating air pockets and her own body to blunt their fall. Two flasks eluded her, breaking into noxious clouds. Armed with hindsight, Promethia pulled her scarf and wrapped it around her face.

"I won't let you take it, thief."

"You are annoying, but you are no idiot." Circe hugged herself, and Davinia heard a snap—like stitches ripping or tear of leather. "You know I am here not to steal, but to destroy."

"Then you force my hand."

"Who am I to resent an animal for following their instincts?" Circe signaled a challenge for Davinia to come forward. "Go ahead."

Circe was getting on her nerves, and that was on top of an unforgivable crime. Promethia tackled her down, punching and kicking as her enemy fell; biting her scarf and sweating, Davinia got the dreadful realization that Circe had been baiting her. She presented a token resistance, rubbing herself against her hips and arms. The coldness and sweet scent clinging to Circe's body warned her, but it was too late. Davinia fell on her back with a powerless tud; Circe walked away, ripping color-painted patches of ointment from her arms.

"Sit." Circe pulled another set of flasks, throwing them in random directions. "What a good girl you are."

Davinia's body refused to move, breathing was increasingly difficult. Yet, she kept bitting the scarf, knowing that if it got loose, all would be over. A torrent of purple and dark green smoke cradled her, turning the interior of the ship into some alien and forbidding.

"Just let go." A warped deep voice suggested, echoing beyond meaning. "Rest and go to the depths. These crude trinkets will mark your grave."

"They." Davinia groaned between clenched teeth. "Are. Not. Trinkets."

"You are right." The smoke cleared, Circe resurged. Her almost comedic mask had twisted. Longer snout, eyes burning like embers and dark tusks. Circe loomed huge, her arms muscled and hairy, fingers twisted and soaked in wine-dark fluid. Davinia found enough will to rise and attempted to gain some distance. Circe followed, her new gait uneven but powerful; the very planks creaked and broke as she stepped forward. "They are less than the games of children; they are as worthless as the barking of dogs. They are feeble attempts of animals that do not understand the weight of humanity's condition. Of a people of imitators with pretensions. Their very existence is an offense and harms proper culture. It must be destroyed and forgotten, its creators need to accept their place in the world."

Davinia whimpered as Circe lifted by the neck.

"Rut, breed, fight and look in awe. Welcome your yolk, beasts of Italia."

No.

Davinia could feel her Spark slipping away, but even now it agreed with her rejection of Circe worldview. Reconciliation was at hand; weird, as Arpineia was still ignorant of the cause of the drift. Davinia embraced the Spark and became one with fire. They rejected Circe's imposition.

The smoke cleared, pushed out of the ship by a surge of hot air. Circe groaned in pain, her glove on fire. Tears dried as Celestial Triumph bled over the whites of Davinia's eyes.

All she saw was targets. Everywhere, flames trapped, begging for the freedom to conflagrate.

Promethia scorched a path towards the humongous Circe, the desire to burn overriding Davinia's sense of self-preservation. Tripping the thief with flaming kick, Promethia descended on her a torrent of high-heat, poor-precision flames. Whatever flasks remained unbroken, melted and spilled. With a panicked realization, Davinia was confronted with an irrefutable fact: if this continued, she would be the one burning the ship down.

She could hear a familiar laughter. No, no, please.

Her Spark vacillated, then regaining strength but resonating strangely to her. Seized. Conquered.

Davinia felt cold fingers caressing her face, another hand caressing the curves of her spine, another resting on her hip. A giggle and a playful nibble on her ear.

"Go away."

"Oh? Just because you are not playing Numa? So clever, you even used your dear friend to play my part." Tongue joined teeth. "Good work seizing thunder. You are so smart, it is really turning me on. Oh, but you are also so careless; the Triumph you have been using to keep me away? It seems to have issues with whom you are and is rebelling."

"Go away, Egeria. I don't want you in me."

"Rude! Also, you may want to look down."

Fututio, Circe had escaped. The thief leaned over the side of the ship and waved back at Davinia. She unbound her torso-bindings, letting a tube loose: filled with shiny blue-gray pearls. Circe threw it against the hull and disappeared into the water. The tube bounced twice, falling into the sea—and exploding. Water rushed to fill in the gapping whole, priceless paintings and books disappearing into the darkness as the ship sank. Davinia took flight, crashing and diving into the water. The Triumphant struggled to breathe, floating and barely sustaining lift. Her Spark glitched, and she did not understand why. She was the thief, the bringer of the flame, the awakener of the human spirit. Was she not? Doubt seized her as she struck the water once again. This was somehow Egeria's fault.

Davinia gave up, swimming to the beach and hugging the rocks. She turned around, eyes swollen and vision blurred. She was startled as she felt a weight on top of her, six arms pinning her down. Egeria hanged in an arc, toothy smile close to her brow.

"Go away."

"I must take you if I go."

"No, leave me alone."

Hands reached for the scarf.

"You cannot breathe."

"I cannot breathe the smoke."

"It is gone Arpineia. It is all gone."

Davinia closed her eyes and punched the air, hitting something and punching more. She tried to get a flame on, but it glitched again.

It glitched hard.

She could feel her Stark rejecting her, turning on her, the Triumph lashing back. Davinia grew warmer, a primal instinct to burn, all-consuming. Material concerns gave way to idealism as reconstructed platonic objects swallowed all the real. Her scarf—or the idea of a scarf—got loose, another set of hands grabbing it.

"Let me burn. Damn you Egeria, I can burn and will do so without you."

A broad figure loomed over her, fiddling with the scarf. They pulled the iron needle from the cloth. It mentioned two familiar words; her non-ears rang.

Something stabbed her. A flame, pierce. Fire, bleeding from a prick.

Her Spark weakened, the bound with the Triumph severed.

No more Promethia.

*​

Davinia turned and trashed, lips trembling as sweat descended her brow. A blanked covered her and a dim candle offered a meek but hurtful light. Breathing was costly; the Vestalis threw the blanket to the floor and rolled, uncomfortable. Someone approached her, restrained in words but giving in works; they pulled the blanked over her and poured some water over her lips.

Arpineia moaned, turned again and dared to open her eyes; someone had brought her back to the inn. She could see Lycaro leaning over a writing desk, back turned as he faced the candle. Davinia wanted to say something, but she hesitated—not out of weakness, but of concern: something bout the situation felt odd. Narrowing her eyes, Davinia focused on Lycaro's posture: he was bent and tense, knuckles arching over the table and his axe laying ready, within grasp.

Lycaro acknowledged Davinia's movement.

"Answer me clearly and without deception." The lictor's voice was cold and serious; his fingers trembled and candlelight made him pale and intense. "Why do you disguise yourself as you do? What is your intention behind the way you choose to present yourself?"

"It is not a disguise." Davinia groaned, each word pained and coarse. "It is a permanent scar upon my being, a reminder of my idiocy. I have no say in what others see—I'm not even aware of their perception."

Lycaro took a deep breath, trying to relax.

"You really have no control over it?"

"As much control as I had over last night."

"You mean three nights ago." Lycaro kindly corrected, bringing more water to a parched Arpineia. "They knocked you out for a long time."

Arpineia would say something, but anxiety still dominated her. Davinia reached for her neck, finding it bare. Her throat complained and she would have teared up if her body allowed. Lycaro understood, bringing her the scarf and the needle. Davinia people them from his hands, holding the bundled wool against her chest as she sobbed.

"I should have figured. You defied protocol constantly by wearing it; I dismissed it as a statement and did not see the relation." Lycaro apologized; Davinia continued her lament. "It meant the world to you. It was your brother's."

Davinia finally cried. She tied the scarf around her left arm and changed subject.

"What happened to the emissary? Did they get away safely?"

"You need more help than I knew."

"I should write a letter to the Senator. The Numicii will be displeased with Epirus; I need them to know the circumstances for their loss."

"You are pushing yourself beyond straining. It is a miracle you are still alive."

"Did you pack the Epirote gifts? I want to return to Rome as soon as it dawns."

"Vestalis Arpineia, I cannot do this anymore."

Lycaro and Davinia stared at each other, exhausted in body and spirit.

"You cannot do what?" Lycaro waved at her.

"This. I cannot be a part of your self-destruction."

"We work well together." Davinia admitted. "You were at my side when I had nobody else. You are a good lictor."

"I'm a great lictor." Lycaro correct. "And I know when someone is beyond my reach. You need people on your back, you need a community, you need support—and not the one I can provide."

"Are you going to tell anyone?"

"Is that your main worry?" Lycaro sighed. "I told you, your secrets are safe with me. However, not sharing this with other people is an issue."

Davinia fell back into the bed, too tired.

"I should let you rest." Lycaro made his way towards the door.

"Lycaro." Davinia mumbled under the blankets."

"Yes, Vestalis Arpineia?"

"I'm sorry." Davinia whispered. "It is too bad it didn't work out; I enjoyed meeting you."

"Vae, I also liked you. I guess that is part of the problem."

Davinia was alone, but not for long.

"I like him too." Sybil made herself known. "He is right, you know."

"I know…"

"I was very worried about you."

"I'm sorry this keeps happening."

*​

Her donkeys were ready and saddled, her belongings neatly packed—better than Davinia would have done on her own. Leaving the innkeeper clan a generous reward, she left in a rush: she wanted to make a good time to Rome.

Davinia had barely approached road connecting Tarracina to Via Appia when she was intercepted by Lycaro. They smirked at each other as the lictor removed his helm; neither of them would verbalize an acknowledgment about what was happening.

Still with the dumb grin, Davinia pulled a smoked eel out of the saddlebags and stuffed it in her mouth, letting it dangle.

Lycaro smile widened, the lictor pushing his horse and approaching the donkeys.

"Is that an ill-mannered attempt to avoid talking to me?"

Davinia muttered something incomprehensible, popping the smaller amphorae open. She soaked her index finger within, pulling it out and throwing honey at Lycaro's nose.

"Ohe! You are ruining the gifts!" The lictor laughed.

Arpineia swallowed the eel.

"Let's just have a good moment through this mess, shall we?" She chuckled, mixing some cheese and dry grapes and throwing it at Lycaro.

"Oh well, why not?" He caught it in the air, munching with delight. "This is very good."

"Hum hum." Davinia agreed as she too descended upon dairy and fruits. "What happened to being a great lictor?"

"Heia, I figured I cannot be that good. I had to pull my ward out of the sea on my second day on the job." Lycaro shrugged. "I guess I will have to compensate being an acceptable lictor by being a good friend."

Davinia pushed her donkey closer, awkwardly giving him an equalizing salty and honeyed kiss.

"I would love that."

 

[StrigaRosa]

A knock on the wall outside the office, a gesture repeated enough times to cross the border between determination and insolence.

Canuleia sighed, rubbed her eyes and put her stylus down. Few people would disturb her at work without announcing themselves; only one would be that insistent. She scribbled some notes and suggestions to the maritime law proposal in front of her. Only then did she acknowledge the intrusion.

"Yes, Arpineia, what is it now?" Canuleia barely raised her eyes as a smaller woman entered the scriptorium. Only when she approached the writing desk did the head of the Department of Law and History recognize her mistake. In front of her stood Tarpeia, odd and wearing formal vestments. Canuleia corrected her assumptions. "Vae, I was mistaken. I was not expecting you, Vestalis Tarpeia. My apologies."

The empty silence and tense glances of two persons that had little to say to each other. Tarpeia fiddled with her sleeves, uncomfortable in the heavy clothing. She awkwardly approached her colleague.

"Funny that you mention her. She must be constantly in your mind." Small talk was difficult to the head of the Department of Engineering. Canuleia was unsure how to react, defaulting to a side-glance and a disheartened eye-roll.

"Do not read much into it. She was the first person who came to mind when someone showed at my door unannounced."

"Makes sense, she tends to do that."

"She would test the patience of Iris Nuntia, yes." Canuleia pressed her tongue against the space between her incisors. Her eyes rested on the latest nonsense Davinia hat sent her. An annotated study that demanded - demanded! - a follow-up analysis of the impact of Sicilian private administration upon the impoverishment of the locals. "But I'm sure you did not come all the way here to discuss our irreverent peer."

"No, that is precisely what I came here for." Canuleia hid her displeasure as Tarpeia leaned over her workstation. "You are Arpineia's biggest critic, but you are also one of her oldest friends."

"Within the order? Definitely." It was hard to swallow, but denying a well-known fact would make it even worse. Canuleia's eyes narrowed into slits. She rotated uncomfortable on her seat, as her left indicator described circles over one of her scroll racks. "I was older, but we cleared our Class II trials in the same year. We both grew outside of Rome, and we discovered we had other things in common - friends, tutors and crushes."

"There is a tinge of regret in your voice." Tarpeia noticed, unable to keep that to herself. "You miss those days."

"I miss the friendship. I still do not care for her impious behavior."

"Is that not something between her and the Vestalis Maxima?"

"She may run her Department like an undisciplined castrum of gamblers and indolence, as is her right." Canuleia's voice rose two octaves, revealing her contempt. "However, Arpineia and her mob are not owed our unconditional support. Especially when they do not comply with the requirements of others."

Tarpeia was unfamiliar with rhetoric or arbitration, but she knew a structural flaw when she saw one. She applied a metaphorical chisel to it.

"Careful now, lawkeeper." Tarpeia gestured, attempting to loom menacing despite her youthful appearance. "You are talking about our peer; I am sure she will revise it twice and file it in triplicate and get all the nice seals before archiving things. She is our equal, in everything but funding. If nothing else, she has earned that respect."

"You're invited to associate with her, as long as you do it on your own silver." Canuleia challenged back. "You will see by yourself if you can afford the price Arpineia's collaborations demand."

"What was she done to you, Canuleia?" Tarpeia insisted. "Why such resentment?"

"That is between me and her. If you want to know, why don't you ask her?"

"I did. She has nothing but respect and love for you." Tarpeia leaned further, as if ready to spring. "But everyone knows she broke your trust. Now, was that a personal issue or is it Flame-bound? I need to know if it is the later."

"You are not owned my story." Canuleia marked her territory. "If that was all, Tarpeia, I advise you return to the road."

"It would help me, and I would be grateful." Tarpeia remarked, turning away from the writing desk and walking alongside the massive scroll cases. She poked one, and it creaked. The Vestalis slowed as she approached a case containing documents marked with seals of other departments besides Law and History. "Vestalis Arpineia is proactive, energetic and a wellspring of ideas. It is hard to deny her dedication when one hears her talk."

"Ideas? Is that all she offered you?" Canuleia's eyes followed Tarpeia, angry at the plebeian boldness. "That is all they offer, sand in the ocean. Ideas are worthless; I can walk from here to the Forum and on the way I will stumble on more ideas than refuse. And the latter is more useful! Everyone thinks their ideas are just what everyone needs, that everyone needs to hear them. The best dream or project is worthless as long as it stays a supernal entity, floating above materialness. It needs to descend to earth, to soak in Dis Pater and become concrete, real. If Vestalis Arpineia wants to work with others, she first needs to present something. Something real, something she has done. If she gets that, if she commits to work, even I will work with her."

Tarpeia halted.

"So what I hear from all that is that it is personal. It is not related to her priestly piety, despite what you said."

Canuleia almost bit her tongue, furious at being outmaneuvered by the younger woman.

"Under the gaze of Juno Regina there is no difference. There is no public and private morality: Arpineia is Arpineia."

