Of all places Tom had the good fortune to travel, Greece had been his favourite. The wealth and span of magical knowledge within the varied and sprawling cities alone put his fellow Britons and their Roman interlopers to shame.
Not to say there wasn’t great knowledge and power present in his home land. But with the advent of Roman rule now almost as far north as Caledonia, it had been… limited. The old heathen druids condemned and in constant revolt against the southern invaders. Most of the old knowledge had been lost or hidden so well that not even the remaining elders knew its whereabouts. What disturbed Tom most of all was the influx of religious men and their teachings, within whose veins flowed no magic at all.
Tom would never bother to curb his loathing for such creatures. They attempt to infiltrate his people's spiritual leadership, driven by the belief that overpowering the people meant power over the Land. Worms so taken with writhing in their own rot they were blind to their impotence. May the Wix retaliate and subsume such mongrels for a far greater purpose soon, he prays.
Now Tom is on an island where it is considered usual for a common person, an empty stamnos holding no magic of its own, to instead hold the emperor’s favour and have rule of the city. Not fifty years ago this would have been unheard of. It was so repulsive Tom had considered rejecting his invitation.
An unfortunate vassal, sent as his guide to the Proconsul’s villa, faltered in his unheard narration of the local sites and history. Tom did not bother disguising his complete disinterest.
“M-my Lord?” the sad thing stuttered out. Tom spared a second of thought for the pitiable figure before him, more of a rat than a man, and flicked a negligent finger for the servant to continue.
They were walking through the main thoroughfare of a condensed city, clinging to the face of a narrow and mountainous island. Shading his eyes Tom looked out to the east where, against the glare of the midday sun, he could just make out the bedrock of what had once been the great volcanic peak called Thíra. It surged from the water in the centre of a vast crescent bay. Across the bay the tip of each peninsula curved around until they almost met. From the distance of the main town the gap appeared not so great, but Tom recalled how the cliffs had appeared as immense gates, hewn from the white cliffs as if by gods. Like intimidating fortress walls; against the power of The Great Sea they held impenetrable and cold, but once a ship had passed across a great swell lashed up by the winds, the island’s arms welcomed each vessel into the island’s Port Oia as an embrace. As Tom had been welcomed that same morning.
Tom had waited avidly for his chance to visit the island of Kal-Thíra. Brought to his knowledge by legends of the great feats of magic performed by her ancient forebears. It was said that Atlantis itself was destroyed by an ambitious ritual millennia ago. A more common tale was a God's punishment rained upon the people, grown arrogant on their good fortune and neglectful of their spiritual duties. The god had unleashed a power from within the heart of the island greater than anything before seen.
From between two buildings Tom eyed the calm centre of the island ring. All that remained of a mountain that could once touch the heavens.
This was the reason Tom had journeyed so far from his home land, and what attracted him to an otherwise insignificant island. One of many hundred in Roman Greece. The power this place had held, and lost. Such power may not be found elsewhere within the empire.
Certainly the magistrate of Colchester believed it enough to send his most trusted Mage. What Tom had not revealed to anyone was that it was in these lands too he could find the answers to a far more selfish quest.
He was officially there to study and share knowledge with the local coven. Greek magic had earned a reputation since the Roman invasion of the north. To write magic down as its own language, define it, and contain it.
By this time Tom and his guide reached the athens district, where both the elite and native Roman officials lived. Immediately ahead was the town square house and a central public fountain, bordered by domus on all sides but the north. There sprawled a villa constructed from limestone and red brick. Its walls reflected light so harshly the carvings beside the outer gate held no definition. Vines grew over the front walls that stood some three men high, hinting at a lush garden beyond. There were no large native trees Tom had seen on the island, so he had to guess the canopies he could see shading the Villa’s many rooftops had been brought and seeded from the continent.
It wasn’t market day, and the cruel sun had sent most civilians indoors, or at least to the eaved edges of the square for an early siesta. Tom wore his traditional Gallic robes of linen and fur, but had foregone his leathers some months back as he traveled south of the Šar Mountains. On the descent he had woven the biting air into the hem of his cloak, and made permanent the morning frost on his bear-fur mantle, so that he carried with him protection and relief from the sun.
They came to the impressive entry door of the Proconsul’s villa. Each pillar was classically Greek, though with additions more to the Roman predilection to opulence, with imported marble carved in the likeness of vines and pomegranates. The branches curlicue either side of the heavy wooden door. It was an intimidating sight on the island. Wood was a rare commodity not wasted on domicile entrances when curtains of fabric and beads worked just as well.
As they passed through to the entrance Tom felt tension in the air like a bolt of finest silk pulling up. He paused briefly, eyelashes fluttering, as he identified the charms for repelling commoners disperse like a heavy scent. But there was a taste of iron too, that drifted with far less substance, that he could not identify. It could have been of either magic or common origin. It passed soon enough and so left Tom’s thoughts. Tom was then disturbed to realise this meant the rat-man had at least some magic himself to be allowed so close to the main doors. After only a few breaths the doors were opened by a set of slaves, and the cool stone entrance hall was made welcome for Tom to enter.
