Mastering the Flames Page 3

  Nevermore Rehabilitation Clinic, where Isaac Salvatore had spent the last month. More times than he was comfortable admitting, he had come to this vantage point and thought back to the taste of a mortal practitioner’s kisses. One he took without permission, and the shame of it stung his honor, even now, after debasing himself at Isaac’s feet. The other, a press of lips to skin, senses full of Isaac’s taste, his scent, the heat of his body.

  His smartphone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, opening the message. If his heart still beat it would have leapt at the words in the text.

  Isaac Salvatore has left Nevermore.

  2

  Quis sum?

  124 BCE

  Port city of Massalia

  Southern Gaul

  “Constans?”

  His mother’s call echoed from the battlements, and he looked up from the sword braced against his knee. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he squinted and saw his mother above him on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the grand home his father had given his mother upon his birth. His mother was wealthy, as had been her father and Constans’ namesake, and she rebuilt the villa in an Italian style. She spent the early years of his life replacing the wooden upper levels with multiple levels of stone and brick, and expanding the lower courtyards and reinforcing the walls. The villa was more reminiscent of a small hillside fortress and had enough guards to make a small army.

  “Mater?” he called, his mother’s glare visible despite the distance.

  “Stop yelling, and come see me, my son. We have guests.” She disappeared back inside. Snickering came from the guardsmen seated along the wall and under the sloped roofline of the armory that protected them from the bright autumn sun.

  He shook his head and tossed the guard closest to him the whetstone he had been using. He caught it easily, grinning back. He passed over the sword he’d been sharpening as well, then left the guards he’d spent most of the morning working alongside in the small armory nestled next to the stables. “My mother is more dangerous than you lot.”

  Constans strode for the stairs, entering the closest staircase that took him into the main structure of the grand home that overlooked the sea. Even through numerous walls and countless rooms, he could still hear the waves, feel the drumming of the current against the shore under his feet. A servant intercepted him and directed him toward the upper floor and his mother’s private rooms. She received traders and strangers in the grand receiving hall on the main floor of the villa, but she welcomed friends and family in the opulent sitting room in her private chambers overlooking the harbor. His mother and two men awaited him, a servant offering wine and fresh fruit to their visitors.

  He recognized one man, dressed in the garb of the Arverni, his father’s people. He called out in Gaulish. “Bricius! What brings you so far south? Come for my mother’s wine again?”

  Bricius stood from the low couch where he was reclining and greeted him with open arms, hugging him tightly before letting go. Bricius was his father’s second-in-command, and if Bricius were here, his father was not far from the city. “I bring word from your father. Bituitus bids you to join him. His army is camped a few hours north of here.”

  Constans drew back, frowning. “The Romans are camped north of the city at Aqua Sextiae. Please tell me he has not roused the Romans’ ire this time.” Rome was allied with Massalia and regularly used the port to transport soldiers and supplies. There was a constant influx of Roman traders and soldiers, as well as wealthy citizens looking to expand out of the crowded reach of Rome, and the Gallic tribes used the port city exactly as the Romans did, mingling with them daily. Peace was the norm, but tensions could flare if large populations of soldiers and Gallic warriors occupied the same space for too long.

  Bricius shook his head. “Trouble brews in the foothills, coming from Roquepertuse. Bituitus sent me south for supplies and to gather up his oldest son. Bastard you may be, but he still brags about your fighting prowess with spear and sword. Since we’re so close, he sent me to fetch you.”

  His father was Bituitus, leader of the aligned Gallic federation of tribes, and his grandfather was one of the Arverni kings, Luernius. For his grandfather to call for aid meant it was far past the point of some minor scuffles and disputes about territory. Roquepertuse was the focal point for a particular cult that routinely caused trouble. “How many are dead?”