Without reply or acknowledgment, Tarpeia pulled out a scroll tied with the seals of three departments.

"What is this? Urban planning and assets reallocation to expand Ostia's port complex?" She unrolled it under the incredulous gaze of Canuleia. "I don't recall giving approval to this. But look, there it is! My seal!"

"It must have been handled by your underlings. Or predecessor." Canuleia mouthed between grinding teeth, unamused.

"Still negligent. I don't want to misrepresent the College. Imagine if the contents of these scrolls somehow influence a vote proposal, how can I stand by it? And yet, it has been approved internally."

The two Department Heads locked eyes, daring each other. Both knew there was nothing there, that Tarpeia was threatening to make noise for what was a non-issue. But if they insisted, they could stall work for months, as they scrutinized everything. And if they found a single mistake, they would have to go through it again. And there were always minor mistakes; it was impossible to avoid in projects that size, copied over and over by Class III priestesses. Tarpeia was daring Canuleia, betting that the appearance's obsessed patrician tendencies of Canuleia would swallow her good sense.

It did, but Canuleia would not consider that. In her mind, the Vestals of Law must be beyond doubt itself. She was making a small personal sacrifice to keep things cordial and preserve their honor and dignity.

"Maybe later I can send you some copies, for you to consult in the comfort of your laboratory." Canuleia pointed to a foldable stool in a corner of the room. "Now, I thought you wanted to know about my friendship with Davinia?"

*​

"Davinia, this is illegal!" Canuleia protested, even as she held the ladder up. "We are not supposed to support anyone!"

Arpineia, dressed in a heterodox mix-match of Vestal uniforms with Italian fashions, whistled as she vandalized the wall of an usurer. She balanced on top of the ladder, proudly contemplating her work. The worries of her friend amused her.

"Canu, who cares about a Class II Vestalis and her political stances? We don't even get to vote." The ladder shook, Canuleia making her disagreement known. "Hey, pay attention down there!"

"Just because the crime is beneath anyone's notice that doesn't make it less harmful, or the one committing it less of a criminal." Canuleia pointed out, even if her tone was too joyful for this to be a genuine opinion. "And it can hurt us in other ways. I want to advance in rank by the end of this year; if Vestalis Maxima hears about this, she will remember this when deciding."

"You worry too much. Relax." Arpineia climbed down and kissed Canuleia. They turned around, checking their work.

Italia United In Friendship. Gaius Arpineius For Praetor Is A Future For All.

"And you worry too little. Or rather, too much about the wrong things."

"I wish someone went to the Vestalis Maxima to complain about me. I have the sniffling well-rehearsed, and it would get me in the same room as Veneneia."

Canuleia licked her lips and smirked in anticipation.

"I can picture it, Davinia. "Oh, Vestalis Maxima, what did I do that was so wrong? I am just an Italian hillbilly that is still getting used to life in the Urbe.""

Arpineia threw the ladder down, distracting Canuleia as she covered her face. When she revealed herself, Davinia was tearing up, her lower lip trembling.

"I wanted to do my civic duty, and I could barely contain the fire within. Seeing the excitement of the children of Romulus with the joy of citizenship, it awoke something within me." A whimper and a soft smile, Arpineia rubbing her face and revealing a charmed shine in her eyes. "Oh, to be part of this fantastic world; Oh, to cherish the sweat and grim tasks that define the Republic and keep tyranny away!"

The other teenager lost the smile, mouth agape as a shiver crawled down her spine.

"I forget how good you are when you just spew it out. It scares me, every single time."

"Is that who I think it is?" A third voice interrupted, accompanied by the scornful giggling of a fourth presence. The young women turned to confront another pair, women only slightly older. Their clothing, simple but fitting the subtle ostentation of current fashion, marked them as affluent patricians. The company of fasce-less bodyguards marked them as Class I Vestalis.

"Ah. You two." Canuleia crossed her arms. "What brings you to this part of the Urbe, Nautia and Herminia?"

"The pretensions of your pretender of a friend, what else would it be? You have to sniff cloaca if you are to catch mice." Nautia clenched her hands together and approached Arpineia. "Darling, it is so good to see you, especially with garb more fitting of your position. There may yet be hope for you."

Arpineia grinned ear to ear, no mirth reaching her eyes. Canuleia noticed that her left hand shook, slowly wrapping into a fist. Canuleia reached out and spread her longer fingers over Davinia's. Nautia seemed frustrated with Davinia's silence; Herminia's eyes wandered, perceptive enough to find an opening. She exploited it with powerful provocation.

"That is adorable! Someone is still campaigning for daddy!" Their two senior Vestals exchanged conspicuous smiles. "Fatum surely is cruel; it rendered all your work pointless."

Arpineia's false mirth faltered. Canuleia released Davinia's hand. She grabbed her upper arm and leaned closer.

"How much money have the Arpineii spent on this election?" Nautia continued the assault with a rhetorical question. "And on the previous one? Or the other one? How many times do they need to be taught their place?"

"That does not matter, not to you." Canuleia interrupted her superior. "Gens Arpineia must be appreciated for what they contributed to civic affairs. Even if Senate and People have decided not to appoint them as magistrates. Taking part in the process is important, and it will have a cumulative effect. You do yourself and your department a disservice by making light of such an important part of our democratic institutions."

"Sure, that is all good if you are a patrician, Canuleia." The situation delighted Herminia. "But for Arpineia here, money is everything. You know how plebeians think, always looking to exploit any meager opportunity for profit. And profit here is victory, not fine-tune democracy. A loss is a loss, and that is it for them."

"If that is what you think, I have bad news to you." Arpineia could not take it anymore. "My father is the current favorite. We can do this."

"Perhaps, if your father was not too successful for his own good." Herminia pointed out.

"Oh, let me tell her, let me tell her." Nautia almost jumped in delight. "His inevitable ascension to the higher magistracies caught the attention of the Censor!"

Canuleia turned white at what that implicated; Arpineia stared blankly.

"Can you imagine our surprise when the Censor came with a new appraisal of the Arpineii estate? Every piece of propriety, every source of income." Nautia approached them, tapping Arpineia's forehead with her index finger. "These Roman ambitious cost you family too much, Arpineia. So much that we don't have to pretend you are patricians because of your ridiculous wealth. We can openly call you what you are: obscenely, hoarding plebeians."

"We don't have to tolerate you around the Temple." Herminia sneered. "We can clean the House of Vesta from all plebeian filth."

Canuleia shoved Nautia aside, shoulder first. They glared at each other. The teen's eyes screamed at the Class I Vestalis, threatening violence if they did not back away.

"All right, all right. No need to lower ourselves to her level." Herminia lifted her hands. "We all know when we are not welcomed. However, before we go, we want to clarify that we will not let this injustice continue. As Vestals, it our duty to preserve Roman culture. And that cannot happen while a plebeian impostor is within the ranks of Class II. We will present a case for this to be corrected, with a demotion or laicization."

Arpineia escaped Canuleia's grip and challenged Nautia and Herminia.

"I deserve to serve Vesta more than the two of you together. Do you think I don't know how you squander your departmental stipend? Or how you delegate your work to lower Class priestesses while you spend mommy and People's money in wine and boys?"

Canuleia cursed her friend's incautious tongue.

"Vae, you are worth two department heads, are you not?" Nautia smirked. "I guess you will have no issue completing an examination elaborated by us, right? After all, you know as much as we do. No, you know more than we do, was not it?"

It was nonsensical, but Arpineia was forced to accept. She nodded, little confidence in her gesture.

They laughed, the seniors departing after they got all they desired and more. Canuleia hugged Arpineia. Davinia whimpered. Canuleia did not need to look to know that the tears falling on her shoulder were sincere.

*​

"Have you reviewed the tables of relative autoignition and known pyrolysis reactions?" Canuleia inquired, pushing another pile of books roll towards Davinia.

"It is the fourth time you ask me that, Canu." Arpineia answered, eyes red and arms squashed. She languished defeated across the table. Davinia pressed her stylus between upper lip and nose, trying to keep it balanced as she talked. "Do you insist in kicking the donkey, as of that will make it run faster? My legs cannot go faster, cannot I change to another subject?"

Davinia extended her hand towards one scroll, right next to where Canuleia was working and started copying more notes. She was rewarded with a stubborn slap.

"Those idiots would not provoke you only to go with half-measures. However, they are prisoners of their own prejudices, and let's be honest, incompetence. They will try to prove that as someone raised plebeian, you lack the education to grasp even the basics. You need to have Vestal fundamentals on the tip of your tongue."

Arpineia frowned. It was degrading and patronizing.

"I have other responsibilities, Canu. Class II responsibilities, responsibilities of a tier of service I earned through hard work and while having to prove every single day I belonged here. I have been working to be the first name on the list when Viviana considers who will advise the Senate on agrarian reforms. That may be the single important thing I may do in my life! I know Viviana, she will keep that folium if she sees me struggling with my current work load; it is a huge commitment!"

Canuleia ignored the protest; it was the eleventh time she had heard it. She unfurled another scroll and passed it to Arpineia.

"How are you supposed to do any of that if you expelled? There will be no agrarian reform speculations, or collecting soil samples from mount Vesuvius, or whatever Viviana sends you to Campania for." She turned away as her finger indicated a specific passage. "A Vestal of the Roman tradition has no place in this House if she has not mastered the processes of fire. They will not attack your actual work, but what they imagine your work is."

Arpineia kept the frown but turned the parchment to herself. Studying was unproductive, as her mind kept wandering. Davinia slipped a foot off her sandal, unfurling another scroll and picking it up. Canuleia kicked her bellow the table, making her gasp as the document landed on the floor..

"You want something from Agriculture and Natural Resources? How about a Class III subject, something tangentially related? Like this one." Canuleia sighed and rolled her eyes, conceding to Davinia's protest. "Composting and its storage in rural and urban settings."

Davinia gently tapped her foot on Canuleia's leg as her eyes begged.

"Fine. You can also distract yourself with these. Second hand annotations and commentaries on a lost treatise on mine safety and deluge treatment."

Arpineia devoted herself to study. Frustration still crept in, distracting her at every opportunity. Arpineia poked the arm of the other Vestalis with her stylus.

"Canu?"

"What is it?" She stopped writing but her head remained lowered.

"There is a citation here about Camilla defending keeping any extraction of natural resources subject to the common lands of a community, and the expropriation of any private mines. Or at the very least, the need for private enterpises to adopt a gradual traditional to the work-share and safety measures of similar communal endeavors. Do you have anything about third century Urban propriety law and how would that expropriation be handled?"

Canuleia nodded, disappearing into the lateral corridors of the House of the Vestals, in search of a text that Davinia was confident had been lost to fire and greed generations ago; and if Canuleia was lucky enough to find it, that would be a trump for Davinia's dream-project. Arpineia got to her desk and advanced some of her neglected work. Canuleia eventually ran out of shelves to check and returned with some poor replacements.

"I cannot imagine a Vestal ignorant of archiving and inheritance law." Arpineia nudged with a celestial expression.

"That is material too advanced for Class III, Davinia."

"Vae, did a Law and History Class II of the gens Canuleia just suggested that it is an unimportant subject?"

"No!" Canuleia chucked. "Seriously, how can you consider yourself an adult without knowing the Law of Shares?"

"Then why don't you pass me volume III so I can review it?"
The date of Arpineia's re-evaluation was the most inconvenient: XIII of September. Followers of Vesta gathered to discuss their projects, network, and plan for next year — all while cooking and eating mola around the Sacred Flame.

What better time to be publicly humiliated?

Class III Vestalis gathered around workbenches, kneading the dough and grinding any ingredients, their efforts judged and praised by the ever-vigilant Class II priestesses. One by one, they called junior Vestals before the seven Class I departmental heads. This was the only opportunity for the entire order to mingle, chatting over salty pastries and discussing the agenda for the following year.

Arpineia was summoned before the Sacred Flame, her features covered by a heavy cloak with a hood and a veil of humble gray and brow. She held in her hand a clay tray of flat ungarnished mola, which she offered for Nautia to feed the fire. Canuleia nodded, approving the whole image of humble contrition. Maybe Davinia had abandoned her foolish pursuit; maybe she would be modest and accommodating.

Nautia tended to the Sacred Flame while Herminia unleashed vile, treacherous questions. Their Class I peers were irritated and distant, bored and anxious about the Vestalis Maxima absence. Canuleia relaxed at every concise and detailed answer Arpineia delivered; Davinia had lost weight, color and even her good nature. Arpineia had been a bundle of nerves for weeks, but the extra work had been worth. Yes, the confidence of Arpineia as she outmaneuvered the weak snares of Herminia was inspiring. She could forgive her, Canuleia could preserve their friendship.

The questions' edge dulled into something more draining than treacherous. Exhaustion started to weight down on Arpineia. Herminia smirked, hoping to trip her. This was a marathon, not a race; they knew the teen had the mind and time to master any subject, so they focused on pressure and urgency. Under an unrelenting barrage, a mistake was inevitable.

Herminia delivered a fatal blow with an obscure question about their spiritual predecessors — the cult of Vesta of the lost city of Alba Longa. Davinia's expression was hidden by hood, but this was the longest she had taken to give an answer. Nautia nodded in celebration. They got her.

"You know, there is a funny story about them, those priestesses of old. In fact, something common among all priests of the etruscan-asiatic world that sailed here from the East. Did you know that the predecessors of our predecessors came from scribes and artisans? That creation was the first rite and work the first prayer?"
Good students kept working into the night, servants bringing candles and lamps to lighten up what seemed to be a long study session. Canuleia was playing brave, but she could not keep yawning at bay; Arpineia struggled, eyes barely open and a half-dead expression. Canuleia stumbled closer, massaging her friend's shoulders as she read (or rather, stared at) an old catalog of peninsular cultivars.

"We will continue tomorrow. We still have time."

Canuleia dragged herself away from the books. Struggling to find the right words, Davinia called her back.

"Canu." She stopped, turning with a tired smile. "I will make sure we have all the time. No matter what. I will crush them."

*​

Canuleia woke up early, ready to start a new day of study. To her surprise, Davinia was still on the study hall, sleeping on her seat. Canuleia caressed Davinia's head and nudged her friend into a more comfortable position. While doing so, Canuleia had to see what she had been studying. A volume of Lex Sacra? That was odd.

The Vestalis could have let it end there. She could have closed the book and woke Davinia. Instead, Canuleia went through the other documents. Letters, a whole bundle of them. Back and forth correspondence on questions of law, lists of books for Davinia to consult. She recognized one name amongst the correspondents — Sextus Sergius, another friend of Arpineia and ruthless lawyer. Canuleia covered her mouth as her eyes watered.

Arpineia had just been indulging her. Davinia was planning more than just suffer the abuse; she was taking the fight to them. It was an awful idea and Davinia knew it — what other reason there could be for her not to share her intentions with Canuleia?

Leaving Davinia to sleep, Canuleia opened her own copy of the Lex Sacra. She did not start this but she would end it.

*​

The date of Arpineia's re-evaluation was the most inconvenient: XIII of September. Followers of Vesta gathered to discuss their projects, network, and plan for next year — all while cooking and eating mola around the Sacred Flame.

What better time to be publicly humiliated?

Class III Vestalis gathered around workbenches, kneading the dough and grinding any ingredients, their efforts judged and praised by the ever-vigilant Class II priestesses. One by one, they called junior Vestals before the seven Class I departmental heads. This was the only opportunity for the entire order to mingle, chatting over salty pastries and discussing the agenda for the following year.

