Sylvestus Vol II: The Rise

By Mollie Webb

"You are mine, Sylvestus... You have always been mine." Nahvo'que has been freed. Were he to come into his full power now, all life on the island of Anteria would be destroyed, but while he remains weakened by the bindings of his siblings, there is hope. The balance of life and death teeters on the one person who can give Nahvo'que that power, the Roman officer Sylvestus Atrox Nigrum. Sylv is a master manipulator, a con artist, always in control. He came to Anteria to finish his plans, but the island and its inhabitants have proven a difficult mark; his own secrets prowl from the shadows, while adversaries old and new close in around him. In the meantime, he is haunted by the spectre of the fiery tiger, the God of Death he has unwittingly released - Nahvo'que promises infinite power over all life on the island, but at a cost even Sylv may be unwilling to pay. He is determined to see his own plans through and escape, the fate of the island be damned. Yet as secrets come to light, enemies draw close, and his world crumbles around him, Sylv may have no choice but to make a deal with this entity. He is already damned to fall. Does not power make damnation a little more interesting?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667192253

Book preview

SYLVESTUS

Vol II:

The Rise

Tatiana AS Webb

Ember Fell Publications

2021

Layers of intrigue unfurl from the shadows, and a host of arrestingly human characters pit their wits and wills against one another in the richly-painted setting of Anteria. Monster turns on monster as Webb shows us that no matter how things have gone before, there is always further to fall. Leave your heart behind, because it will not survive this.

Valentin Foley

This book is nothing short of remarkable … the author has masterfully woven a story that you will not be able to tear yourself away from!

Samantha O’Farrelly

Characters you’ll love to hate, and ones you’ll fall in love with; mystery, magic, and electrifying twists you’ll never see coming. Webb has weaved a tapestry of conflict, intrigue, and dark beauty, complex and driven by ambition. Sylvestus is a figure who, just when you thought you figured him out, surprises you in ways that keep you wanting more. Intricately written and richly detailed, this is a novel to stir the senses.

Gansey Watkins

Copyright © 2021 by Tatiana AS Webb

The author asserts their right to this work

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, including taping, photocopying and recording, without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

By the Public Lending Right 1979 Chapter 10, this book should be made available for public lending in UK libraries.

First Printing: 2020

ISBN 978-1-6671-9225-3

Ember Fell Publications

www.facebook.com/Sylvestus

NotAPygmyOwl.blogspot.com

To all those who wish

to be forgiven

SYLVESTUS VOL II: THE RISE

I

"Minerva's tits, what... Is it?"

It's so...

Ugly.

I don't know, I think it has a sort of... Appeal. Like an urchin you can't help but give your coin to.

Giving coin to urchins is why you're still wearing those boots, Cyrenaicus.

"Leave my immune's boots out of this please, Velleius. But I'm afraid I am with you on this one. It rather reminds me a gawping Camillus. Or a demonic baby."

The others snorted quietly, and the... Thing swivelled its round head toward Sylv. Its huge orange eyes occupied most of its face, its pupils so small and its ears so large that it could be seen as nothing except perpetually alarmed. It clung to the stick which had been provided in its cage with spindly hands, huge pads on the fingers giving it an unnerving spongy grip, and stared at the men around it with that alarmed reverence. Other than its head and hands, it might have resembled the ungodly child of a monkey and a rat.

Very suddenly, it began to piss.

This is why we don't take things out of the jungle, Sylv said distastefully, nose wrinkling.

Ironic coming from the owner of the Jou'que prin— Velleius started, right as Capito looked over from the bar, saw the demonic monkey-rat pissing on his table, and let out a deafening bellow of rage.

Pompeius scrambled over to snatch up the cage, his narrow fine face bright pink, and the others snorted with laughter.

Get that fucking thing out! Capito roared, and the monkey-rat-baby chittered with panic and scrambled in the bottom of its small cage. Pompeius shoved it back toward its owner with a grimace. Enough pissing things in my bar! Everything you lot bring in pisses, shits, or vomits these days!

So do all of your other patrons, an optio cackled, and Capito swatted at him. As a cheerful argument started, Sylv signalled his goodbye to Velleius and slipped from the Tiger's Jaw Inn.

It was almost spring, but the bitter chill of winter still held Æsonia in its grip, even in the middle of this bright day. As they stepped outside, Romulus huffed and shook, puffing out his thick cream fur. The street was relatively busy, but the mood was light and no-one except the usual careful eyes were paying Sylv any mind, so he permitted himself to huff back at Rom conversationally, then rubbed behind his right ear until the dog groaned.

