“A concerned citizen, that’s all,” Aemilia sniffed. “Someone who knew I would take an interest in a devotee of Juno who had strayed outside her proper bounds.”
Latona thought about pressing the issue of the informant’s identity further, then decided against it. If it seemed necessary, she could put her older sister Aula on the scent. There were few enough mages with reason to report to Aemilia; fewer still who could have seen Latona’s magic in effect. Not all elements bestowed the ability to see magical signatures: Spirit, Air, Water, and Light owned that talent. The field would be narrow, and Aula would relish ferreting out a tattletale. “I can’t see where it’s any concern of yours,” Latona said. “I’m a free woman, exercising my gods-given talents in accordance with the leges tabulae magicae.”
“Just because what you’re doing is permissible doesn’t mean it is right.”
Lucretius Rabirus had said something similar to her the year before, and Latona hadn’t liked it any better then.
“It is my duty,” Aemilia continued, drawing herself up pompously, “to counsel mages blessed by Juno, even if they are not under my direct supervision in the temple.”
“Consider me counseled, then.” Latona could not keep sharpness out of her voice. A silken touch and deference had never worked with Aemilia before, and she was tired of futilely resorting to such measures just for the sake of civility. “You disapprove of my intentions. I intend to act nonetheless. We are at an impasse.” She spread her hands. “What more is there to say?”
Aemilia’s expression was somewhere between irritation and condescension. “Your humors are still clearly unsettled, which is why you remain determined to impose yourself on affairs that do not concern you. I am only trying to spare you a great deal of frustration and embarrassment.”
Latona clenched her jaw so tightly that it sent a line of pain up into her temples. “I find myself unable to understand,” she said, forming every word carefully, lest less-gentle ones escape her lips, “why a devotee of Juno should not interest herself in public affairs. She is the Queen of Heaven. She rules on Olympus.”
“Second to her husband,” Aemilia said pointedly. “He rules the public world, and she the private. That is what we should seek to emulate.”
Latona shook her head, though more in dismay than anything else. It was exhausting, encountering this opinion in a woman who had the power and position to do so much more, who could open so many doors, if she would only take the trouble to do so. “We are not Athaecans, to keep women mewed up behind walls.” She gestured in vain at Aemilia herself. “We can do better, Aemilia. Nothing you say will convince me that is not what Juno intends.”
Aemilia’s dark eyes flashed bitterly. “It is not for you to tell me what Juno intends. I interpret the goddess’s will here in Aven, not you.”
‘It might have been me,’ Latona thought, with no less acidity than she saw written on Aemilia’s face. ‘If you hadn’t chased me out. If you hadn’t been so scared of a child’s potential to become a rival. I might have been High Priestess of Juno, not you.’
She said only, “Your view diverges significantly from Gaia Claudia’s. She taught me. You declined to do so. Is it so startling that I absorbed her philosophy rather than yours?”
II
Another several minutes of conversation with Aemilia yielded nothing fruitful, except in giving Latona a few choice morsels of Aemilia’s sanctimonious condemnation to chew on as she walked home. Aemilia had departed, annoyed that Latona had refused to conciliate herself to continued hobbling of her talents; Latona had departed, annoyed that she could not give the High Priestess of Juno a thick ear.
Her mood was not improved by encountering her husband almost immediately upon re-entering their domus on the Caelian Hill. Just the sight of him provoked an internal sigh. Once, tolerating him had been easier. Their relationship had never been particularly cozy, but at first, Herennius had treated her with honor and regard, and she had been able to muster up a species of affection in return. Over the years, that cordiality had deteriorated under a number of stresses. Some she could lay at Dictator Ocella’s doorstep—or, rather, at the base of his mausoleum. Others were the natural result of their opposing personalities and goals. Now, having tasted true passion, knowing what it felt like to have the true admiration of a worthy partner—Latona could no longer pretend in the way she once had.
Yet she chided herself for her lack of patience with him. Herennius could be no other than he was: a man of middling attraction and minimal ambition. Many women would have been grateful for such a husband. If he was not handsome, neither was he ill-favored, and his broad face was honest. He was honest, if only because he lacked the guile and intellect to be aught else. He had money enough to keep any woman content, which would more than make up for his lack of political initiative in most women’s assessment, and he did not have a voluptuous nature. He insisted on his husbandly rights infrequently, and if Latona ever managed to produce a child, would likely avail himself of them even less.
‘The right man for someone else, perhaps,’ Latona thought, ‘but not for me. Not now.’
All the same, she tried to put on a smile for him. If domestic felicity was too much to hope for, she could at least aim for tranquility. “Good afternoon, husband,” she said, unwinding her mantle from around her shoulders. She had to unpin it from her hair herself; Merula’s hands were still occupied with the bowl they had placed the burning embers in, and neither of them wanted Herennius asking questions about that.
“Where were you?” Herennius asked, in his usual abrupt fashion.
“The garden behind the Temple of Tellus.” That much, at least, she could be honest about—even as she draped her mantle over Merula’s shoulder, allowing Merula’s quick hands to shift the bowl underneath it. “It’s a pleasant day, don’t you think?” Herennius grunted in response; he’d been out, Latona knew, with his clients, but he was not a man to observe the fragile blossoms on the trees or appreciate the playful vernal winds. “We’ve an invitation to dine with my father tonight,” she said, crossing the atrium toward her husband. “Aula’s note said she had fresh lamb, and—”
“I’ve already accepted an invitation to dine elsewhere,” Herennius said, and named his host as one of his friends with a neighboring estate in Liguria; no one of importance in the city. “You should go to your father’s, though,” he said. “Give him my regrets.”
They were both trying, Latona could tell, not to show their relief at having an excuse not to dine together. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said. “I’m sure my father would be pleased to share a couch with you some other time.”
“There’s mail.” Herennius’s voice had a sudden hard edge. He gestured to a table at the side of the atrium, where a folded packet of papers sat waiting. “I believe some of it came from Iberia.” Latona felt her heartbeat speed up. “From your brother, I presume?”