Arpineia was summoned before the Sacred Flame, her features covered by a heavy cloak with a hood and a veil of humble gray and brow. She held in her hand a clay tray of flat ungarnished mola, which she offered for Nautia to feed the fire. Canuleia nodded, approving the whole image of humble contrition. Maybe Davinia had abandoned her foolish pursuit; maybe she would be modest and accommodating.

Nautia tended to the Sacred Flame while Herminia unleashed vile, treacherous questions. Their Class I peers were irritated and distant, bored and anxious about the Vestalis Maxima absence. Canuleia relaxed at every concise and detailed answer Arpineia delivered; Davinia had lost weight, color and even her good nature. Arpineia had been a bundle of nerves for weeks, but the extra work had been worth. Yes, the confidence of Arpineia as she outmaneuvered the weak snares of Herminia was inspiring. She could forgive her, Canuleia could preserve their friendship.

The questions' edge dulled into something more draining than treacherous. Exhaustion started to weight down on Arpineia. Herminia smirked, hoping to trip her. This was a marathon, not a race; they knew the teen had the mind and time to master any subject, so they focused on pressure and urgency. Under an unrelenting barrage, a mistake was inevitable.

Herminia delivered a fatal blow with an obscure question about their spiritual predecessors — the cult of Vesta of the lost city of Alba Longa. Davinia's expression was hidden by hood, but this was the longest she had taken to give an answer. Nautia nodded in celebration. They got her.

"You know, there is a funny story about them, those priestesses of old. In fact, something common among all priests of the etruscan-asiatic world that sailed here from the East. Did you know that the predecessors of our predecessors came from scribes and artisans? That creation was the first rite and work the first prayer?"

Herminia, Class I Vestalis of Law and History, was baffled; she recovered with a cruel smirk. Good, they had reduced Davinia to rambling.

"That is not the answer the question demanded. You are wrong and I would like to present your mistaken words to my colleagues. Therefore" Herminia turned the knife, only to be interrupted by Gegania, her peer from Ephemeral Arts. The other Class I leaned forward, shaking an incense stick in Arpineia's direction.

"Come on now, Herminia. The girl was talking! You let her go on and on and on for hours and now you cannot let her even finish? Do it for me, at least! Finally, something interesting is happening and you want to deny me that? So, artisans and work, you were saying?"

"Surely!" Arpineia curtsied towards Gegania, ignoring Herminia. "All of our religious principles, the pursuit of sacrifices and knowledge, all that is the consolidation of the work of countless of women. It may not be the sort of work on display at the market or the farm, but it is work. Invisible, essential work. Their biggest achievement was the Divine Fire and the covenant of Peace between Humanity and Gods, a reminder of what a people united can accomplish. It is easy to look at Rome, at what we conquered, what we liberated from kings, and attribute it to mythical figures, powerful politicians and wise philosophers. Those closer to Gods than to each other. Just as we watch over the Flame we watch over the truth. On our eternal vigil we celebrate the grand truth of the Roman peoples: Everything we are is the accumulation of someone's work."

"Vae, young Vestal." Gegania nodded in agreement. "The Divine is not foreign to human nature. All, all of us have a spark of divinity that lets them express themselves, to share and give their work for others. Infernal and celestial realms lay at the ends of every tool, every embrace and every word."

"That is correct." Arpineia pointed three times towards the Sacred Flame. Nautia twisted her head in confusion. She accidentally dropped some mola into the fire. "And yet, every spark needs to be ignited. Learning, contemplation, feats, and above all, failure. And salt, what is of a life without salt? Through our work, through our bonds, we make bridges; by ritual, by blood, by sweat, by tears. The ancient priest-artisans knew that, and so they pursued the Craft. The fruits of that Craft, the first Offering. Before there was Peace, there had to be a Truce. It ignited long ago, but we maintain it here, today. We are all that, and it is our responsibility to leave more."

"What ridiculous babbling is this?" Herminia shouted, unable to contain her frustration. This was against their plan! Davinia should be exhausted, not holding a cordial conversation that was flying over her head. "What that has to do with the origin of the Vestalis and the functions of the priestesses of Alba Longa?"

Arpineia pulled her hood back, revealing a frowning expression and careful make-up — her choice of color a challenge and an attack on Nautia and Herminia's position. She shook her shoulders; the cloak fell on the ground. The whole sanctuary gasped and whistled at her flowing, intricate garb that put even the Class I priestesses to shame. Davinia opened her mouth, then closed it again. As she opened it a second time, she waved her arms. The entire priesthood was with her, drunk in her presence, begging for her words.

And yet, no words. A relieved, powerful sigh: a victorious exhalation of despair, contempt, and incredulity. Hermenia shook, her fearful eyes darting towards Fire-side Nauria. Towards the Class III Vestalis working dough. To the Class II teaching different recipes to the youths. To the other leaders of the College of Vesta, the bearers and guardians of Roman culture. Arpineia's triumphant smile.

Arpineia had feinted, feigning ignorance to make her look foolish! And she had reduced this examination to a spectacle. Herminia unleashed more questions, angrily pacing around Davinia; the tide of emotions washed over her, the tested priestess savoring every answer. The other Vestalis openly cheered for Arpineia. The nerves were getting to Nautia. A shriek and smoke interrupted this mockery of an exam: Nautia's sleeve had caught fire!

Without missing a bit, Arpineia pulled her heavy cloak and smothered the endangered Class I of Innovation and Progress. She blew a kiss to her colleagues as they praised her bearing and coolness.

"Every question they asked, I replied." Davinia addressed the enraptured audience. "Who am I?"

"Arpineia!" A lot of them shouted; those that knew better shouted Davinia.

"And what am I?"

"One of us! One of us!"

Nautia lacked gratitude. Pulling the cloak away in disgust, she advanced against Davinia.

"So what? Every single one of your answers reminded us of what matters: tradition, tradition and tradition." Nautia wriggled an accusatory finger towards Davinia. "You said it yourself: our duty is to protect and preserve. Ritual, purity, and integrity of the order cannot be compromised. But you? You, by your very presence, defile us, weaken us. You, Arpineia, are an insult to gods and you risk breaching the Covenant of Peace during each day you impersonate a priestess. You dim the light of the Sacred Fire and invite doom upon Rome."

Silence fell over the sanctuary, as Nautia had pounced on Davinia and revealed the naked truth of their goals. Arpineia lowered her head, as if acknowledging her own inferiority and unworthiness. It was with Nautia and Hermenia's surprise that she beamed with resplendent energy, humming one of the order's many work songs.

"Oh Nautia, how liberating it is that you gave up any pretenses of fairness." Davinia was a resolute bulwark. "You seem dazzled and confused by what you perceive as a rotten contradiction. To me, we are talking about something empowering and wonderful. You despair that someone not nurtured by the orthodox, incestuous patrician culture could join our ranks. I see this as the best way to preserve our traditions. Many of us are from Etruscan or Latin stocks, other from beyond that. A hundred cultures and micro-cultures, salted and oiled together. We all are foreigners, outcasts, refugees. A pile of a thousand generations of failures, rejections and assorted bad decisions. Most of you call me a plebe; others have the courtesy of pretending wealth equals class and call me equestrian. I received many other names: socia, italian, rustic. Labels designed to other and isolate me — to paint me as a walking pantomime of decadence, not a peer but an enemy. Well, take a good look. All the things you think of me? They are what Rome must aspire to be if it is to remain Rome."

Arpineia did not move, head high as she let them bask in her presence. She dared any advocate for her expulsion to advance. Murmurs rose between the Vestalis, Viviana saluting her student for what could very well be the last time. Everyone had an opinion about Arpineia and her future; however, they were wise enough to keep that between themselves and their immediate neighbor. All discussion halted as someone screamed. In her addled and defeated state, Nautia had left the Sacred Fire grow pale and dim. Cursing at being responsible for such an ill-omen, Nautia fell to her knees. Arpineia rushed towards the fire-table near to Nautia, ripping straps of her expensive dress. She doused them in igniting fluid and resin, rolled them in sulfur and threw the soaked rag into the Sacred Fire. It revived with a blue jet and rotten smell.

"I think it is pretty clear who belongs here and who does not." Vivinia dropped her shawl and embraced Arpineia, tending to her minor burns. "My girl is a prodigy, and I am honored for all years she gave Agriculture and Natural Resources. Anyone chirping more Latin to attack her will have to face me and the rest of the department. I am not as daring as she is: I do not know if hostility towards any non-patrician woman joining our ranks is a bad idea or the worst idea. However, if there is one thing that I learned on my thirty-eight years of service, it is that ignorance is not a source of shame but an opportunity to learn. Shame belongs only to those who believe they know all the answers. A Vestalis dances in the twilight, forever between luminous beams of learning and the vastness of the dark unknown. Arpineia embraces that; can my two colleagues say the same?"

Nautia and Herminia lacked even the decency to be ashamed, unwilling to accept the crowd turning on them. Looking for anything to save face, they welcomed the entrance of two women. The first, the burnt and imposing figure of Vestalis Maxima Veneneia. On her shadow, a shrunken and displeased Canuleia. Everyone bowed to the veiled and sharp head priestess, as Arpineia heart filled with void. Canuleia had left the sanctuary and Davinia was so enthralled on her string of gambits she had not even noticed her absence. Canuleia carried a pile of books. When the two of them joined the assembly by the Sacred Fire, Arpineia pouted and checked the titles. Weird, a lot of them were the same that Sextus Sergius had sent her way. She raised an eyebrow and looked at Canuleia's eyes. Her hateful gaze confirmed her fears. She had been caught and Canuleia took issue with Davinia's indiscretions.

"Things here seem busy. May I assume the September meeting is going well?" Veneneia inquired as she removed her veil, her intense green eyes falling on the two Vestalis responsible for this.

"Childish behavior and classist tantrums bear no weight on how I run my College." The Vestalis Maxima hissed, the room's mood turning glacial. "My presence was needed somewhere else, as I was informed of a threat to the security of Rome — a threat born from within our ranks."

"The other priestesses backed away, leaving an empty circle around Arpineia. Davinia looked around to see what was happening. She was hunted as Veneneia circled her, like a shark preventing its prey from escaping.

"Vestalis Arpineia, you have served as Class II for how many years now? Two? More like three, right? During that time, I supposed you have been performing your duties. And on their fulfillment, you had access to section XXXII, to the transcripts and protocols for Sibylline Books, auguring records, property registry and wills?"

"I had access, and I have used those Class II privileges, and many others, for both my duties and on my own time." Arpineia replied, refusing to feel the fear other Vestalis believed she should. "What is the matter, Vestalis Maxima? I was within my rights; I was expected to do so. I never took sensitive content outside of the House of the Vestals nor did I discuss our matters with any magistrate, augur, flamens, other oracles or private citizens."

"Oh, don't worry Arpineia, I assumed that was the case. As someone aware of their sensitive, polemic, and fragile position, you were very conscious about the space that you occupy in the College. The same cannot be said about you." Veneneia turned to Nautia and Herminia. "You are so used to the privileges of your birth and class that you did not even consider the consequences of Arpineia's laicization. There is no telling the cascade of trouble you would cause if you had your way. All out of pettiness."

Nautia and Herminia looked at each other. Veneneia was not finished.

"You can expel a Class III, but a Class II must be dealt with a sharper and more precise scalpel. A Vestalis of such rank would have much deeper resources to exploit for political and financial gain. If we keep her around, she will be useful. If we kick her out, she would be one of the most powerful private citizens of our community and have a grudge against the People and their institutions. There is a reason this is a thirty years commitment position; it just happens to not be reason enough for you."

"Please, Vestalis Maxima." The offending Vestals threw themselves to the ground, pleading mercy. "We did not understand this would be so problematic. We were blind, unaware that we would cause the incident we sought to prevent."

"Ignorance doesn't excuse negligence. At worst, you are traitors that intentionally sabotaged one the most sacred institution of the Urbe; at best, you were criminally incompetent." A cruel smile reached the burns on Veneneia's face. "It is a good thing that a lot has been written in how to deal with a rebellious Class Is. Why won't we discuss your punishment?"

Nautia and Herminia argued their for hours, Veneneia interrupting them to get the occasional advice from the other high priestesses. A silent Canuleia stood beside Veneneia, taking notes and reading previous statements when prompted. The Vestalis disagreed on much, but they agreed that no Class II Vestalis should serve under Nautia and Herminia. The two patricians were ill equipped to support the intellectual development of women on such critical phase of their priestly careers. They would no longer be leaders of the College, but what should be done with them? Nobody had the stomach for macabre punishments. The priestesses settled on Gegania's proposal, as elegant as one would expect from the head of the Department of Ephemeral Arts. There were many sister priesthoods across Italia and as far away as Magna Grecia. Nautia and Herminia would serve as goodwill ambassadors to those institutions and would be expected to sow the seeds of new Vestal orders.

Seven became five. An unsustainable affair.

"The Department of Progress and Innovation has tarnished our College for too long." Veneneia declared. "I know their efforts are made more difficult than they have to be, that actual advancement is nearly impossible and resisted at every turn. How can there be social and civic progress when everything favors inertia: tribes, legal code and constitution? Status quo is the sole king Romans tolerate. I understand why this makes this department poisonous to talented and ambitious Vestalis. However, the role of Rome in the world is changing. We need someone sharp and inventive that can prevent new threats and forms of exploitation. Vestalis Arpineia, come to me."

Arpineia presented herself and bowed, receiving from Vestalis the tiara of red lappets that had not that long ago belonged to Nautia.

"We need Progress and Innovation, and they will be managed by someone that embraces their ideals. Arise, Arpineia: italian, equestrian, daughter of the People and the Senate. Vestalis."

Davinia and colleagues gasped. How could someone that young and common get such an exalted position? There was something stimulating and disturbing in the eyes of the ascending Arpineia, the promise of interesting times. Canuleia bit her lower lip with such abandon that it bled.

"Sun and moon, light and darkness, tyranny and democracy, mortal and divine. All forces are interlinked and defined by their opposition. The same must be with a force of change; a force of stability must balance it. The Department of Law and History is well-regarded, but it has suffered from poor leadership; it appeals to women that blindly support the Senate, magistrates and lawyers. We must reinforce the College of Vesta as the ultimate authority in legal precedent and custom." Veneneia put a hand over the shoulder of Canuleia. "Vestalis Canuleia has made me aware of what has been happening and kept a perfect account of the incident. She also assembled the case and examined how it interacted with Lex Sacra. Her brilliant mind offered me the best legal council I ever got as Vestalis Maxima. It is our very duty to preserve Senate, People and Republic and yet, she was the only keen enough to address the issue. On account of her extraordinary cultural and civic service, I am advancing her to head of Law and History."

The seven, restored. Some could swear the Sacred Flame burnt with new vitality. Arpineia and Canuleia exchanged glances. Once again colleagues, once again peers.

What they always had dreamed.

Poisoned.

*​

Canuleia insisted in arranging her new scriptorium in person. Herminia had taken everything valuable, leaving rudeness and vandalism as a farewell. Sorting through damaged volumes, Canuleia could only roll her eyes. Vindictives acts of pettiness and shelves full of neglected duties. With a heavy sigh, Canuleia wondered if she had taken more work than she could manage; perhaps she could still reject Veneneia's offer. She climbed on a ladder, looking for anything salvageable.