There was a vendor of hot sweets a little up the street; while talking to her, Sylv could keep a clear view of the door of the Tiger's Jaw. Sylv made light smiling conversation as he pulled on his gloves and buckled his cloak tight, asking after the woman's husband and sons, while she threatened to knit him thicker gloves and cooed at Rom over the edge of the stall.

After some time, the door of the Jaw opened. A skinny, stooped figure bundled in oversized woollens shuffled out, picked its way carefully down the slippery steps, and then made its anxious way down the street, head bowed and shoulders drawn in.

Sylv promised that if they got another cold snap before Flora blessed them with spring he would take one of her husband's old pairs of gloves, then bought a hot honey cake and was on his way.

He had a patrol in a half-hour, so he followed the stooped figure's journey through the town, though they had disappeared into the crowds before he reached the winding hill road to the fortress. They weren't difficult to track, and he overtook them halfway up the hill and made his way to the stables.

Vas Letale's breath misted in huffs in front of her silky sleet nose as Sylv groomed and tacked her, and he paused to murmur platitudes and run his fingers through her black mane. Rom lay at the edge of the stall, panting and relaxed though he kept his gaze focused on the door.

As Sylv tightened the last buckle and straightened, the faintest whisper played across the back of his neck.

His gag reflex jerked. Vas pulled back, whickering uncertainly, and Sylv swallowed down the wet weight in his throat and focused on the feel of her silver pelt beneath his fingers, the smell of horse and hay in the air, the sensation of the boots on his feet and the cloak on his shoulders. Rom's focus was on the door still, and he hadn't turned; Sylv caught his attention with a sharp sound, and then twisted his hand and pointed forward. The dog rose, shook so that his thick cream fur puffed out and his ears flapped loudly against his head, and trotted out of the stables, ahead of his master and the horse.

There were eight munifex waiting when Sylv reached the western gate, even Pulex. He didn't look much better than he had when he had slunk out of the Tiger's Jaw a half-hour earlier, but at least he had most of his uniform and weapons this time. If the others were disappointed that their compatriot had avoided another flogging, they hid it decently. They'd get their show soon enough. All in time - Sylv had a bet with Scaurus to win, after all.

It had been well over a month since the last encounter with a Jou'que party by a Roman patrol, or indeed since any recorded attack on the settlers or the troops. Graecus had led his raids of the Thuleqatl, but otherwise the winter had been relatively conflict-free; construction on the second fortress in Thulegara had begun, discussions had begun to turn toward expanding the Roman frontier to the grassy plains of Namaculus, and for now they simply patrolled the same routes through the dense forests of Æsonia and Inuquia. Even in the town, things seemed to have settled down since the now-distant uproar of the autumn. Aemilius had left on a ship in the middle of the night, and Sylv had made sure that he never made it to land. Camillus had very abruptly been transferred to Brittania. Between them, Sylv and Capito had bought up the contracts of the merchants and tradesmen they left behind. Other lupinaria had sprung up in Aemilius' absence, but while it was not ideal, Sylv knew that it couldn't be helped. The baths which now belonged exclusively to Capito were bringing in a truly sinful amount of coin, and Sylv was receiving his healthy cut. Within the town, trade was calm; in the outlying villages, safety seemed for the first time in years to be a promise; and in the forests, the world waited for something to break.

As always, they marched down the hill after Sylv's inspection of the munifex, and into the forest. The trees sealed immediately overhead; it remained cool for the first two kilometres or so of road, before the atmosphere grew warm and damp. They took the eastern path, curving away from Namaculus and into Inuquia proper. The trees became dense, the undergrowth so thick on either side of the road that it would take fire and a scythe to break through. It was hard to believe that a few kilometres south-west the air was crisp and dry with the last clutches of winter.

The birds sang all the way along their patrol route. Sylv almost found himself praying that their song would suddenly cut out, that he would feel the air suddenly pitch and the temperature drop as a cool rush of rain crashed through his throat.

But the birds continued to sing and call, and just as they reached the furthest point of their route and turned toward the Æsonia cliffs, he felt the whisper again at the back of his neck.

Sylv did not turn his head. He tightened his hands in the reins to resist the urge to swat at his neck, then forced himself to relax his hands as Vas broke gait in nervous response. This time, Rom did notice. He stuck close to the horse's side for the rest of the march.