  Grief passed over Bricius’ face before he could hide it. “Many are slain, though it is the manner of their deaths that spurs your father south out of Arverni territory. The clans around Roquepertuse cannot defend themselves, and if the Romans intercede, they won’t take the care to discern between cultists and those Gauls who need help. Now hurry. We have little time, and your father wants you with him before the Romans become aware of the problem and mobilize out of Aqua Sextiae.”

  He nodded and stepped back, intent on reaching his rooms and getting his gear. While there was peace between the Romans encamped at Aqua Sextiae, a massive military installation northeast of Massalia, and the assorted tribes of the Gallic Federation, the Romans were likely to look unkindly at the army his father commanded being so near to their encampment.

  His mother stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

  “Constans,” she said gently but with an imperious edge, one golden brow raised. Her voice carried the accents of her childhood home in Campania in southern Italy, a smooth current in low tones that commanded attention, and her beauty held it.

  Herennia Hirpus was a stunningly beautiful woman, still young in form and face, even with a son of twenty-six summers. Golden hair and unblemished skin kissed by the sun, perfect bow lips, a high brow, sharp cheekbones and a graceful neck, Herennia gifted her features and coloring to her only child and son, mixed with the tall frame and brawn of his Gallic father. Today she wore a simple long tunic and a golden torc that accentuated the color of her hair. The stylized lions with their teeth full of apples graced a slim throat, her only concession to showing off her considerable wealth and influence. It was a piece of jewelry gifted to her by Constans’ father, along with the building they stood in. She was courted for her wealth and beauty, though she claimed to love his father still, despite the fact that he was wed to another and rarely came to Massalia except to visit the markets, and occasionally his eldest bastard son.

  “Have you forgotten something?” She spoke in Oscan, her native tongue. Bricius spoke some of the language and caught the majority of her chiding and chuckled.

  He smiled and replied in the same language. “I was saving my farewell for the courtyard, Mother.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek, her perfume soaking into his senses. “I will come home, I promise, and perhaps I’ll convince Father he needs some more wine.”

  Herennia inherited vineyards when her father, Herennius Hirpus, passed without a male heir, and she assumed a powerful role in the local merchants’ circles with her cunning and grace. Herennia was often accredited with beguiling a powerful Gallic king with her wines, though Constans knew it was her sharp tongue and beauty that enticed Bituitus into her bed. As he was the result of such a union, he teased that it was the wine that led to his birth. He knew better though—if not for the need for political alliances, his father Bituitus would have remained devoted forever to an Italian merchant’s daughter in the Greek colony of Massalia and might never have been elected leader of the allied clans.

  “Go, hurry. Bricius is restless,” Herennia smiled, and kissed his cheek before stepping away. “Off you go.”

  Constans nodded and strode from the room, leaving his mother to guide Bricius and his unnamed companion down to the courtyard and the stables.

  His gear awaited him in his room, arranged on the tall stand that held his armor and shield. He disliked using a shield, but it was necessary to protect against arrows and thrown weapons in many conflicts and bore evidence of past battles. He may prefer not to fight with a shield, finding that carrying it in a melee was too cumbersome, but he wasn’t foolish enough to leave it behind. It was still sound, and he set it aside, reaching for his armor.

  His helm was lightweight and simple, with cheek guards and a small lip the covered the nape of his neck. It wasn’t as tall or ornate as some of those he’d seen amongst his father’s people or even among some of the Romans, but it served his needs well enough. He fought with nothing barring his vision, aware of the risks to his eyes. He tied his helm to the outside of one of the bags, found leather pants he rarely wore in the warmer climate of Massalia but that would be essential in the foothills in autumn, and packed some clothing, but not too much. He would be prepared for battle from the moment he rode out of the city gates, and he didn’t expect much time out of his armor in the coming days.