She was surprised by someone hugging her legs, forcing Canuleia to look down. A cheerful Arpineia clung to her, dressed in old clothes and ready to assist with the cleaning. Ambushed, Canuleia could not cover her contempt, and she kicked her colleague away.

"What in Janus name." Arpineia retreated as Canuleia returned to firm ground. "I came here to help you, not to be kicked in the face!"

Canuleia turned around, grabbed some fragments of older scrolls and sat at her desk.

"What may I do for you, Vestalis Arpineia?" She asked between sighs.

"Canu!" Arpineia threw herself over the lid of the desk, arms folded and supporting her chin. "This is all we wanted. The two of us, heads of department. Working together, friends and partners now and forever? We wanted to change the Urbe, now we can!"

"Straighten yourself. If you are a Class I, behave as such and display proper posture and bearing." Canuleia waved dust towards Arpineia, making the other woman sneeze. "And there is no "we" here. You could have taken the beaten route, defend your case, and save yourself. But no, you had to be reckless and go on the offensive because that is how you always act. Things would have gone differently if I had not figured out your idiocy and approached Veneneia with the matter. I am done protecting you from yourself."

Davinia's smile faded. Part of her wanted to shout at Canuleia that she was condescending, that she too was ready to fight and win. But that was not how she would treat anyone; that was not how she would treat her friend.

"I don't understand. We collaborated, we worked together. And we accomplished this."

"Do not presume to call that a collaboration. We blundered through a disgraceful performance. I give thanks to Fortuna and cut my losses and toxic ties to you."

"Who cares how we got here or that it was not as you planned in your head. We are here now, we have make it this far." Arpineia reached out and held her hand. "Together in this, able to make all the projects you dreamed of real."

"I was a child when I thought that." Canuleia blushed. "Such musings have no place in this House, Arpineia."

"It was last week!"

"You were worthy of my respect one week ago!" Canuleia struck the table, her disgust unrestrained. "Progress and Innovation is a disgrace that will never be fixed. Your stipend is a joke; they burden you with dead-weigh and debt. Your underlings are the worst Vestalis in history, incompetent and lazy, spending their days making-out or drinking. And guess what, they are to a woman snouty patricians that you will never respect you! You are asking me not to be a partner, but to offer you charity."

"Charity." Arpineia lost the smile and pulled her sleeves up. "I don't need you, Canu. Keep your charity. I was planning to invoke the Lex Sacra, if you are so upset for having to do it, blame yourself and your nosy temper."

"Please. You used all favors, money and friends you had to help you, to organize your rambling thoughts into something that resembled a coherent argument. You did not do it on your own."

"Yeah. That is how people working together look like." Davinia pulled back in contempt. "You should familiarize yourself with the concept, now that you are a team leader."

"What happened to not needing someone else? How daring of you, to tell me how to clean my house when you will never bring order to yours."

"I don't need you."

They looked at each other, regretting their words but unable to reach each other.

"Good luck, Vestalis Canuleia."

"Good omens, Vestalis Arpineia. Salve."

*​

"She always had passion." Tarpeia commented.

"I never said otherwise. However, I hope you understand what it means to collaborate with Arpineia." Canuleia explained.

"I do. Thank you, Canuleia." Tarpeia rose and prepared to depart. "And I genuinely hope that you too figure that out."

 

[StrigaRosa]

Like walking miles underwater. Pulled across protracted moments, each indistinguishable from another, mewling blurs of noisy blunders. Distant but within reach, if she dared to re-live them. Battered against the rocks of rote living and performative wellness, she remembers who she was.

I am Davinia. Freeing myself from sweaty sheets, I pulled myself across my empty apartment. Someone called for me, louder than the bustling street. Peeking outside, I saw a lictor and cursed. I had to open my door to the world.

Veneneia entered, uninvited but making herself at home. She scoffed at the clutter of furniture and lack of taste I displayed. She unveiled herself as I resigned myself to lie on the floor, my back against a stool. "I know." The Vestalis Maxima declared.

"About the case?" I mumbled an answer, rubbing salt and fat out from the corners of my eyes.

"About Sextus, and what happened when he left." Veneneia clarified.

"It was to be the trial of the century." I chuckled. "A Vestal against an impious, incompetent commander. Market speculation and appropriation of public funds! Conspiracy against public affairs and class warfare! The good stuff, the stuff that they write legends about. Pffff, gone, trampled by the wages of war."

"Would it make it easier if I offered you platitudes, comforting lies about the ever-bound nature of war and law?"

"No." I admitted. "I thought I could do something against Licinius Crassus, that this time I would do Publius' right. "

"And Rome, alongside your brother." Veneneia nudged me towards respectability."

"And for Rome, of course." I did a poor job playing down my self-interest. "Why did he leave me behind? Playing war and glory, who is that for? Not for Sextus Sergius: he may lie to himself that such is the way he has to serve gens and Rome, but that is not what his heart desires."

"You told him that, don't you?"

"Yes." I grabbed my legs and buried my chin against them, complaining meekly.

"He has to walk his path before he can know that. Even if it twists and turns, or ends up stuck into false trails, it is his journey." I could feel the scarred and callous fingers of Veneneia on my hair and neck, pulling me upwards. "Any other way will alienate them and strain your relationship."

"I am afraid that already happened." I admitted. Veneneia caressed my cheeks, leaning against me. "Ah, the fools fear the damage and madness of romantic and sensual love, but ignore the life-sustaining — and destroying — power of Philia." Veneneia smiled as she softly kissed my brow. "You should not be alone after such important friendship ended."

"I miss them so much, After my brothers too…." I could not stop sobbing.

"Let your sisters take care of you." Veneneia held me in her arms. "Come back to our House, and take a cell near your office. We will not let you be alone."

As she cradled me, she turned to look into my eyes.

"You are still somewhere else. Why are you not here with me?" Veneneia asked in hushed concern.

"I am powerless. I am meek." I cried, vocalizing my despair. "I had a scummy bastard in my hands and I cannot bring them to justice. Every year I lose more of my family and friends. I am a joke in the College and I will accomplish nothing meaningful."

"You forget yourself." Veneneia grasped my shoulder, her thumb directing me to turn my neck in the opposite direction. She pulled three ribbons, holding them between her fingers. Red, orange and white. I held my breath. "You came to this town with your brothers, spied on their lessons under an alias and made that knowledge and the name under which you earned it yours." Veneneia pushed my messy hair aside, opening a trail for the red ribbon. "You made yourself the person you are."

"A poor artisan, I am." I chuckled, but the Vestalis Maxima continued.

"You came into our House and wrestled control of a seat at my side, taking the most ungrateful mantle a Vestal can wear." Veneneia now held the orange ribbon of my department. My hair regained some shape, the two ribbons interlocking and lifting me up. "Lesser women would not even try."

"A dead end. I can see why cautious girls avoid me."

"For them it may be so." I could feel the pull on my scalp as she tightened the white ribbon around the others and reaffirmed my authority with the trappings of leadership. "You have been a leader, Davinia, someone worth following through the night. Now, you are something else. You have become Closer to Egeria. The gates of Janus will open, for the ancient enemy is at hand."

"You really think so?" I turned, smiling and tempting fate with confidence. Veneneia smiled back.

"We almost lost everything we are the last time they came south. We need a Closer to Egeria and from our ranks, only you can pry secrets and knowledge from the nymph. Remember who you are, Arpineia. You are a Vesta-blessed steward of people and you will represent me and the Flame. We will need if the worst comes to pass."

A delighted pulse coursed through the grey loops, an electric jolt that permeated myself, pulling me from the moment.

"Delightful, as it was fated to be." A foreign voice came from my heart, taunting me. "Let's go for the most important moment of your life: when we met!"

I arched, my mind conspiring to make her wrong and right.

"Vestalis Arpineia, please, let me help you." The balding youth chased after me, arms grabbing the bundle of scrolls and small bronze plates — important dispatches that war-times demanded, alongside morale-boosting social and religious events. I could not see any spark in the man that could explain how he had got himself elected for aedile.

"Should you not be recruiting a reserve force or some non-sense?" I dismissed the aedile's protests as I grabbed his notices. I couldn't tolerate his babbling any further. "That is not my job, honorable priestess. I am to preserve order in the city during those trying times."

"Are you sure? Existential thread, exceptions to the rule, and so on and so on." I pointed at the sky, the fulminant shadow of an ever-vigilant Quirinus Niger flying over the Forum. "Besides, one would think that thing makes you obsolete."

"I don't want to leave you alone." The aedile insisted. "Specially after what has been happening." "Is anyone in the Urbe not prying into my affairs?" I threw my hands in the air in a gesture of anguish.

"No affairs are private for the public woman." The aedile refused to apologize, a sheeply smile on his face.

"This woman's affairs are hers to keep! Lictor, escort the aedile to more amenable duties elsewhere!" I demanded, threatening to make a scene. Alone I made my way to the Forum, where something awesome happened.

I got to the entryway of the temple of Saturn, to the board and podium where the most crucial news of the Republic were displayed and discussed. I set to my work, putting up the announcements — many games, sponsored by the wealthiest patricians, to bless Rome against the Celt and to appease the gods for our many indiscretions. So enthralled I was on my task that only too late I realized that my lictor was absent, as well as the red-clad guardians that stood by the statue of Saturn. Dreading the worst, I approached. The heavy doors swung open. I could hear metal clinging and perceived three hooded silhouettes.

"Thieves!" I shouted, giving the alarm. Nobody came to me. There was muffled laughter and the brandishing of knives.

"A Vestalis. A lonely one at that." A voice with a thick accent commented. I was not impressed.

"Is that a Hippo's accent?"

"Yes! Blessed be Dido! You should be afraid of our might if you know who we are." I crossed my arms. "That has to be the poorest impersonation of a Punic accent I have ever heard. Who are you, really?"

"Pro-Punic activists." One of the three thieves advanced. I could barely contain my laughter at the poorly dyed, stained hoods that covered their faces.

"You are advancing the Carthaginian cause? You look more like you need their help." I could not help remarking.

"That is what the silver is for. Unjustly taken from the people of Veii!" The third one shouted, before being shushed by the others.

"Vae. Veiete terrorists." I sighed. "So, how are you planning to take the silver?" They waved sacks, half filled with coins. "You will carry an ox worth of silver, through the entirety of Rome? They will bury you under bricks and refuse before you even leave the Forum."

They exchanged glances. "Good thing we stumbled into something more precious than silver."

Oh. They meant me.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be." One of them told me, escorting me out of the temple. "Fine, fine. I will play along. But I will have you know, as a high-value hostage I expect certain treatment." Despite my reasonable demands, one of them insisted in shoving me through the doors. I stumbled, tripping on the threshold. I saw a flash and feared that I had hit the stones. As I rose, I smelled ozone and burnt flesh. I turned as the thunderclap struck my eardrums, confronting the dead body of my captor and how my fall may have just saved my life. I looked to the heavens, looking for the source of this divine intervention. Quirinus Fulminator Niger, blue and dark over the Forum, thunder arching and gathering at their beck and call. The people cheered him as a savior. As adrenaline subdued, I could only stare in disgust. Someone tried to push me but I fought them off instinctively; they gave up and ran down the street.

I kept my eyes on Quirinus. I hated him. Who was he, to be soaring above the Forum, throwing lighting bolt after lightning bolt? The collateral damage was unforgivable, such irresponsibility! He was just another citizen, and yet he dared to wield the very weapons of the gods within the pomoerium.

"Are you okay, Arpineia?" My delayed escort finally found their way back to me.

"I'm fine, we have to do something about this madness!" I gave another side glance towards the smoldering corpse, reminding myself that it could have been me, if not by grace of the Flame. "Keep clear from Quirinus! Try to put any fires blocking the exits out of the Forum and prod people away from this Triumphant monster."

I followed my disappearing lictor; that was when I noticed them. A red-cloaked figure, approaching from the opposite side of the Forum, tall with determination. Immediately I knew that was Aeneid. The House had been mumbling rumors about this newly arrived Triumphant, about what they may want, their loyalties and myth. There were some wild rumors about their identity — including that it was a Trojan noblewoman! Someone in the House had come up with an unkind moniker: the Refugee Prince. They looked the part. I found them ugly, with straw-colored hair poking out of their hood, veiny unhealthy-looking pasty skin and too thin for their size. Our Refugee Prince seemed a very disappointing man. Their confidence became speed, then a blur. I caught glimpses of them across the Forum; for a magic moment they stopped right next to me. My brain could barely process the moment, intoxicated with the Triumphant's scent: sagebrush, recently picked olives and sweat. The hood slipped, and I lost myself following her lines — yes, her. She was incredibly muscled and toned, her arms inviting and daring me to throw myself against her frame. Her hair guided one towards her brown eyes, gorgeous lakes of joy and determination. Even her paleness complimented her scarred face and arms, specially those glorious eyebrows and lips. Those lips, locked in a cocky smile that demanded I kissed and punched her.

And just like that she was gone, leaving me to wonder if a Venereal vision had visited me.

I waddled through the Forum, trying to catch another glimpse of that red and golden streak. I wanted to be with her as she gained momentum, to somehow become the celerity of her life.

Another glimpse of her and I uttered a joyful scream, realizing what she had accomplished. Quirinus Fulminator collided against the Refugee Prince, as Aeneid pummeled him right into a public fountain. She soared for a magnificent moment, slowing down against a wall and grounding herself. I was pulled from my trance by the screams of a child. The fires Quirinus had started kept spreading, taking down tents and crumbly buildings. The flames had cornered someone!

"Lictor? Lictor!" I waved at my bodyguard, demanding his attention. "Get some civic slaves, we need to put these fires out!" Orders delivered, I rushed to the nearest fountain, looking for a container. But just like that, the fire was gone, the child was quiet. The Triumphant woman had just taken the youth to safety; she turned, cleaning something off her face. I held my breath, my legs unresponsive; there was such power on her determined happiness and gentle sadness. I could think of little except my red and gold flash, barely aware of my surroundings as I made my way back to the Temple. Underlings and colleagues came for me, their concerns reduced to noise. I was deluded, useless. How could I believe what I was doing for Rome mattered? That gentle political nudging and divine appeasement were enough? Such foolishness. She was just another woman, a foreign one, and one not particularly blessed. Was I not a daughter of the Peoples, was I not someone that could, no, must, accomplish much more? Someone that may have been Canuleia tried to hold me with gentle hands and kind words, but I ignored her and disappeared into my quarters.

Another jolt of electricity and I was returned to the gray world. Pain was becoming increasingly foreign, but my co-captor/captive remained just as cheerful. "It is so fun that you think that was what happened."

"I was there. I know."

Her bare hand reached for the tendrils of the gray world, another electrochemical bolt traveling through it. "Oh, yes, that makes it so delightful." A mechanical chuckle. "Now, how about we go for a moment that matters?"