They came across nothing of note as they finished through the town and back up the hill, and Sylv dismissed the soldiers quickly, though he stayed to watch Pulex stumble back toward his bunk. He had to last another four and a half months. Hm. He would, though it made the tickle on the back of Sylv's neck intensify.

Not tacking, grooming, and stabling his own horses had been one of Sylvestus Equus Eros' fatal mistakes, but loathe as he was to leave her with a stablehand, the whisper down Sylv's spine now was becoming unbearable. So, he passed her off with one gentle scratch under the saddle and strode toward the nearest storage room beside the stables.

"Praeside," he snapped to Rom, and the dog immediately tensed with readiness outside the door. Sylv shut it behind him, then reached over his shoulder.

The moth's dusty cold body crumpled in his fist. Sylv pulled it from where it had nested in the hood of his cloak and tossed it to the ground.

It laughed as it fell, the crack of bones snapping beneath a boot, the rustle of a corpse dragged through dead leaves. It became the tiger before it hit the ground.

Remus, Nahvo'que chided, and Sylv straightened, his stone face set, eyes impenetrable silver-steel. The tiger filled the small space, as it had Mensikam'ajayi's chamber; it stretched, flexing its claws along the dirt floor and leaving gouged tracks as its tail swished from side to side. The fur along its shoulders prickled, skin creasing over bone as muscle flexed. Sylv had seen tigers before in the amphitheatre of Roma, grander than lions but still filthy, scared, sick from months aboard a ship before they were thrown in with the slaves and gladiators. Nahvo'que in this form was nothing like them: he was full, his fur thick, his muscles strong. He moved not like a carnivore caught in a cage, but undeniably his posture was that of an animal. Wild. Sylv might have thought this was simply how tigers looked in the wild - certainly, even in this dim cupboard he could see the bestial horror of Capito's story, the tiger he had hunted with a handful of soldiers as it picked them off one by one, the tiger for whose skull the Inn had been named - were it not for two things.

First, the tiger glowed. Or, no, that was not right; the bright cold light from outside shone in through the cracks in the door now, and Nahvo'que did not produce his own light - he did not burn bright and fiery as he had in Sylv's dreams months before - but he was caught in another glow. As if there were a bonfire on all sides, the light of which shone on nothing but the tiger, its thick orange fur, its white ruff, its snaking black stripes... But not its eyes.

That was the second thing. The great bear, the monstrosity Sylv had blinded and Graecus Esearex had killed, Thule'que, Rest or War depending on which interpreter repeated her name, had bellowed in a voice that had knocked Sylv's genius from his body, looked into his eyes and sent him tumbling into a crack which had been torn in the earth beneath him. It had been an illusion; the ground had never split open to swallow him. But her eyes the colour of volcanic rock splitting open had promised his genius that this was what awaited it.

Nahvo'que's voice slithered down Sylv's throat, a cold dry tongue, the fingers of a corpse reaching into his lungs and deadening them to ash. And his eyes...

Smoke rising above a fire. A fire which consumed, destroyed, caught man and beast in its hungry tongue and crackled their flesh, blackened their bones, cracked open their rojuck and sent it cascading into the sky. Stars and a pure midnight sky consumed by smoke and sparks and a million final breaths fading into nothing.

Sylv had learnt to keep his eyes fixed just above those of the tiger. Years of screaming awake and steadying himself in the mirror had taught him to seal off the silver-steel pool in his stomach. This was no different.

Except that the tiger came when he was awake, too.

Why don't you want them to see me, Remus? the tiger cooed, its tone somehow suggesting a pout even as its voice whispered through the tattered flags of a battlefield. Think how wonderful it would be for them to fear you so. No more assassins. No more poison. No more meetings and letters and sums. You have seen what my power can do, and that was only a taste...

It rose from its stretch, luxurious and resplendent in its flickering yellow-orange light, and pushed through the cramped space to rub against Sylv's legs. It was too large to move freely; its waving tail sent a leaning rake clattering into a pile of buckets, even as its shoulder bumped loudly into the rickety door. On the other side of the door, Sylv sensed Rom stiffen. The tiger's weight was too real, the texture of its fur and the mass of its muscle pushing against his waist.