  He shrugged into the leather and linen padded chainmail shirt that covered him from his upper arms and shoulders, down his torso to his upper thighs. It wasn’t as dense a ring mesh as the chainmail shirts some men wore, as he preferred the maneuverability the lighter weight gave him in combat. It was a flexible mix of thick, dark cowhide leather, metal scales over the shoulders and upper arms, and a red silk lining and linen padding to absorb sweat and keep the metal from rubbing his skin to ribbons. He grabbed two spears as tall as he was, capped in iron at the ends, and pointed with metal heads that were as long as his forearm, the shafts ash and polished from years of wax and practice. Lastly came his sword and dagger, slipping them into belted scabbards and tying it around his waist.

  Two servants came into the room, dropping quick half bows, and he gestured to the packs of his gear as he adjusted the belts around his waist. One of the servants was a recent addition to the villa, a young man who left Rome for adventure and got as far as Massalia before running out of coin and landing in Constans’ bed. Herennia appreci
ated his slim frame and naivety and employed him for the household the morning after Constans brought him home. She read her son’s mind well enough to see that he’d taken in another stray, and she demanded the young man start straightaway.

  Ceris picked up the heavier of the bags and slung it over a narrow shoulder. The other servant grabbed what was left and scurried out of the room. Ceris bit his lip and scuffed a toe on the stone floor. “Will you be gone long, my lord?”

  He was not a lord—but once Ceris learned he was the bastard son of the Arverni king, it was hard to get him to call Constans anything else. He picked up his shield, adjusted the strap on the inner surface, and slung it over his shoulder so he could carry it on his back out of the villa. He stepped in close to Ceris and smiled down at the younger man. “Will you miss me?”

  Ceris blushed, his golden skin reddening across his high cheekbones and down his slim neck. Ceris was beautiful, and Constans appreciated beautiful things. Ceris may not be someone he could love, but he was fond of the young Roman. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a quick smile, Ceris was as of yet unmarred by life and time, and he was quick to lend a hand and willing to learn. And gentle and giving in bed.

  “I go to join my father for war,” Constans told him, and Ceris sighed mournfully, looking down at his feet. “Do not look so sad. My mother dotes on you. There is no servant more cherished in the entire city. I may not be here to welcome you into my bed, but you’ll be fed and safe and free to find another lover.”

  Ceris shrugged and gripped the straps of the bags he held so tightly that his knuckles bled white. “I could…I could come with you?”

  Constans considered the young man before him. Constans had just begun his twenty-sixth summer, and Ceris was not yet nineteen. Grown, though still slim with youth and from a sheltered upbringing. Why Ceris wasn’t being cosseted by an adoring mother in Rome was a secret Constans didn’t feel like prying from the young man just yet. “Why would you want to come?”

  Ceris shrugged and looked off to the side. “If you go, I’ll be here alone.”

  “You’d be alone even if I brought you with me. You have no training to fight, and I won’t have time to teach you before we reach my father’s army. You could stay with the women and children, but they would give you no more honor than a camp-follower would get, and you deserve more than to be seen as nothing more than my whore,” Constans said quietly, putting a finger under the young man’s chin and lifting his head. Ceris looked at him with both hurt and hope in his dark eyes. Constans shook his head once. “I’d rather you stay here and live, even if you are lonely. Loneliness is better than death, or slavery to our enemies if we fall.”

  The young man nodded, defeated. He lifted the pack higher on his shoulder and turned for the door. Constans followed after him with one last look around his room to make sure he had all his gear.

  He eyed the sad set of Ceris’s shoulders as they went down through the villa to the courtyard. The young Roman was attached to him, and while Constans was fond of the young man in return, he didn’t love Ceris as he deserved to be loved—as the center of someone’s world. He took the boy home with him when he found him in that tavern down at the docks because Ceris was terrified, out of his depth, and too pretty to be left unprotected surrounded by rough traders and slavers eager to pick up vulnerable, healthy, lissome young men. Ceris was a Roman citizen, but that protection meant nothing once he was in chains and sold to someone away from Roman authority. A young man such as Ceris would be worth a lot of gold to the right buyer, and Constans could not turn his back on him.