A working Roman commune requires one to believe the Vestal Virgins incorruptible; we were entrusted with the treasures of the gods, the anxieties of mortals, the affairs of state and the secrets of nations. I dove into the deepest of those archives, searching any information on the awesome miracle of Triumph: the will of the people manifest in a living covenant between myth and mortal and entrusted to an individual. It was easier said than done. The most esoteric and magical elements of the House had never attracted me; I was more concerned with the material conditions in which we built the Republic. The lack of literature on the subject was depressing. Triumphants—the real thing, not the military honors that sought to emulate them—seemed to be rare, with the first records of an individual and their Triumph dating from a century or so ago. Yet, the shadow they cast upon our story was great. I went deeper, past the shrouded threshold, where there were no primary sources—only commentaries on the content of lost papers. That is where I found it, an off-hand remark. Amongst others' teachings, Egeria had taught Numa the essential means through which "transformation and triumph of the Roman spirit can be achieved." Could this be it? Could I get the power of a Triumphant, hammer it with my knowledge, and use it for the Republic? Scum like Licinius Crassus would never find respite from my fury. No crooked magistrates or bribes could save him. The old kings and queens of the Numarian tradition, could they hold the answer? They did codify a lot of what it means to be Roman. They had, if one was to believe such things, built the House of Vesta, as one of those rulers had been herself a Vestalis. However, if they had their secrets, they hid them well. Later tyrants (or Numa himself) ordered forbidden tomes containing the teachings of Egeria be buried in the hidden tomb of Numa. I scoffed. The books came from other places, probably the lost city of Alba Longa. Sure, some ancient barrow may old a king or two with their own stash of secrets, but that was not the only clue. I could try rediscovering Alba Longa and studying the mysteries within myself. It would be less fickle than the mentoring of a nymph. That said, I had no idea where to start—and I gained nothing from dismissing Egeria out of hand. There were groves sacred to the nymph everywhere in the peninsula, and I had one just outside of Rome. Conveniently, a sacred grove where only Vestalis could commune with the nymph.

I indulged in the pageantry; it does little harm and brings much relief during arduous times. Vestalis Arpineia, Closest to Egeria, visiting the grove to consult with the local nymphs and reconnect the astray Roman people to their land and past. I have to say, while I expected the popular uproar, I was unprepared for the exaltation I received from my peers in the House. It was for the first time I was one of them, not a provincial girl playing priestess. It was a bit hurtful, but it was good to have my value recognized—even by proxy! I left through Porta Capena and entered the grove, carrying only a libation of milk and honey. The skittering of many limbs and the beating of massive insect wings was the prelude of the wealth of wisdom I sought. I asked for the Triumph, the divine fire to spark within me. Ever since I took that quest, Egeria has been walking with me.

 

[StrigaRosa]

FACTS PERTAINING THE EXPEDITION TO THE RUINS OF VERY OLD AND ANCIENT ALBA LONGA URBS

On the IX day of the month of IVNVIS, after the VESTALIA of the consular year of L. AMELIVS PAPVS and C. ATILIVS REGVLVS, an expedition was dispatched to the ruins of the Latin-Etruscan city of ALBA LONGA to restore the bonds between ROMA and the FAS, the divine laws established by NVMA POMPILIVS REX.

We list the characters involved in this drama below.

The commander of the expedition, VESTALIS ARPINEIA DAVINIA, accompanied by

LVCIVS MVCIVSA SCAEVOLA, LICTOR CVRIALIS and assigned protector of the daughter of the People.

DRVSVS CANVLEIVS FVVIUS and MARCVS AUFIDIVS, veterans of the Capuan school of gladiators.

AISCHYLOS and BRVS, debt-slaves in charge of tending to beasts of burden and luggage train.

PONTVS, a teenaged mute scribe, name unknown and addressed only by his place of origin.

I had no illusions about the hardships before me. Even with Vesta and Egeria by my side, I had no idea where to start. According to legend, Romulus had dismantled Alba Longa stone by stone, repatriating its people—and their treasures—to the villages that would be Rome. The only thing left behind, according to those same legends, were the ancient sacred sites and temples.

Now, you stood upon legends like a house built on sand, but there is often some truth to them. The detail about the temples may be there to draw attention to Romulus' piety, but what if there were religious sites that remained whole and inhabited after they had abandoned the city proper?

Nobody alive knew where Alba Longa had been. But odd sanctuaries to forgotten gods? People may have found something like that.

"Oh hills, whose pained movements gave birth to two serpents." Scaevola declaimed as soon as the Albanus Mons appeared in the horizon. I smiled, putting my apprehension aside; morale was high and I would not challenge their trust on me.

The Alban hills evoked memories of pleasure and celebrations—among the urbane. Idyllic villages splattered across hillsides, where Romans and affluent Italians built pleasing *villae*. Private kingdoms in which they could escape from the bustle and heat of Rome (even if they hoped to divorce themselves from their social lessers). The annual Latin Festivals and pilgrimages opened these fantastic hills to even the poorest among us, foiling the efforts of the elites to distance themselves. They could build walls but they could not keep us away.

As a countryside girl, I knew better. The Albans had more than joyful celebration and placid fields. Shadow and fire hid in the depths of the Albanus Mons, the serene illusion often dispelled. Entire villages had been swallowed, by population-wiping mists that claimed lower sections and opened sudden passages into the Underworlds.

Those were the Alban Hills. And then there were the tombs. A dark crop of grim harvest that lay dormant under groves and fields. Many where Latin mausoleum and necropolises, well-know and catalogued, without mysteries and secrets—the places of our dead, of those that drank from our blood. But there were others. Sometimes a plow or quake would unearth something else, something more ancient than anything we built in the Peninsula. The stories, while varied in disquietudes, echoed horrific imagery. Deformed effigies, oozing black or incandescent stone, eyes in the shadow. Etruscan or even older curses or spells left by previous incursions, tunnels and corridors flooded by toxic sludge or caustic waters, and holes that opened the way to cyclopean structures. Many whispered they transcended any human craft. Such places invited only disaster, and stories agreed only in one thing: the lucky ones were those that never returned.

Could the tomb of Numa Pompilius be one of those cursed sites? Perhaps. Even the possibility made me hesitate. Did I really want to risk going to one of these places?

News of our expedition arrived ahead of us. We found ourselves frequent guests in the houses of syndics and aristocrats. Everyone needed reassurances during wartime, and the powerful wanted to rub in the peripheral prestige of associating with our group and, of course, me.

The temple of Vesta in Lavinium was the first stop in our expedition. They may have some local records, older than the archives in the Urbe. That could be a productive study, even if the expedition proper ended in failure.

An opportunity presented itself, something more promising than private study. One of the most pretentious and ancient local clans—cousins of old Alban kings, the Collantinii—had endured great loss. The matriarch of the family had been negotiating with Venetii allies up north, but had met her end fighting off a Gaul ambush—alongside most of the clan elders.

The new paterfamilias, young Marcus Collantinus, returned from the front to lead the family through these grievous days. It was easy for me to get close to him. I assisted the inexperienced noble with the funeral affairs, gentle priestly appeasements and even feeding the dead by lending my own gladiators to the Collantinii games.

We became guests at their estates, where I got even closer to Marcus Collantinus. He seemed to believe that leadership consisted on aggressively lobbying for their family. Be due to their royal lineage, wealth, or capable bloodline, I was told that I could have no better friend than a Collantinii. I indulged his ramblings, enabling him as he went on and on about their ancestors. I just had to drop a hint about what other municipal patricians thought about their kingly claims for Marcus to take me to the family treasury.

Marcus shared the evidence of their lineage. Clues to their family origins in Asia, interwoven with the earlier settled Etruscans. The Collantinii believed they were initially from Alba Longa, and where their estates lie on the site where a satellite of the lost city had been found. With little reservations, Marcus let me consult the journals of a great-uncle that had almost ruined the family by devoting all their resources in the search for Alba Longa. Despite the failures of the ancient Collantinus, they had made substantial progress; their theory was validated where they found the ruins of similar satellites all around the lake. Mercifully for the current generation, they died before they could go ahead with their plan to drain the Albanus Lacus in search of Alba Longa.

Some weeks lakeside sounded a lovely way to spend my days.

Away from Triumphant displays, I found myself distracted from my ambitious goals. Between my priestly cousins and the Collantinii, I had enough literature to consider for months. Even failure would be a success. My still subdued spark remained as such. Things could have gone differently.

I drew strength by thinking about the pristine enchanted waters of the Alabanus Lacus; the travel across the Bonillae lands was arduous, for no road or little trails crossed them. The lands were beautiful, but disconnected from much of the turmoil that seemed to always be brewing across the Latin world.

We spent too many nights outside; the supplies were stretched thin and I had run out of ghost stories. I have to say, the long journeys started to heighten my worst condescending aspects.

"Sister Arpineia, I think what is too much is too much." My lictor approached me during a rare quiet moment. "While we appreciate your lessons, some silence and time is required between them. You know, to assimilate and internalize the knowledge."

"What is this about, lictor?" I inquired, innocently looking at the exhausted faces around the camp. Unaware that this was an intervention. "Are you saying I talk too much?"

"Never, my Vestalis. However, I want to draw attention to a few things. You spent hours explaining the cares to have with choice and preparation of sacrifices." Scaevola pointed out, barely avoiding an exasperated sigh. "And before that, you corrected Aischylos pronunciation of Greek. And while we prepared dinner, you had to go into details of the garum industry, and before that you told us local legends, and before that you tried to pass techniques to improve Pontus' speed writing."

Did I do that?

Yes, that had happened. I dissociated from the memory. Suddenly I was dangling on the void, hearing a distant metallic chuckle.

That was not me. And that was something I did. Big difference. Ah, there it was, I had found it.

The infection point.

The danger of letting an aroused spark receptive and unattended. I had found it, so now I just had to control my own story.

Lighting coursed through my body and I spasmed back into the memory.

I did that, as weird it was. So of course, I had to rationalize my actions after the fact. I appreciated attention, but I never relinquish knowledge in order to obtain validation; knowledge was mine, it was something that I had stolen, worked and risked my life for. Nobody had ever had felt the inclination to instruct me. What were smiles, manipulation, and courtesy compared to this? Less than sand when compared against the salt of lore. Knowledge was too precious to be given.

Egeria was messing with me.

I spent the rest of the night secluded and silent. In the privacy of my tent, I looked at myself. If I looked sideways, it was like I was seeing a stranger, even if that was my face performing a normal inquiring expression. The more I strained myself, the weirder it seemed; I was divorced from the moment, feeling like someone else was looking over my shoulders and my perception loomed over myself.

There was an oddity on my steps ever since I had been blessed by Egeria; the favor of daemons always carries a cost, maybe I had received *too much* from the nymph. What traces of her legend were suppressing my personality? Could this be a permanent change to my spark? How terrifying. I would be even less popular if I became a nagging instructor and a blabbermouth.

Finally, after silent unfortunate miles, Bovillae.

The community was little more than a village, a place that would have been forgotten if not for its grand temple. We saw some villae on the outskirts of Bovillae and approached them, hoping to find hospitality among the local patrons. Climbing closer, we found their houses dilapidated and abandoned; it seemed that even the Julii clan had replaced their ancestral holdings with estates closer to Rome. Neglectful patronage hurt its clients. Farmland was given to weeds and left unplowed; the water on the channels and sewers stank terrible and welcomed strange algae and insects.

What was killing Bovillae?

Lacking alternatives, I sent my companions to one of the local social clubs and paid respects to the local Vestals. They had heterodox, strict practices and were all pretty young and (for Vestalis) uneducated. They were initially cold, expecting a domineering urban matron; how relieved they were once they realized I was just like them, a girl from the Albans. Isolation and darkness had made them fearful and timid: they were starved for news about the Gallic invasion the Italian community defense efforts, and curious about my expert opinion on what may poison their already weakened community.

I restrained myself, self-conscious after the remarks from my companions the previous night. My coy behavior just endeared me to the other Vestalis. I horrified them when I revealed my intention to visit Alba Longa; cautious to a fault, they insisted it had been abandoned and destroyed for a good reason. They had no shortage of legends and horror stories to persuade me to let the lost city lie forgotten.

Even now I feel guilty for lying to them. Feigning agreement with their fears, I told them I was abandoning my search. However, as thanks for their hospitality, I would lend my expertise and search for what may disrupt life in Bovillae.

I agreed with the Bovillanian Vestals that venturing into Alba Longa would reveal the odd and weird, but that was something I welcomed. And if something malicious was haunting these lands, there may be a clue or a connection. I was deceptive and selfish.

The troubles of the outskirts of Bovillae were not because of the more obvious reasons for communal depression. No skirmishes or vanguard parties had made forays into the region, the weather had been fine and there had been no unusual behavior among herd animals. However, there had been terrible omens and a worsening misfortune over the last weeks, all seemingly tied into the Albanus Lacus. Whatever was only now encroaching Bovillae had already seized the villages lakeside. Wide-eyed merchants mentioned the lake boiling over and other strange events.

We ventured towards the Albanus Lacus, finding a wasting land. Irrigation channels were dried and half-buried, pumps corroded and broken. Strange white and black spots appeared on the flora; the people were sick with unusual diseases and seemed to lose teeth and hair. Nobody seemed to know what to do. I collected as much information as I could and sent them to the local priestesses.

Then we did what everyone warned us to avoid: we approached the lake.

I could smell the Albanus Lacus, the air picking up its fetid and acidic humours. I might have given up at that point, if Brus had not noticed the flood markings nearby, covered in sludge and mud. I approached and cleaned it, finding it was not a rural marker but a pillar of intricately carved stone.

The Albanus Lacus was infamous for its propensity to flood the surrounding lands, independent of the will of rain and its tributaries, answering only to unknown telluric movements. How many pieces of Alba Longa had the lake dragged over the ages?

Our expedition found the lake almost invisible, reduced to a thin water line. The tunnel that Romans had built to channel the excess water was dry and spewed toxic smoke. There was a layer of fish bones and abandoned fishing implements.

And poking through green-purple sludge, Alba Longa.

Half-rotten and half-preserved dockyards, sunken fishing boats, a warehouse filled with amphorae. Aufidus and Canuleius embraced each other, discovering some sealed content was still safe—including some amazing wine. I smiled, turning loose boulders, finding the walls of some houses and even a marble altar. Ignoring the stench and how dirty everyone was, I hopped across where I figured streets once stood. It was like walking through time, piercing a whole people from the shipwreck they left behind.

The entire group was hypnotized by the rediscovery of Alba Longa, busy turning stones and salvaging objects from the mud. Scaevola tried in vain to liberate an enormous vase, full of earth and stones, giving up and getting help. He lost his smile as he noticed the absence of Pontus and Aischylos.

"Damned Greeks." Canuleius cursed. "We turn away for one moment and they steal from us and escape."

"Keep calm and don't get anywhere close to the smoke and the weird mists." I ordered. Brus grabbed a brick and Scaevola stood by my said, drawing a long knife. "Stay close to each other, and move in two rings. Gladiators in the outer, the rest on the inner one."

We kept at it for tense moments, eyes on each other's back, dancing between the ruins. Silence ruled, interrupted only by the warm bubbling of the lake. Brus signaled for us to stop, pointing at a pair of heavy footsteps on the mud.

Too heavy to have been left by Pontus, coming from the direction of the opposing shore.

"We got company." I confirmed. "Get ready, boys."

The trail led back to a second nauseous hole, covered up by three dead trees.

"It must be a big group, if they pulled and dragged those." Brus remarked.

"Why these things never happen in a sunny, beautiful place with a delightful breeze?" I complained as I signaled that Brus prepare a torch from the tree branches. "Why it is always in some festering underworld?"

"They set them up after passing." Aufidus concluded as they examined the dangling roots, picking torn cloth from them. Dyed—properly, expensively—purple.

Punics. The real thing.