What particular joy do you gain from hiding in my cloak all day, whispering in my ear? Sylv asked coolly. The tiger easily shifted its weight to knock him off balance, but Sylv had been prepared and took a step back so that the tiger stumbled before it could right itself. While I might have believed you found some fascination with Roman affairs months ago, it has been far too long now, and you complain far too much for me to believe it. Surely you have scheming to do elsewhere?

I just enjoy your company, Remus, the tiger purred. It paused in its slow circling of him to raise its gaze directly to his. Sylv carefully avoided it, tilting his head back to snort a short laugh.

Following me around won't make me move any faster. You are bound to me, Death. You are my tool. And like a slave finishing his indenture, you will be freed when you have served your purpose. I allow you to follow me if you wish, so long as you remain hidden from other men's eyes, but try my patience and I may tighten my restrictions on your freedom.

The slightest snarl flickered across the tiger's face; its whiskers flared as black lips peeled back across yellowed fangs, and Sylv had to fight to suppress a shiver. Then it smoothed its hiss back into calm, took another step, and in an instant had shifted back into the dusty dappled moth. With a few lazy beats of palm-sized wings still illuminated by that other light, it drifted past his face to the crack above the door, then pushed its way through.

I'm just making sure nothing happens to you before you can come through on that, it purred just before it vanished. If you won't take my power, I need to at least make sure no-one else interferes...

And then it was gone, and the cold sickness that had been resting in the back of Sylv's throat for the past two hours finally shifted free with his next exhale.

Four months and two weeks. It wasn't just Pulex who had to last that long.

Sylv would, though. He always did. He only needed to make sure that everything else worked out on time.

He righted the tower of fallen buckets, picked up one, and slung a coil of rope over his shoulder.

Rom looked up gratefully as soon as he opened the door but did not rise until Sylv twisted his hand and lifted his fingers in permission. He would leave the miscellany somewhere they'd be cleaned up later – it was less suspicious to emerge from a locked cupboard carrying things - and then finish his day in the principium. Few people realized how much of Romanum imperium ran on paperwork.

II

Anteria was a rich place of life crammed together, more diverse in its forms than any island of its size Sylv had ever known. The differences between the soaring white peaks of the Vishadi and the rolling rain-swept hills of Æsonia, for instance, or between the rocky slopes of Thulegara and the dusty plains of Namaculus, were more obvious than between the forests of Inuquia and Navokus. Having lived on their border for months, however, Sylv was coming to recognize them. The trees of Inuquia stretched high, the air wet and green with every breath; comparatively, Navokus was low, sprawling, dark and always too quiet. It was cold when the next dawn illuminated Sylv's estate in silvery fog.

Though dawn came earlier every day, winter had not let up its hold; Sylv still rose long before the sun, sweating and shaking, dagger clutched in one hand. By the time he had bathed, taken breakfast, fed Rom, and saddled Vas, the air had begun to warm, but when they emerged from the trees of Inuquia into the town twenty minutes later, the temperature seemed to plummet again, and abruptly the heavens opened into heavy rain.

Rom had been on edge all morning, so Sylv kept an eye out as they made their way up the hill to the fortress. Whatever Nahvo'que was, Rom reacted badly to him, never responding to him as he would an assassin or concrete threat, but always becoming jumpy around moth, tiger, or whatever other form he took. Vas was as likely to jump at a monkey overhead as she was a burning tiger in front of her, so that was a less useful source of judgement - though, Sylv considered, if it were the monkey-rat-baby optio Nolus had brought in yesterday, Sylv couldn't blame her.

But they went unbothered by all such threats (be they tiger, assassin, or monkey-rat-baby) all the way into the fortress, to the stables, and then, just an hour or so after the true break of dawn, to the gaol.

Iratus Divites was waiting in the anteroom. He bowed when Sylv came in, casting Rom the same nervous glance he always did and playing with the edge of his tunic. From the sullen munifex on the docks on that first day, he had matured in the past few months to a... Well, still a sullen munifex most of the time, but someone very different when he was around Sylv. If he wavered, he need simply glance across to his master and immediately he would again straighten his spine and harden his eyes.

But now, his hands fidgeted anxiously with his tunic. That could mean a few things. Sylv was mostly sure he knew which it was, but it never paid well to run off with an assumption.

"Salve, optio Atrox Nigrum," he greeted, which was a touch more formal than usual.

"Salve, Divites, Sylv smiled warmly, as if he hadn't noticed, and Divites glanced again at Rom before quickly fixing his gaze on Sylv's collar. She is well this morning?"