  The gates leading out into the city were open and horses were already saddled and waiting. Bricius was already mounted, reins in hand, a stoic expression on his face. Herennia stood at the head of Constans’ mount, a large roan stallion gifted to him by his father a few years before during one of his rare visits. Bituitus could not spare too much of his time or attention for a bastard, as he was already wed with a true-born son and political alliances that needed tending.

  The horse was a symbol of his father’s pride in his oldest son even if he could not publicly claim Constans without offending his wife’s family. It helped that Constans lived in Massalia, a few hundred miles away from Bituitus’ kingdom and the Celtic alliance he ruled over with his own father, Luernius.

  Constans handed his shield and pack to another servant who then loaded the gear onto one of the pack animals. The mules were long-legged and used to traveling fast, so they would keep up with the horses without issue, and his second mount had his personal saddlebags since his first mount would be carrying him and his weapons. Ceris looked toward the stables a few times, his face conveying foolish thoughts and naïve plans that Constans immediately needed to put to an end.

  Constans grabbed Ceris by his arm when the young man tried to slip away toward the stables unseen, and he gently dragged the protesting young man to Herennia, who watched indulgently with a small smile. Constans leaned down and kissed his mother gently on the cheek, her perfume drifting in the air. He felt a pang of homesickness already, despite not having left yet.

  “Constans,” she chided. He let go of Ceris and pinned him in place with a stern look.

  “Mater, Ceris needs spoiling and busy hands while I’m gone. He thinks to follow me, despite my wish for him to remain here and safe. I cannot bring him with me. I would not survive the guilt should he be killed or injured. I’d like to spare myself the pain and Ceris the same.”

  Herennia gave Ceris a knowing look, her wise eyes not missing a single thought or emotion that raced over the young man’s face. She reached out and took his hand, and she smiled at him, clearly delighted to take over the mothering of the younger man. Constans hadn’t needed such a thing in a long time and his mother was still young and restless, even while staying busy running the villa and the family trade. Constans could tell she missed having someone to spoil. Ceris blushed a brilliant red that darkened his already golden complexion and he shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

  “I have a talent for tending to young men. Ceris will keep me company while you’re off with your father.” She was resigned to him leaving and she was aware of the danger he was likely facing, and the possibility he may not return. He was well-trained and this would not be his first time in battle, though each time he returned from fighting he came back with more scars and nightmares. They both knew that one day he would probably not return, and neither of them wanted to see the same for Ceris. “The chores I’ve set to him may be a waste of his talents. I’ll take him to the port with me and see if he has a head for trade.”

  “But you’ll be alone,” Ceris blurted out, and he ducked his head, embarrassed at his outburst. Constans put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, and Ceris snuck a short look up at him through dark, lush lashes.

  “Constans will never be alone when surrounded by his people,” Herennia murmured, a refrain he’d heard many times as a small child when Bituitus would take him from Massalia to live with the Arverni for months on end. Such trips ended when Bituitus wed and fathered Constans’ younger half-brother, and his new wife was unhappy with the favor given to her husband’s bastard. Ceris appeared unmollified, but he nodded in acknowledgment of Herennia’s words and said nothing more in protest.

  “Thank you, Mater.” He engulfed her in a tight hug and picked her up off her feet, causing her to laugh and slap his shoulders for him to put her down. He obliged and she kissed his cheek, eyes bright with pride and love, and the worry he knew she carried hidden away.

  He let her go and took the reins of his horse in hand, throwing them over the roan’s big neck. The roan snorted and tossed his great head, auburn mane flashing in the light. Bricius and his companions waited for him, and Constans mounted with easy grace and adjusted his sword on his hip. With one last look at the villa where he was born and those whom he held closest to his heart, Constans turned his mount and followed after Bricius. Hoofbeats echoed off the stone as they passed through the cold shadows of the villa’s thick walls into the waiting sunlight.