I felt dizzy, my head struck by splitting pain. I could not do this, not alone. I was not strong enough. Until that moment, I was unaware how much trauma I had from the encounter at the Temple of Saturn, how I had been suppressing and postponed dealing with it. It was all coming back. I just could not handle this; I could not deal with agents of Carthage. My lips trembled, trying to give the retreat order.

I steeled myself. I could not deal with this alone, but I was not alone. I had my expedition with me, and those bastards had got two of our comrades. I grew more sick, and confident; in retrospective, I knew my spark was resonating with Egeria and I was at the threshold of Triumph. I was descending into the Underworld in more ways than one.

"File up, two by two! We will not be leaving without capturing the Carthaginian sorcerers." I was not the one that said that! Why were those words in my mouth? Never had I been that confident and reassuring.

We descended into the tunnel and encountered familiar archways. I quickly formulated a hypothesis: this construction was fitting a sewer, not a tomb. The more I looked, the more it looked like a prototype for the Cloaca Maxima. Any refuge had long been washed or decomposed away, allowing us free access. We easily found a maintenance station, from which we could reach secondary tunnels. Following the Punic trail, we encountered a camping site: blankets on top of coffers, stone and ash of a cold fire, scattered hammers, and chisels. Aufidus threw the blankets aside and opened the coffers.

"Dried dates, smoked pork and different clothes." The gladiator took inventory, stopping when noticing a purse. Within he found various silver coins with a horse and a palm tree. He put them aside and continued. "Chickpea paste and stale bread. They have been here for a while and they intend to stay longer."

"And well-paid by Carthage." Scaevola commented. "Question is, where are they now, what they do with our people and why are they here?"

"Let's continue." I ordered, as tempting as a pause seemed. "Touch nothing else, they cannot be far away."

Brus picked a chisel, hitting the sewer's walls. The echoing sound changed as we delved forward, revealing hidden spaces veiled to our senses. Later we discovered that the Carthaginians had also found the hidden section, as they had gouged a wall to create an entrance.

"They were in a hurry." Canuleius remarked, picking up an abandoned shovel. "They did not even safely store their tools back at camp."

"Quiet from now on." I was too harsh, but the situation demanded it. "Single line this time."

We found a short tunnel or antechamber. It led across another wall, similarly destroyed. The air within was stale and had a hint of sulphur, recently disturbed dust dancing by torchlight. Water infiltrations had filled later divisions of the unearthed complex with mold and stains, forcing us to cover our noses before proceeding. We found a stone gate.

As we pushed through it, making way into a more preserved site. The walls still held their paint: a soft yellow, decorated with drawings of bulls and tauromachy. Various doorways departed this hall, each of them marked by a different flower.

"What is this, a sunken palace?" Scaevola whispered, his eyes widening as he appreciated the elegance of the simple decoration.

I kept to myself, knowing better. First, the painting was old Etruscan instead of the later hybrid culture of Alba Longa. Second, this was no palace. Next to the outskirts of the old city, this deep? This was a tomb.

One of the dreadful ones.

It did not take long until we found our first corpse. In a lateral corridor marked by violets, a man lying on the floor, its skull pulverized. Slashed flesh and jets of dry blood disturbed the dust of the abandoned complex.

"This makes no sense." Aufidus observed. Brus said something on his people's dialect. "The splatter of gore is fresh, but the corpse seems to have been wasting here for years."

I shivered. I had heard too many stores about the weird daemons older Etruscans dealt with. Beings to which the notion of linear time was optional, alienated from causality that ruled over mortal lives.

"Let's go, let's go." I cheered them on, Brus waving the torch.

"We are alone, Vestalis. Why must we" Scaevola did not finish that sentence; something cast a shadow through one doorway, something slithering against the walls. Gladiators in front, Scaevola at the rear, torch and priestess on the middle. We advanced with all the determination our fear allowed us to muster.

I could not resist looking back, as poor Orpheus as the mythic one, rewarded with only a glimpse. It was an adept predator, clinging to the shadows, large empty eyes in the head's front that seemed to suck even the dimmest of the lights. I could barely make it out, but it was enormous and heavy, flexible and fast for its size. Canuleius kept turning back, also monitoring the creature even as he sped up.

Soon our formation dismantled, as everyone started running. The torch flickered for an instant—just enough to invite chaos in. Running blindly into a labyrinthine complex, sealed by who know how long, invaded by who know who, hiding who knows what, turned out to be a disastrous idea. Scaevola noticed a clicking nose before I did and pushed me and Brus aside; the two gladiators disappeared with the ground in front of us.

The path ahead what has been replaced by pitch darkness. We retreated, desperately looking for an alternative route. Two awaited for us. Parallel corridors that stood out from the other paths by the intricate and realistic plants painted on their sides: a silver-fir and some blue hydrangeas.

We entered the doorway with the blue hydrangeas, and then another, and then another. We kept going in circles, going through what seemed the same doorway, repeatedly. The others wanted to continue, but I had to stop and rest. Looking closer to the hydrangeas, I noticed that they seemed to lose color. It was not a trick of the light; running across them a few more times, the blue was fading away, graying at each re-encounter.

Finding that ominous, I insisted in looking for another path. My two companions protested, but I did not agree. I returned to the same hole where gladiators had vanished. We had been stuck in a loop, in an antinatural act of trickery. Against all sense that did not seem to exist on these places, I led the others into the doorways with the silver-fir.

I felt the same overwhelming pain, forcing me to close my eyes. I forced them open, blinking violently; everything was light. Blinding, stale and cold. I was no longer in a corridor; instead, I stood on something I would rather describe as a tube. Odd, unique and with fifteen steps of diameter, prolonging itself to infinity, no branches or twists. There was not a single source for the light; the very air seemed to produce a heatless light that maintained a slightly cold temperature. Enough to make me shiver.

Then there was the silence, absolute and overbearing. I could not even hear myself breathe, the beating of my heart or the turning of my knees. I spun over myself, trying to find the way back. However, wherever I turned, I kept finding the tube. Brilliant. Infinite. Always in front of me, no matter where I looked.

I kept trying to stare at the walls of the tube to face them. It was pointless; always in the corner of the eye, they were out of reach. Whenever I looked, the tube extended. I put one hand against my neck and extended the other. I closed my eyes and kept my head facing forward; feeling out with my extended hand, I found something solid and hard. I turned my head to where my hand encountered resistance and opened my eyes.

There was the tunnel again.

I kept experimenting. Eyes closed, I kept feeling around. I found walls everywhere, resistance from all directions. I could not proceed with my eyes closed. And when I opened them again? All walls were gone, and I was on the tube.

What could this mean? It was quite the puzzle. I realized with horror that it was a sensorial, personal puzzle. Perception and reality seemed to blur in this place; I could stand next to Brus and Scaevola and they would be out of reach. They may even have left without me.

Now I was on my own.

Except not really. My spark stirred, a reminder.

I reflected upon my odd behavior. What may I have sacrificed for the wisdom of Egeria. Eyes closed, I re-examined all the odd remarks, my subconscious impulses, my performance as a condescending pedagogue, my sudden courage and fanatical sense of preservation of knowledge. All things I normalized and rationalized as part of me, no matter how foreign they may be.

I cast those out and summoned them to answer for their influence over my actions.

In front of me—well, besides the tube, that one was always there—stood a woman, face to face, less than my pinky between us. Large blue eyes, a temperamental nose, savage short hair and naked under a golden lumen. Her expression was of reluctant amenability.

"Egeria?" I mumbled, incredulous.

"Don't look at me for answers. I am as surprised as you are, Davinia. You possess a mind for abstract thought and are closer to the divine. But to materialize me into something you could accept—and like this, of all things? Impressive. I cannot give you all the credit." Egeria waved all her arms to encompass the tunnel. "There are few places like this left in the world, much less functional ones. Where time and space bend like the illusions they are and the real and perceived can touch together. While I am impressed, I must advise caution. You should avoid touching anything and leave, or it will reduce you to a drooling incontinent mess."

"Thanks, I guess?" I answered, my confusion growing. "I asked for a blessing, how come I seem to have pulled you into me? And how did I cast you out?"

"Between instants, even a single breath is irrational and only thought matters." She explained without explaining. "What better bridge there can be between infernal and celestial realms than the thought of mortals? You thought, so I was."

As unhelpful as Egeria words were, it made sense enough. This corner of the Underworld answered to the mind. I want to contact and consult a divine patron and so I did. Which also meant that I could leave at any moment I wished so. After all, mind ruled over this corner.

I thought on that. Egeria disappeared, the tunnel was gone, and I was in front of a doorway with a silver-fin painted on its sides. I could not figure what lay out there in the dark, but if Egeria had spoken the truth, it had to be the exit.

I could leave, but that would mean leaving the others behind. And if Egeria was also true to that, they would be stuck between no place and nowhere. I retreated into the silver-fir, thinking about Scaevola. I opened my eyes and was right besides my *lictor*.

"The gods are merciful, you are good and safe. Quick, think about the exit." I held my tongue, realizing how foolish I was being. He was looking through me, as if I was not there.

And from his detached perspective, I was not. I took him by the arm and shook him. No reaction. I thought of Egeria and my nymph reappeared, arms wrapped like a cocoon over Lucius, head leaning against the man's neck.

"He cannot see me unless he thinks about me. Before him, there is only the tunnel. Am I correct?"

The nymph nodded in agreement, smiling. That was enough for me.

Or I assumed so, until Aischylos had just crossed through the tunnel, through the body of Scaevola and Egeria. Floating on the air, eyes closed, smashing through walls. The apparition of the Greek slave was so ephemeral as it was shocking. It was spitting on all the rules I had learned of this plane. Wounded and suspicious, I thought of pursuing him.

Skirting through light-tunnels, I observed Aischylos at a distance. He seemed unaware of me, playing around at ease. I could feel my brain suffering, my ears ringing and my nose bleeding. That was no common man; even a well-trained Vestalis was having this much trouble, why would Aischylos take so easily to this maddening realm?

I gave up pursuing me and returned to my thoughts.

Could this be planned, someone's master plan? There was some strange will to this, something that went beyond the free-thought wanderings I had explored through psychotropic agents. And yet, weirdly familiar.

And so I thought.

What is behind all of this?

I found myself in a strange corridor, extreme even for this the standards set by these tombs. Walls, roof and floor were lumpy and pulsating, made from some spongy substance. Blue tubing insulated by dry fat broke the monotony of grey matter, viscous liquid flowing within. Bolts of lightning coursed through this place, directed to some great purpose.

Curious and enchanted, I touched the walls, almost the victim of a shocking discharge. My head pained, and I suffered a resurgence of old memories, of her and Sextus riding horses around Tusculum. I kept looking into moments of my life.

And that was how I ended ensnared into this trap. Another spasm coursed through me, pulling me back into another loop.

Egeria caressed my trapped and torment form, oozing through more and more of my life. I could be reduced to a collection of moments, my existence reduced to meaninglessness.

Another shock, another memory.

Revisiting the moment the Refugee Prince, my Streaking Woman, confronted Quintius Fulminator Niger. I did not get drunk on this memory. I was there, and I was thinking of Alba Longa. Of my quest, of what secrets I wanted to claim, of the pantheon of Triumphants I aimed to join.

So what if I wanted power and knowledge, just enough to achieve my selfish goals? I felt no shame; my gravitas and firmitas did not allow that.

I knew the danger, and how Numa Pompilius was the wisest Roman by taking these sorts of secrets to their grave. However, I needed the knowledge of Numa Pompilius; I had to seize them. In this realm of the mind, I could make it, this place could be the perfect prison or an unique opportunity.

I thought of Scaevola, divorced from me—and anyone else. How did humans share their mindscape, sleep similar dreams, rush to the same patterns and embrace collective mad projects like community and Republic? Symbols, language, stories. Myths and legends. Given shape and context by being shared by us, the boats that helped us navigate the river of conscience and the other. The way we organized thoughts and work.

I wanted the secrets of Numa Rex? Then I would have to claim them as he had once done. I went back to the lessons as a Class III Vestalis, half-remembered arcane musings that, in this place of mind, could be re-lived over and over. As an initiate, they entrusted us to the details of how Egeria and Numa Pompilius had established the first sacred rites and stolen/bound the gods to those sacraments.

All they had to do was to beat Jupiter in a duel of wits. Con a higher celestial daemon. Easy.

Seriously, could one get power through farce? Then let's start this farce. I pictured a theatrical mask of the current fashion, with a nice beard made from horse hair; one appeared in my hand. I put the mask and thought where to go next. I sang a little hymn to myself, an improvised poem about how Numa may have stood on the sacred grove, preparing himself for this essential mission to establish a covenant between humanity and the gods.

I stopped and opened my eyes. I was back at to the sanctuary at the heart of the grove of Egeria, standing in front of my libation of milk and honey. Where had it gone wrong? Was I stuck in another memory. No, there was something different to this one. There was no jolt of lightning, nor spasms, and the colors were too intense, like I was on a hyperreal depiction of the place I knew. I did not have much time for doubts or study as Egeria darted towards me, embracing me and covering my mouth with her lips.

The kiss was disquieting and something I was reluctant to accept, but I resisted the impulse to push her away. I somehow knew that I was playing a role in a history we Romans had come to belief; my safety depended on how well I could perform as Numa. There were other stories. Stories about what happened to usurpers and impostors, stories I would not like to play a role on.

Trying to ward off Egeria's suspicions, I grabbed her arms and came up with an excuse.

"The situation is urgent, my love." I stated, performing what I could call a more authoritarian voice with the aloof and tired dignity of a monarch. I failed ridiculously, unable to take the idea seriously. It did not seem to upset the nymph, and I was thankful for that. "A once-in-a-generation tempest approaches and the Tiberis is flooding the city. I need your help to appease the gods."

Egeria studied me, worried. For a moment I feared she had seen through me, but she dismissed my concerns with a warm but sad smile.

"I expected that to happen. Let's go, Numa. Human virtues are strange to the gods—including patience."

What awaited me out of the grove was not Rome; a village of brick and straw thatch houses, protected by a palisade, their peoples brutish and vicious. The city was not without a magnificence to it, in communal parks around sacrificial pits and stone palaces and sanctuaries open to all. We made our way to the Sacra Via under terrible rain; the storm intensifying.

"Let's go to the sanctuary of Regia." Egeria suggested. "It is the most fitting site for our purposes."

"Is there no alternative?" I shouted over the thunder. "I would rather appease the gods directly, without having to learn protective rites. On equal terms, get to a settlement that does not involve death."

"I love you because of your optimism, Numa, but gods are capricious and fickle. Protecting yourself is how you meet them on their terms. Occasional sacrifices may seem like a compromise, but they will leave them alternating between relaxation, demanding behavior or envy of the reverence you pay to other gods. You claim to want to unite the tribes of Asia and clans of Italy. This demands a new story, a new culture, a new alloy. You will need to make new deals with the inhuman powers of the universe, addressing them without the biases and vicious of mortal existence. Remember the words that lift the veil."

"If it acts and looks like Beast or Man, then it is not God, but Beast or Man wearing the trappings of divinity." I muttered the mantra of Numa. I was curious at the reframing of history on this retelling. It framed the old gods as uncaring and distant, unlike the petulant arrogant children the Hellenic texts portrayed. Egeria took me to the Regia.