Divites gave a guilty start. If Sylv had any particular faith in the gods, he would have asked them to bless the boy and his open face. Well, Sylv supposed he did have faith in at least one God now, but he had not yet found any indication that Nahvo'que tended toward blessing thieves or their faces.

Thankfully, Divites had spent enough time around Sylv that he managed to keep his voice relatively innocent. "Oh- yes, Ser, she- ahem. The Jou'que prisoner is still coming along very well. She was polite this morning. The weekly report from the gaol guards has been delivered to centurion Calidius, I believe."

His anxiety shone like a beacon through his face. While it was tempting to leave the boy in the momentary torture of awkward silence, Sylv didn't want to spook him too much this early in the morning, so he probed more gently.

Thank-you, Divites. I hope your stipend is satisfactory? I would like you to continue working with her in the coming months; though her grasp of the language and culture is improving, I do not wish her to fall out of practice.

Oh, yes, Ser! Um- could I- um, it would perhaps be better if - may I speak to you later, Ser?

Of course. Is all well?

Yes, Ser.

Good. Is the Tiger's Jaw satisfactory, or—?

No, I... Would prefer somewhere more private. Apologies, Ser. I- it doesn't matter, I don't want to—

I completely understand, Divites. Scaurus would have in that moment laid a condescending hand on the boy's shoulder; Sylv refrained. Neither of them did well with such shows of pointless physical contact. Instead, he smiled a twist of stone-carved lips, quiet enough for the two of them even in the empty room. "So many eyes and ears, no matter how good the mulsum is. You are free this afternoon?"

Yes, Ser.

Good. I will be leash-training Vas when I am done with Scaurus' paperwork. Find me when you are free.

Yes, Ser. Thank-you, Ser.

"Munifex Divites, dismissed. Ave atque Vale."

"Ave atque Vale, optio Atrox."

The door closed behind Divites as he exited into the rain. The gaol was suddenly cold, cloying, close. There was another door at the bottom of the short stone steps which led to the cells, a duty guard posted on the other side, but even in the corridor of cells it was the quietest gaol Sylv had ever known. They had taken other prisoners in the past few months, but after interrogation they were generally sold off or sent to the arena for entertainment. Sylv's reputation as an interrogator and his centurion's position had granted him exclusive access to Lavikogwen'chulicatl when she had been captured, though her fascination with him and refusal to speak to other soldiers until Sylv had introduced Divites had certainly helped. He kept the honour of first meeting with any captured Anterians. It was something else to keep balanced, a constant effort with a distant reward: he needed to keep Lavi and her knowledge an exclusive resource.

Well used to this routine now, Rom sat down beside Musca, who saluted sharply and smirked as Sylv came in. All clean and quiet, Ser, Musca reported. Well, cleaner than Pronus Pulex, at least.

Sylv barked an ugly laugh in response. The wonderful thing about Musca was how utterly intolerable he was as a person. Gaol duty may be insufferably dull, but it was relatively dry, not too cold if one brought a hat, and low in fatalities compared to patrols. The only thing Musca missed out on by being posted in the gaol regularly was opportunities to bully Pulex, and those were certainly not in short supply when he was off-duty.

Musca moved without being asked to open the cell door - Sylv gave no motion of thanks, for Musca was not that sort of lackey, though the munifex smirked knowingly as he closed the door behind his optio, Rom taking a patient seat beside him in the hallway.

Telling to me about Roma.

"Salve, Lavikogwen'chulicatl."

While it was tempting to be pedantic about her grammar, Sylv knew it was not worth the time and the argument it would cause; at least they could communicate without Divites now, and if she was continuing to mess up her verb tenses on purpose, then it gave her a misguided sense of self-satisfaction he could exploit in other ways.

"Surely Divites taught you the great history of our noble Romanum imperium?" he asked congenially. Lavi spat onto the cold stones. The months in the gaol had softened her hard muscles, sharpened the angle of her shoulders and hips. The clay had long-since flaked from her hair, and it fell lank and unwashed around her scarred face - the gouges made by Rom's fangs had healed, but in the cold damp of the gaol, barely. She was sat against the far wall, apparently enjoying the cold dawn light shining weakly through the high, narrow strip of window.

"Not of Roh-muh-num im-peer-ee-uhm. Not of hiss-tory. Telling to me of Roma." Her dark eyes glittered. Always, they talked like this: her back to the window, so that she was never more than a silhouette, half-woman and half-beast, eyes glittering like a cat's in the bushes.

The city?

She only cocked her head to the side, but Sylv took it as confirmation. He sighed, swept his cloak under him, and sat against the far wall. The cell would have been large enough for her to take a few strides back and forth, were she not chained to the window – the size of the cell was a precaution for the sake of her interrogators, rather than a luxury.

Roma the city is the heart of Roma the Empire, Roma the... he waved his hand, letting a scowl crease his brow as if struggling for a way to sum up the troublesome concept. The idea. It stinks of shit, it's overcrowded, most everyone lives in poverty and filth looking forward to those frequent days when the streets run with the blood of slaughtered pigs sacrificed in festivals...

A rueful smile crossed his face.

"I would say, You'd hate it, because it is a place all of stone and crowd and those fundamental Roman things you despise - but that is its magic, I suppose. The legend - there are many legends, really, but the one I've always felt speaks of Roma best - goes that all of it was founded when a girl raped by a god cast her unwanted sons into the river, and they were raised by a she-wolf, suckled like cubs until they were strong wild men, strong as their holy father and wild as their suckling mother. They drew others to them, other strong ones, other wild ones, the criminals and bastards cast out from other towns. Exiles, criminals, barbarians, drawn together, kidnapping women from the civilised towns around them, making their home in the swampy lands of what would one day be Italia. But then they fought about where they should build a templum to honour their father, and the stronger brother, Romulus, struck down Remus. And where his brother fell, the brother with whom he had shared the she-wolf's milk, Roma was born. That was the birth of the city, the Empire, the idea- again that contemptuous twist of the lip, and Lavi twisted her lip as though she enjoyed the joke too, though Sylv doubted she understood -and thus it remained. Founded on a girl's pain, yet we celebrate their father. Founded on a she-wolf, yet we use lupa as a word of hatred. Founded on those too cruel and broken for the rest of the world, yet we celebrate our ancestry. Founded on the blood of a brother betrayed, yet we speak not his name except in passing."

Sylv felt a tickle at the back of his neck that made him momentarily pause. The gentlest frown creased between his brows, catching Lavi's attention - but no: Nahvo'que had never come into the cell, had never even expressed interest in Lavi before, despite her devotion to him. And if the moth were crawling up Sylv's shoulder now, she would react more than tilting her head as if to ask for more story, would she not?

He swatted away some invisible mote of dust to excuse his pause, then purposely smoothed his features again and continued.

"I despise the hypocrisy. The cruelty. But the city itself... There is something fascinating, enrapturing, about the place. About the sun setting on the Forum. About the crowds of people who can be seen from the Palatino. About the ebb and flow of bodies like birds on the water in and out of templa and markets. Roma is too loud for me, too filthy, too... Much. But even I find myself drawn back in thought there. Everything we stand on, we do, in all of the known world, comes from a loyalty to those hypocritical ideals, and the city itself is the life-bleeding heart of that: all too much, too Roman, too loud, too religious, too violent... And an absolute marvel of humanity. You are here in a cell today because of Romanum imperium, Lavikogwen'chulicatl. I am here because of orders from that great awful city. And all of us, because a god... Bedded a mortal girl, forced onto her two sons, and when she cast out these children of hate they were raised by a wild thing, and they drew together all others who had been hated, and then they destroyed one another... And then I named my dog after the bastard god-son king, because he would never see the city again, and it amused me to do so.

"You feign disinterest in Roma's history, its politics, but those things are Roma, you see. The city breathes it. A city is its people, a people is its history, a history... Who knows?"

He shrugged. Doubtful she had gotten more than a vague idea of what he'd said, but it seemed to have sparked some intrigue in her, at least. She was in a good mood today. Lavi was as temperamental as a summer storm - for one whose days were monotonous and controlled entirely by Sylv, she seemed determined to have a different mood every time he visited. At least she hadn't successfully throttled a soldier recently.

Seelvestios was a not to be born in Roma, she said knowledgably, and Sylv raised an intentional brow.

Actually, I was. Though I spent my early years out of its walls on my family's estate, and only returned to the city proper to take over—

Seelvestios Ayterox Neegrom is to have been so, she scolded, but what of Seelvestios Yaynos Catuhlos?

His stomach clenched sick and immediate. Like it always did. Like a sudden bright flare of light spiking bile during a migraine. But his face was impassive.