The palace of Numa had been destroyed during the sacking of Rome. A temple to Mars and another to that-one-we-Vestals-are-not-supposed-to-talk-about had been built on top of the ruins. The Regia stood apart from the rest of the nascent city, a labyrinth of interwoven trees and stones separating the royal palace from the rest of Rome, with a terracotta front standing over a bridge that bound the Regia and the Forum together. Over this side stood a balcony supported by pillars depicting cats and minotaurs, where the regent could address the people. Egeria knew the place, guiding me without noticing how lost I was.

We seemed to enter a charmed place, two armored albino twins standing before the entrance. Just like Egeria, they loomed as supernal beings.

We made our way towards the *templum*, an open place for sacrifices and auspices stained by dried blood and ash.

Egeria looked at me.

"Why do you hesitate? You need to pick one."

Dis Pater and Prosperina: she was on to me. I impersonated the best caricature of feigned ignorance and masculine confusion.

She released a frustrated sigh.

"You need a voluntary, from among your people. The only sacrifice the gods will accept."

I shivered. I would be horrified if I did not choose outrage instead. How many times had the anti-Punic faction in the senate and our own priests censured the practice of human sacrifice among their political rivals? Like our ancient past—and not so ancient—was not filled with despaired oblations.

"If Romulus had no qualms about sacrificing his own brother, that is between Quirinus and the other gods." I smiled at Egeria. "His ways are not my way. Trust me, Egeria. I learned from you about the inherent lie within a dichotomy. There is always an alternative."

"There is. That does not mean it is good." The nymph held my hand. I could see on her golden eyes how much she feared for my well-being, but also the utter devotion and confidence she had on me—in Numa.

"JUPITER! DIVINITY OF OMENS AND THE ONE THAT ANSWERS PRAYERS! Herald of Rains! Jupiter Elicius! I name you and I call you, I bind you on behalf of my people! I was appointed on your name, as your priest and king. Answer my plea, so I may sacrifice for your protection in our hour of need. Jupiter Elicius!"

A powerful lightning bolt pierced the skies and discharged against the ground. A spiral of smoke, fire and arching electricity rose, forming a face. Or rather, my brain recognizes within the patterns what may be different faces.

"WHERE IS MY SACRIFICE, RELUCTANT KING?" It thundered.

"Oh Great Jupiter Elicius, all of your teachings failed me. I tried wine, honey and the purest spring water, captured deep within the untouched earth of the mountains." I covered my eyes, barely able to witness divinity. "I need to capture thunder and tame the Tiberis. What libations clouds and bolts demand? What can I offer?"

"Listen very well, Mortal King, for we will seal the covenant of protection." Jupiter Elicius voice intensified, thunder cracks at every word. "I am not a nymph, I am not your lover and mentor. Repeat after me my instruction, clearly so that they we may both bond. To ensorcel and calm thunderstorms, you need some fresh heads..."

"Of garlic!" I rushed in, interrupting Jupiter. My heart sunk on my chest; I was confident it was onions on the original legend.

"NO!" Another lightning bolt struck the ground. "Heads of man."

"Garlic tied with the hair of man, got it. Is that right, O Jupiter?"

"NOTHING DEAD. I accept nothing else as a sacrifice. Living, breathing, large head and eyes, beautiful lean body still jumping with life. It must be..."

"Herrings! You just described some nice herrings, O wisest Jupiter!"

Egeria stared at me with an expression of blank shock. The storm cleared and Jupiter returned to the celestial realms. Thunder laughed.

"THAT WILL DO, NUMA REX. AT LEAST FOR THOSE OF MINE."

I cleaned my brow, wet from rain and sweat. My heart was jumping up and down. Divine personality was something I would never understand, and I never resonated with the story of Numa. Until now. What mattered about it was not the exact stations performed or words uttered, but that Numa had entertained and tricked the Herald of Rains into accepting a lesser token instead of bloody sacrifice. Turned a bundle of garlic and herring tied with human hair into a protective spell.

I opened my mouth. That was it. That was my bridge to Triumph.

Divinity was powerful but malleable. Symbols, histories, animal and human features; all of those things could become part of them. Ground them, as alien as it was. If one manipulated what a divinity would recognize as its own, its nature could be manipulated, invited, and bonded to. What if one used the self as the binding agent? One could become something new, forged from humanity and divinity.

A Triumphant.

Egeria hugged me with such passion and relief that it hurt. I looked around as color drained away from this world.

This descend was ending. I could make my way to the exit, wiser.

But I did felt not just wiser; I felt more powerful than I had been for months. With clarity of purpose.

I pulled my masks and threw it to the ground, kissing Egeria and escaping before the nymph could tear me apart.

My thoughts changed, and I stared not at Egeria, but at Aischylos. The man held a wrinkled wax mask of the nymph, just as Numa's laid at my feet. He seemed surprised but pleased.

"No wonder it went so well, I had a good companion. Thanks for the help, Vestalis!" He showed me his prize,—a bronze case with strange engravings and lightning bolt patterns—, winked and vanished.

What in the Underworld had just happened?

Screw that, he may have used me but I could still get mine. My thoughts changed, looked in one purpose.

I was going to steal fire from the gods.

I found myself on a steep peak, beyond clouds and mortals. Something was chasing me as I made my way down, but I had more pressing concerns.

For starters, my left arm was on fire.

My first instinct was to put it off, but I knew that would be an awful idea. I raced down, avoiding to fall as I chewed on my lip, trying to ignore the smell of burning flesh and the heat. Fire was the symbol of everything that mattered to me, but I would rather avoid ending stuck on a peak as an eagle ate my inwards.

Vesta, why did my mind remain so undisciplined? Sudden cold and wind hit my face, and I immediately missed the fire and the burning. I could hear the distant cry of an eagle. I tried to free myself from the chains, but remained in bondage. The eagle was massive, twice my side. Closing my eyes, I thought about the cursed doorway with the silver-fir.

I stumbled, relieved to breath the stale air of the tomb and to be claimed by the dark. I let myself fall to the ground, exhausted. I could just stay there and sleep for days.

I was denied peace.

The creature from before approached me.

I called for a light and one appeared, a small flame dancing on my index finger. I waved my hand, turning it into a sphere of red and orange light. I barely had time to be in awe of myself.

Before me stood a pale giant. Thick grey skin, lean mean limbs with too many joints. Its face was tubular, with enormous utterly black eyes and pronounced canine teeth emerging from the upper mandible. What looked like a long beard was actually a bundle of tentacles, wiggling autonomously.

On the arms of the giant rested two corpses: a man in Punic garb and Pontus. I hated it for that. I looked at the sphere in my hand; I could do something now. Instead of running, I could fire back.

I threw my sphere against it, at the same time the giant unleashed an unexpected mental attack. My head hurt as they projected images into it. A series of Punic attackers, the being picking them apart one by one. Terrifying traps being deployed. A hand holding a dagger, looming over my scribe.

An explosion and the smell of burnt flesh. I covered my eyes, surprised at the raw power of my fire. The giant dropped the corpses, whimpering away, its left arm red and black. It blasted me with all the suffering the creature had just received. I stumbled, strained, and feeling the sheer power of my Triumph overwhelming my spark.

Too much power. Too much pain.

As the creature returned to the darkness, I searched for something to ground myself. A memento mori, something that would keep the legend of Prometheus away and let me be Davinia. I found a long bone needle, a symbol of what a patrician woman was supposed to be.

Perfect.

I pricked myself, twisting that symbol to my own use. Empowered, exhausted and alone. Not even Egeria.

"Know you are loved, Vestal."

A metallic voice?

"Come to me when you are ready. You are something amazing."

Not again. This Closer to the Gods needed a nap.

 

[StrigaRosa]

It had been a few weeks, after a distraught Vestalis Arpineia returned from her expedition: the lone survivor, but a successful one. She arrived at the Urbe as it received the costly and bittersweet news of Telamon.

Rome had been saved. The Urbe would stand for a little while, supported by the hand of its peoples and their institutions.

Under the light of the first hour, Davinia was unsatisfied in that interpretation of recent events. She sneaked away from the Temple as the servants prepared everything needed for the morning rituals. Darting from pillar to pillar, Davinia trailed the path to the ancient, undeveloped ruined annex of the Temple—a permanent grim reminder of the risks of Vestal life. More often than not, some artifact or piece of technology (such as the infamous Mule) would be considered too dangerous to be studied on the Temple and had to be moved into a controlled site. Reinforced, but whose walls and ceilings were designed to collapse and contain the experiment should any accident happen.

A perfect site to explore her new powers.

They had recently moved the Mule to a Department of Engineering vault, after its latest accident reduced the fourth Class III to a pink mist. But the structures designed for its study remained undisturbed and abandoned. Chambers supported by metal rods, air pockets between bricks in the walls, and experimental plates of heat-dispersing ceramics. Only Class I Vestalis had access to this warehouse, reducing the number of persons that could discover her to six.

Alone in the dark, Davinia closed her eyes and tried to recall her experiences within the Etruscan catacombs. She thought about the many ways Egeria presence made itself felt. Even now, Davinia could not stop thinking about a silent mental specter, ready to wrap her hands around her neck and either snap or caress it. Cold sweat dropped from Davinia's brow as she lifted her hands, took a deep breath and dreamed of flame. She opened an eye, trying to get a peak. Nothing yet. She closed her eyes and focused. She concentrated more. This was so much focus, any moment now. Davinia's head started to hurt, her breathing erratic.

Still nothing. Only darkness, no matter how much she tried.

Venting her frustrations, Arpineia cursed the wasted hours. She returned to the surface and lost herself in daily routine. But she could not find solace there. The Triumph on her spark kept nibbling at the back of her mind, pulling her out of her duties and dumping her in esoteric musings. Davinia took entire afternoons to just meditate on her issues. She arrived at the correct conclusion that she could not surpass this spiritual block on her own. Then she did the wrong thing about it.

Who she knew that could have similar experiences. The woman Aeneid? For sure. It would be a good idea to reach out. And yet, Davinia did not want to go to her. She told herself that she did not trust the Refugee Prince; that was a lie she told herself, a convenient way to cover how much she was afraid of being rejected. Of being seen as an impostor, of making light of the way Aeneid had earned her Triumphant mantle. Arpineia would approach Aeneid incapable of using the powers she claimed as hers. It terrified Davinia. They would ask her questions about herself that she was not ready to answer.

Instead of reaching out, Davinia delved into any esoteric text she could find. She got nothing but lost sleep and spent dawns. Pythagorean texts followed, and after those too failed her, Arpineia searched for answers in missionaries scrolls brought by travelers from distant lands. As priceless as they were, they were ill prepared to address the practical problems that Davinia faced.

The string of failures made Davinia second guess everything. Had she stolen Olympian fire? Or had it been a delusion, something construed by her mind to shelter her from the actual horrors of the expedition? From the loss of her companions and the exposure to an infernal reality? She never conjured the fire. Even her connection to Egeria was nothing extraordinary, as one-sided as that of anyone else.

Arpineia was irritated by such thoughts; basic, unproductive thoughts. She could feel a fundamental change within her, an awakened spark. Besides, that line of thought could take her to some mad places. By those same arguments, she could still be stuck in one of the catacomb's traps, deluding herself that she had returned to Rome. There is a line of questioning that is self-defeating in its purpose. Some questions are just too ridiculous to use as guidelines for action.

She was here. She was back. She held the fire.

Davinia resumed her attempts, determined to brute-force a breakthrough. She was interrupted during a night of study by a noise near the warehouses. Fearing discovery, Arpineia tried to maneuver her way back to the House of the Vestals. The night was on its eight hour, no moon or stars gracing the firmament. Davinia fumbled around in the dark, stumbling and making way too much noise. Damn, if there was really someone around, they were bound to catch her. If only she could see where she was stepping.

Her face was suddenly illuminated: a tiny flame flickered in the air! Davinia almost screamed in cheers, but reminded herself why she needed to see where she was going. Cupping the flame against her heart, she tiptoed towards the temple. Getting closer, Davinia heard giggling and the source of noise: two young Vestalis, enjoying the company of each other in the privacy of the ruins.

While she sympathized with their escapades, Arpineia had to set an example by punishing their nocturnal explorations—otherwise others may grow lax and stumble on her nocturnal activities. Davinia found her sense of purpose return. Awakening with newfound energy after the best night in months, she made a note to compensate those adventurous two.

For all her progress, Davinia could just not replicate the feat. Figuring out fear and surprise must have been the trigger, Davinia set multiple traps and alarms to startle her. It refused to work; at some level she knew that they were coming, that she had prepared the traps. Once again a chasm opened before her, halting her advance. Giving up for the night, Arpineia sat on top of a pile of bronze tubes.

"You're doing it wrong." A voice resonated within her head, making her jump. Flames accompanied her, reacting to genuine fear. The invasive voice was strange, metallic and spoke in a strange and archaic dialect of Greek.

"Egeria? Is that you?" Davinia asked, looking around. As stupid as it was, she half-hoped to witness a visual manifestation of the nymph.

"Nothing like that. For your people, I am an oracle. You know me as the Cumaean Sibyl." The voice introduced herself. "I have been observing your progress and efforts. Inspiring, even if fruitless."

"Thank you?" Davinia said, not knowing what else to add. The Cumaen Sybil? That was quite the heavy name to just throw around. It was inherently suspicious. But Arpineia could not deny her reach—only her sense of propriety. Really, had she been creeping on her? And for how long?

"It is interesting that you have opened your mind to me. And like this. You are the only Triumphant that did not rebuff me."

Davinia was not so sure that she was worth calling a Triumphant. She was not feeling much of one.

"I have to say, there was also no other Triumphant that tried to accomplish so much on their own. A spark will never get lit on its own. It needs the flint of humanity and well-groomed, enriched life. You don't want or can get the help of others. Will you accept mine?"

She was not wrong. And there was no sense in hiding anything. How good was she as an oracle? There may not be any secrets she could keep hidden from the Sybil's visions. The walls that justified her isolation had been torn asunder by that realization. What did Davinia have to lose by accepting her patronage?

There was always the possibility of revenge if things took a turn for the worst.

"Alright. I will accept any advice you can give me."

Silence. Had the Sybil reneged on her offer?

"I have not seen enough of your Triumph to make an educated appraisal. However, I can say you have good instincts, Vestalis; you tried various strategies that may have worked if one had a more straightforward relationship with their Triumph."

"That is not very helpful." Davinia pointed out. "I don't even think that can apply to me. I do not understand what you mean."

"Correct. Your lack of familiarity reveals that you have a more complex relationship with fire. You are not just someone that uses fire as a tool. You are sparking with inner fire."

Arpineia pondered about that.

"So I stole the knowledge of flame, so even knowing how to invoke the flame is already accessing the Triumph. I am disrespecting the relationship I have with the flame by dealing with this as a problem I need to out-think. One moment, let me try something."

Davinia closed her eyes. She did not think about fire, flame or cinder. No aim or projecting something into the material realm. Instead, she focused on her knowledge as a Vestal. Arpineia realized the air flowing around her, the fuel that sustained her, on the igniting heat just under and over her skin. She put all of those together, reminded of how beautiful and terrifying the flame she stole from Olympus was. How precious. How human it became when she took it in. The Spark within ignited.

She was the Flame.

Eyes opened, a sphere of burning blue, orange and yellow spinning in front of her. Davinia cupped it into her hands, slowly but continuously breathing into it. The flames spread, nurtured. They covered the lines of her hands, resonating with the chaos on Davinia's spark, becoming one with her as a shining star.