The first time she had said the name, he had smiled condescendingly and told her to listen better. The second, he had brought in a Thuleqatl man and had him tortured in front of her. The third, he had put his hand around her throat and squeezed until he had to force himself to let go. The fourth, he had tauntingly given her a name in return - Kahickuen, the one thing he could say that would make her hackles rise as much as that name made him sick to the stomach. Divites had once overheard her speak the name to the Thuleqatl, and though Sylv had yet been unable to parse its meaning, it always brought about her anger.

But she always said the Roman name again. Always asked again. She knew it was his point of leverage; to do any of those things was to show the weakness. She could force him to draw his sword, to lock her window, to cut her food, with just three butchered names, Sylvestus Iaiunus Catulus - and the punishment was never enough. Ironic; in her position, despite their infinite differences, he would have done the same.

There again, that light in her eyes, that twist to her smile. In chains, in a cell, always in technicality just an ill mood of Sylv's away from crucifixion - but not a prisoner.

Oh, how it made him want to put his sword through her stomach. How she knew it. How it made her smile.

So, as he had learnt to do only so recently, Sylv went against every instinct he had. Which was odd, because going against instinct was what he had been doing his entire life.

Sylvestus Iaiunus Catulus was born in Macedonia, he lied.

Lied. Why should it be a lie? Sylvestus Iaiunus Catulus felt no more real now than a lie himself.

At first, control of the dogs had been impossible, their fangs too large, their patience too thin. He had learnt how to make them his. At first, the numbers and letters on the page had been confusing, incomprehensible, frustrating. He had learnt how to make them his. At first, the faces in the market had been hidden to him, the inflections of voice meaningless and the light touches people gave each other sickening. He had learnt how to make them his.

Dogs, horses, letters, fortunes, people - Lavi was just another thing to master. It was as new for him to shift silver-steel into unwilling acquiescence as it had once been to turn twenty as into twenty aurei, but he had mastered everything else, why not this?

And at least this way he didn't have to dirty his hand on her face.

Fighting down the sudden odd sick tightness in his stomach, Sylv rolled his neck and smiled.

My turn. Tell me about where you were born.

And just like that, Lavi broke into a broad grin. As if he had never lied. As if she had never asked. As if silver-steel had never flashed in the light.

Such was the way: she made him uncomfortable; he brushed it off; she gave him information on Roma's enemies, her people; and he kept her alive.

She began to tell him animatedly about her village, her mother and father and the warriors who had raised her, the Pwengtua - they stumbled over the translation for a while before settling on wisewoman, though Lavi seemed dissatisfied with the Latinisation - who had constantly scolded her for her fiery temper and recklessness, the ritual of first song, first hunt, first... She went enigmatically quiet, and Sylv's eyes narrowed, though he did not push.

And meanwhile, behind silver-steel, the mirror thought of Roma, and Macedonia, and an estate in the south-east of Italia where the peasants toiled the land for those who owned it, and a man and his son raised his master's dogs.

III

Divites found Sylv, as promised, in the stable yard with Vas a few hours later. It was mid-Februaris, and the air of Leralania and the fortress was grey and sharp - in it, Vas Letale glowed. Her muscles bunched and smoothed under an immaculate sleet pelt which shifted and shone every shade from obsidian to ivory under the glaring white sky, and in front of her sloping face, her breath sighed itself into clouds.

"Prohebe," Sylv commanded as Divites entered. Both horse and soldier responded immediately, drawing to a sharp stop with a neat click of hoof and boot. Divites' already pink cheeks darkened further as he realised, and he quickly shuffled forward again. He was more than he had been before Sylv arrived, taller of shoulder, bolder of gaze, but at this exact moment he didn't look it. His hands flirted with the edge of his tunic and his eyes were low. As always, he gave Rom a wide berth.

When Sylv did not ask him the matter, Divites cleared his throat.

"Incede." With another sharp click of hoof on dirt, Vas set off into a walk again. Sylv slowly circled with her, leash held comfortably as his silver-steel eyes quietly analysed every step.

Divites began to clear his throat a second time, then evidently thought better of it and instead mumbled, Uhm...

"Curre."

"I had been- hoping, ahem, Ser, to speak to you- erm, optio Atrox Nigrum, Ser, I'd been—"

"Prohebe. Why are you here, Divites?"

I- I'd been hoping to speak to you, Ser, about—

"Why are you on Anteria? Retrore."

I...

"Prohebe."

Momentarily satisfied, Sylv neatly closed the distance between himself and his horse, looping the leash around his arm as it slackened. She stood facing forward, watching him only from one eye, until he smiled and dropped his shoulders and tilted his head, and with a happy huffing sound the mare relaxed also, bumping her velvet nose against his shoulder as he began to scratch her rump.

When Sylv had straightened, released the leash, returned to the circle, and begun the sequence again, Divites took an audible slow breath and began again. Distantly, men shouted back and forth, horses whinnied, a dog began to bark and Rom raised one ear to listen.

It was six terms of service or my sword hand. My father turned me over to the Vigiles Urbani himself. The privileged son of a consul? I should have been able to get away with whatever I wished. But he already had a clever, handsome son. He didn't need... This one. I stole from the poor. I stole from market stalls and purses, from people who needed it far more than I did. I don't know why. I didn't want to. But it felt good. I broke my mother's heart and almost ruined my father and brother's careers, and I stole baubles and coins that were worthless to me but meant the world to someone else, because it made me feel good. So, it was six terms of service or my sword hand - my thieving hand.

"Prohebe. This time, Sylv did not signal Vas to relax as he stepped toward her and petted the muscled arch of her neck. This is your final term, is it not?"

Divites nodded, realised Sylv wasn't looking at him, and quickly cleared his throat. Yes, Ser.

Are you staying on?

I...

"Because my century has need of smart men. You would be a valuable asset I would be saddened to see go."

Sylv did not have to be looking to know that Divites' throat was suddenly thick and his eyes full. Thank... Thank-you, Ser, he choked softly.

"Mm. I have business to attend, as I'm sure do you. I will write to your legate asking him to approve the transfer, with centurion Velleius' consent. Vale, Divites."

"Vale, optio Atrox Nigrum. Thank-you."

--

What do you see, Astutus?

Sylv's eyes flicked away from their study of the people around them and followed Galerius' nod to the statue.

Moral lessons had very much been Seneca's specialty; while they had greatly frustrated the young Sylvestus Caecidius Astutus, by the time he left the merchant's employ he had learned their predictable patterns enough to glide through any riddle Seneca thought he was putting him through.

Not so, Galerius'. Yet. Much more rarely did the African-born merchant, smuggler, and gambling master deal in ethical or philosophical riddles. The lessons he taught tended to have much more practical applications.

Sylv knew better than to offer petulance or sarcasm, so he settled on frankness.

I see a lot.

The Forum was bustling, bristling, a disorganised mass of people pushing for templa, shouting, begging, soldiers marching through, lupi laughing from windows, chickens flapping in their cages, carts, mules, horses, templa and beggars and stalls and vendors and pickpockets and people, people, people—

He was learning to know them. Sylvestus Iaiunus Catulus had never seen more than a hundred people gathered together to celebrate; Sylvestus Postumus had done his best to steer clear of anything larger than a small town; but Sylvestus Caecidius Astutus was learning. Ahh, but Jupiter, the Roman Forum was a difficult place to practise...

Seneca, for all his faults, had taught Sylv well how to read faces and bodies and voices, judge the weight of a purse, respond in whatever kind was needed to get a man's money - but that had been in the comparatively quiet marketplace of Luceria.

Roma was a different world.

The old merchant had been careful, on the one occasion they had visited; he had wanted Sylv to experience the city, but they had visited the templa only when it was quiet, kept clear of the busiest crowds when possible. When Sylv had one of his moments after a heavyset drunken man had called out some crude offer to the slim boy, he had scolded him - but had never pushed him so far again.

Galerius had no such scruples, and quite right too. If Sylv were to stay a lowly honest merchant, then cringing at the first sign of a crowd and shutting down like a war-shy horse was fine - but oh, Mercury, Sylv's ambitions were so much greater than that. It had been made clear that if Sylv could not even function in a heavy crowd, he could not be the infamous Galerius Vitullus' clerk.

So, though his jaw was tense and his fingers knotted in the thick fur of Pterelas' ruff, Sylv coped.

The Templum of Vulcan was busiest today; winter was a cold warning wind away, and the Romans begged the God of Fire to warm them in the long nights to come. The soldiers followed a set route, and so the beggars and vendors moved out of their way. The lupi were distant enough to be ignored, the Vestals closer, demanding a nervous respect from the milling crowds. Lock on the cage of chickens coming loose. Cart would bounce right there where road was rutted. Best to take a neat step away now,