It is only be first of many nights where she would shine. She promised herself that. Davinia made the sphere of flames float, spinning towards her own face.

"Impressive." The Sybil remarked."However, we will have to post-pone celebrations. You have a more urgent matter to attend to."

Davinia frowned, breaking her gaze away from the allure of fire. What was the oracle going on about? That was when she noticed her clothes where on fire. Arpineia throw herself to the floor, patting herself down as she tried to quench the flames. Without success, she panicked and undressed, throwing the smoldering cloth into the nearest container of sand.

Sweaty, dirty and still feeding the flame, Davinia called it a night. That had been magnificent progress, but she still lacked control. And there was the whole thing with Sybil. Sure, Arpineia felt ungrateful, but she had not really helped that much, had she? And what Sybil had to gain from her mastery of her Triumph.

The Sybil was right on a point: I was not respecting my relationship with myself and my Spark. It was like a massive weight had been pulled from over her shoulder, as she was honest with herself. Energy and relief injected every element of her routine, empowering her more than any Triumph.

She was a Triumphant because she felt Triumphant.

Her spark resonated across the entire House. Davinia's underlings wondered what had happened, carried by uplifting enthusiasm. They buried the Department of Innovation and Progress under proposals, all the ideas and plans they had been sitting on for months. Whatever genius had tormented Arpineia had been exorcized.

Davinia would not let those plans linger in obscurity any longer. To make up for lost time, she barged into the offices of her peers and pressured them to make collaborations happen. Things would get done. Finally, some damned progress! Well, to some degree. Most of the Class I Vestalis received Davinia with different degrees of courtesy and frustration, but it would take more than a clear possession by divine providence to convince them.

The Vestalis Maxima's statement declaring Arpineia Closest to Egeria was public knowledge. Everyone within the House had been skeptical about it; they had timed it to be a brilliant and politically convenient event. It must have been a planned attempt to lift the morale of Peoples and Senate, the answer to a dangerous invasion and the death of a consul.

It may have been a lie at some point, but they did not understand how truthful it had become. It didn't matter: the other Vestals would always see Davinia as propped up as Closest to the Gods and sharing on the same advice that had helped Numa Pompilius.

Well, what that mattered for Arpineia? They would think whatever they would think. Whistling, Davinia made her way back to the warehouse, setting targets for another training session. She was becoming increasingly comfortable as a Triumphant, her powers growing in intensity—even if they still lacked precision.

"Most people would be hesitant after experiencing what you did." Sybil interjected, unannounced as always."Specially when the source of hurt and trauma is so close to the means through which they could empower themselves back up. You are an impressive woman."

"Good of you to come by." Arpineia had been looking forward to talk with Sybil again."I want to try something different, and I wanted to have your support."

"You have my attention."

"I am getting used to these miracles. They work because I took the Flame within, and by establishing contact, correct?"

"With Vesta? That would be appropriate for someone of your position." Was that a joke? Sybil's tone was weird, and it was hard to get the intentions of a metallic ringing inside your head.

"Vesta, Jupiter or whatever; little matters who claimed ownership of the Flame. I stole it, it is mine, I am the claimant now. And every miracle is just my relationship with it, how good I am as a caretaker." Arpineia focused on the central idea. "How much of a Prometheus I am."

A moment processing. An answer.

"I can see how one would reach that conclusion."

"I will take that as cautious agreement." Davinia continued. "When I am using my Triumph, I don't think of myself as Davinia. At least, not only as Davinia. I see myself as the Torchbearer; something within stirs when I think that way."

"When you recognize your Spark, you get a glimpse of your Triumph and give it a name."

"Right." Whatever that was, she got it. "I embrace and feed the flame, and these abilities give me control. Not just control, absolute control. It hurts my clothing but not me. That is not how fire works; does this mean I have a fine-tuned regulation of the proprieties of fire?"

Another moment processing.

"Yes. The proprieties of your fire are ruled by more than material-dependent thermodynamics." The Sybil put determination behind this affirmation. "Do you have something particular in mind that you would like to try?"

"Yes, please! I want to control heat!" Following careful instructions by the oracle, Arpineia practiced the release of increasingly smaller flames, trying different techniques of heat dispersion and management. Sweating with the effort, Davinia mastered the tides of heat without igniting the air. Her Triumph called the flames within her, containing them safely while lightning and warming the places that Davinia desired.

"Curious priority, that one. Thermal control? That is not what most people would do if they had claimed that Triumph." Sybil commented.

"Why not?" Arpineia was surprised at the notion that this was an odd choice. "I mean, I get the allure of making a big show of splattering flame everywhere. But it is not very useful, is it? Specially in Rome, where those new buildings are built of kindling and hopeful thoughts. If I am to protect the Urbe I need to develop a subtle and versatile toolset."

"You intend to operate within the limits of Rome?" Sybil took notice. "Take a break for today. You need to learn a few more tricks."

Learning heat management was easy for someone with Vestal background; it expanded upon what they already knew. This was something else. Training continued, harder every day and with exhaustion throughout the night. The Triumph came off naturally but was increasingly demanding to sustain. Davinia burned, but she burned like a funerary pyre. Inefficient, wasting most of her energy on things she had to disperse. Arpineia droned through routine, barely able to muster energy. It was only through determination and the constant support from Sybil that Davinia pushed through; Davinia got less tired by each passing week and even her focus had improved.

Reward came from arduous work. With her head high, she received an intricate crown of light, resting uneasy on her black hair. Seamless, heat-less, all light. Arpineia pierced it with her hand; it was no warmer than room temperature.

Satisfied with her Triumphant life, Davinia returned to her daily routine. The consequences of the darkness of neglect surprised her; her quest for the light had cast a large shadow. The entire House was disappointed with Davinia. She had pushed projects and got everyone's hopes up, only to disappear for most of the day? And even when present, Arpineia kept going through rote work and meetings. A passive actor.

Davinia had a good explanation, but she could not tell them. Why not? Were they not an excellent support network? Perhaps. We will never know because Davinia convinced herself she could not share her Triumph with them.

She toned her exploration down, thirsty for new skills and challenges but trying to avoid completely ruining her priestly-academic life. Sybil kept her going through this trial too. They spent long hours discussing random musings, easing the frustrations and foolishness of living.

"What truly makes one a Triumphant?"

"A Triumphant is one that wields a Triumph." It was Sybil's sardonic response.

"Yes, but so are victorious commanders awarded one. And nobody in my family ever commanded or mustered troops."

"That is a case of parallel evolution, of one rite emulating the other." Sybil corrected. "Triumph is a moment of captured divinity; the Triumphant is an individual that is particularly attuned to it. Someone empowered to represent the anxieties and dreams of their people. And together they become that raw potential, given a mortal form and shaped by the individual."

"I can see how parallels would emerge, connecting the two. During a single day, the victorious general transcends its mortality and becomes a God, a Jupiter of Victory. A moment of apotheosis, of an incarnation of human potential, a bridge between celestial and mundane. Even the part about the mind of the people matches. What better reflects mass anxiety than the demands of communal defense?"

"You and that general, you are different and the same. But you are not uniquely talented individuals. There is no grand manifest destiny or blessed purpose." Sybil cast some reality upon Davinia's ego. "There is something else that turns you into more than a sum of atoms, biomolecules, cells, tissues and organs. That makes you human. It is your ties to each other and the world you inherited. All the culture, knowledge and tools, the ultimate charity of your species. That is how you become an individual of talent and great ideas; because you are part of a collective of grand talent and where all ideas bloom."

Arpineia frowned, most of the concepts flying over her head. Still, she soaked the meaning, ruminating over each word.

"So there is nothing special on what I did?" There was no frustration or disappointment on her words. Davinia was oddly comforted by that statement.

"Yes and no." Sybil replied. "You are not inherently special. But that frees you to be and to do something special. Which you did. Your actions were special."

"And that opened my Spark to Triumph."

"Perhaps." Sybil admitted her ignorance. "I have seen it happen many times, but I am no expert. There are things that go beyond matter that unbound from material conditions. Triumphs are something like that, what some of my sister's wards call platonic entities. Something that casts a shadow on this world. Which is misguided; those Triumphs may be free from materiality but come from it. It is only the way of the cosmos that they eventually return to it in the form of Triumphant. Its limits are not the hymns of some supernal plane but the imagination and creativity of humanity. Myths, legends, whatever means people distill and used to transmit ideas, dreams and ambitions. Everything can become a Triumph, if these would-be-Triumphant endure the trials and danger.

A cold shiver climbed down Davinia's spine.

"What sort of danger? Every Triumphant had such terrifying awakenings?" Aeneid, and even that power-mad Quirinus. They all had fought a secret war of them own.

"Mortal danger. And much, much worse." Sybil continued on her neutral metallic monotone. "It is the most dangerous endeavor a human can embark on. You are extending your hands to cosmic enormity. Something that your species is only supposed to shoulder as one. Remember, all of humanity created all the ideas, and that is what these are. All-surrounding, all-consuming. You cannot do it alone; you always need someone with you. Ideally, experienced Triumphants and people well-educated in mysteries. To climb Olympus or descend into the Underworld without rope is nothing but suicide of the Self."

No fitting answers to this moment of somber realization. Unsatisfied, Arpineia burst in hysterical laughter.

"I should not be! I should not have done it on my own!"

"Oh, you think you were alone?" The Sybil remarked. "Most curious."

Davinia stopped laughing.

"So, if a Triumphant filters the Triumph and anchors it, would it be possible for the same mythic event or heroes to manifest in different ways? Different interpretations of the same, for lack of a better word, shared truth? And if that is the case, can one Triumphant change the Triumph itself?"

"All of this can happen, all of those have happened. A few of them even made the whole point of their Triumphant nature to facilitate such transformations. Whoever, before you get any ideas, I remind you that your spark is always in contact with something bigger. You are a drop in an ocean. How much you think you can push back, breach limits, and impose change before being fundamentally transformed?"

Advice wasted on Arpineia.

Fire lifts all egos.

Arpineia kept returning to the warehouse, doing some training but never challenging herself. Until one fateful day, where she stood by the entrance, looking at the blue skies above. She wanted to try something crazy, something that required open space. Davinia was fortunate; near the vegetable gardens of the House laid wide spaces for the (all-too common) rebuilding efforts. She stood there, looking in every direction, rotating over her own axis. She was well-hidden, except from Sybil.

"What are you trying to do?" Sybil inquired, curiosity ringing metallic.

For the first time since they met, Davinia silenced Sybil's voice. She looked into herself, isolating her mind from worldly distractions and turning inward.

She was the Flame. She was the air she breathed; she was her body, sustained and ignited. Made lighter, powerful, capable of rising to the skies. To go even higher and spreading her brilliant magnificence to any corner of the world where she could burn. To see herself repeated in an infinity of sparks.

She was the Flame of Prometheus.

What was earthly gravity to contain her?

Davinia's feet left the ground. Arpineia slowly drift up. Promethia giggled as a crown of light emerged from her brow, spreading up to her arms. Her eyes shone, purple fire replacing the whites as iris reddened. They shone with pure radiance, so bright that she could barely see anything. Even closing the eyes did nothing to dim the light.

She propelled herself even higher

The giggling turned into crystalline laughter. Opening her eyes, Davinia looked at the Urbe sprawling under her.

"I do not know if I should admonish or praise you." The Sybil interjected. "Either way, I cannot disagree that the results are impressive."

"Why are you so worried?" Davinia spread her arms, delighted as she was with the wind lifting her up, dancing and toying with her hair and tickling Sparkle.

"How much did you give your Triumph to accomplish this? Have you considered what I told you? It is beautiful to dance on the beach, but beware the tide."

Arpineia could barely think about Sybil's words, spinning to contemplate the expanding vistas, the vanishing horizons that had been opened to her. Something felt wrong within. Maybe it was safer to call it a day.

Davinia made a discreet landing, satisfied with herself. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise, insisting that something was not right. Alert but finding no reason to be alarmed, Arpineia returned to the House. People turned their heads as she walked by, haunted and horrified expressions on their faces. They soon became screams and whispers. One of the youngest Class III stopped in front of Arpineia and dropped her books. This was freaking Davinia. She disappeared to the side corridors used by the servants to move loads, hoping to cause less chaos while she looked for the source of the disruption. Speeding up, she entered the first room with a mirror she found.

There she was, looking back at herself. The softest equestrian class traitor and the second cutest Vestalis. Davinia pinched her cheek and arranged her clothing. Her hair was a bit of a mess and there were insects on the rim of her sleeves. Was that all? Yeah, that must have been it. She looked fine. Honestly, she looked better than most days.

Davinia was so enraptured looking for answers on her reflection that she was unaware of the slave approaching her. Grabbing her by the wrist and spinning her around, confusing her with his forceful boldness. The man was tall and muscled, vaguely familiar: someone she had seen passing by. Not a man the Vestalis had shared confidence and trust with. It paralyzed her for a moment, as the servant examined her with loving, worried eyes.

"Servilla, what are you doing here? And why are you wearing the clothing of the mistresses? You know what they do to those that impersonate Vestals." He grew paler upon noticing the mirror on Davinia's hands. "No, don't take that! What we have been taking is enough; they will notice if that goes missing."

The man tightened his hold on her. Davinia's Spark grew restless and harnessed the fire. A strong localized jet of heat offered the man the merciful gift of unconsciousness.

Still baffled, Davinia cowered in a corner, trying to remain unseen.

" I was afraid something like this would happen." Sybil again. "It is incredible that even your mistakes and accidents are as wonderful as they are unexpected, Vestalis."

"Dammit Sybil, can you for once avoid meandering? Tell me what is happening!"

"If I am to speculate, I would say that you gave too much of your Name and Spark to the Triumph when you flew. You seem to have resonated with something else. Inspiration? Wind? I don't know. I know that you have touched and were touched by the sparks of others. That leaves a mark, and now everyone sees you as something different when they are exposed to your unbridled Triumph."

"I can use that to my advantage." Arpineia declared with feigned confidence, ignoring the cold invading her heart. It grew in horror the more she thought about it. "Wait, what is this about an unbridled Triumph? Isn't a Triumphant's ever bound to their Triumph?"

"Not actively, that would be very dangerous to one's survival and identity. Let it go, do not keep the whole thing coiled around your Spark. Do it now, before it goes out of control. Hurry, you need something that reminds you of your mortal nature, an anchor to everything that is Arpineia."

She knew exactly what to use.

Distorting air and creating a path of ominous fog, Davinia found her way back to her room. Opening a heavy coffer, she pulled a red wool rectangle.

"A military focale?" Sybil wondered.

"It belonged to my brother." Arpineia wrapped it around her own neck. She could feel her heartbeat slowing down, a calm permeating her chest. "It is a permanent reminder of why I am Arpineia."

"Are you yourself, Arpineia?" Sybil seemed worried.

"Soon." Davinia picked an old sewing needle and smuggled it on the scarf. "I need something else. Since how others see me is being warped, I need a reminder of how society would rather see me."

"There you go. Remember, one day you will be dead."

"Memento Mori." Davinia lost her voice with those words. She broke into tears.

"What is wrong, Arpineia?"

"I cannot do this." Davinia lamented. "Not this, not again. Sybil, I need to know this is real. You. You are real and not some delusion."

Silence. Davinia feared the worst and wept loudly.

"I am as real as you are. My embrace may be cold, but you will find it when you come into my cave. I promise."