He took great care to not directly touch the abhorrent man as he handed over his cloak and traveling stick.
The harsh change of light from afternoon sun to indoor stone hallway, however well aired and lit, was enough that the servant who collected him for meeting the Proconsul was a dark figure while Tom’s eyes adjusted. She led him through beautiful marble-floored corridors. Walls of carved quartz and polished pink granite with large archways. These were shrouded by gossamer curtains woven through with rare eastern dyed silks that allowed in light and a gentle breeze. Each offered a view onto a new and unique courtyard towards the centre of the compound, or the expansive sea to the west. One particular opening looked directly down the cliffs and the vicious tide many thousands of feet below, churning and destructive. On plinths at even intervals between doors and windows were carved statues of humans and gods alike. Set on the floor between these were immense painted amphora, almost as tall as Tom. It was an extravagant display of wealth for such a small island town to display. Even in a Proconsul’s villa. Tom took it in without expression.
The final large hallway opened up onto a finely paved and shaded patio from which a man’s voice boomed. Figures moved slowly beyond the pale gauze curtaining Tom’s view to the inner courtyard. Just visible was some kind of garden party. The curtains were parted by a different pair of slaves and Tom happily left the Rat behind in the cool dark of the hallway. He joined the Men and women draped in summer robes standing about, murmuring in a distinct roman dialect, or napping beneath shades of enormous palm leaves, held up by other slaves and attendants.
“Riddle! If I knew for a fact it wasn't so I’d say I’d taken a potion,” a rotund figure, a head shorter than Tom bustled forward to offer his greeting. White hair cropped short in the roman military style and leathery sun-tanned skin greeted him. The Man had pale blue eyes, and a musculature that had gone to seed in recent years. He was adorned in complete officiating robes of wine and white trimmed with gold.
“And you don’t look a day over thirty still, how do you do it?” he continued jovially. He gripped their left forearms together, his other clasping Tom on the shoulder, overly strong from too much wine.
“Abraxas,” Tom returned formally. “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not, of course not,” Abraxas demurred easily. He had a grin that would not be dispelled. Tom was not so used to being met well by old friends these days. At least not in Briton.
“Come in now old friend, you have arrived at a most fortuitous time. My son and his family are visiting from campaigns in the North and we have just started lunch,” he explained as Tom was guided into the hall beyond.
This one was tiled with black marble, great veins of amethyst and rose-quartz extending throughout the room like lightning. Along the frescoed walls, obsidian pillars carved like trees and wrapped in vines of silver supported a roof of green stone. At each corner a depiction of a different god, They were distinctly bestial compared to the bronzes Tom had seen outside the island. At the end of the hall, beside the offset double doors, a scrying pool disguised as a fountain from which its potent water played, dancing light into the room. It was a private magical sanctuary, nor for the eyes of anyone beyond the immediate family or initiated Wix. Tom followed Abraxas through an archway behind the fountain to a more mundane hall. At the opposite end and off to the side was an enormous carved fireplace with a rotisserie manned by slaves, supplying hot roast meats for the long table that adorned the half the room below a row of windows. All Tom could see through these was pale sky. At a guess this hall was at the very back of the Villa directly above more cliffs. Opposite this were fine pillars that opened onto a smaller courtyard home to a garden less manicured and more likely cultivated to supply the kitchen. It was obscured by fine gauze curtains that fluttered in the late afternoon sea breeze.
The table itself was piled with breads, oils, spices, sweetmeats, and roasted meat from a variety of animals and fish. Around the room more of the Proconsul’s guests were reclined, drinking and eating. And between all these people walked servants and slaves, nimble and sure in their tasks. Three of the group sitting nearest rose from their triclinia to meet the new arrivals.
“May I introduce my son; Lucius Abraxas, His wife; Narcissa Nigus, and their son; Draco Lucius,” Abraxas gestured in turn to a man much like himself but with long silver hair tied back with a leather tenia, a tall woman with blonde hair and grey eyes, and their son, silver haired and grey eyed, who Tom guessed to be no more than fifteen, barely a man. He bowed to each in turn and Kissed the hand of the wife.
“And to my family, this is a very old acquaintance of mine I met while on campaign in Britannia, Mage Teyrnon Marvolo Riddle,” They greeted him back with restraint. Tom had not missed the look of distaste the woman had failed to suppress at the introduction of his full name.
“From how far north do you hail, Lord Mage?” Narcissa asked civilly, just barely hiding her distaste of his white skin and tall stature.
“As far North as is appropriate in polite company,” Tom returned with a charming smile. Abraxas gave a great amused huff to his response.
“Tom always knows just what he can get away with saying,” He exclaimed, clapping Tom on the back. When had Abraxas become so uncouth?
“Tom is of Britannia herself, born just shy of the Cumbrian border. Fortunately I must say,” Abraxas explained, rather without Tom’s consent.
“A Lord Mage of Britannia was it?” Lucius spoke for the first time, a spark of recognition in his steely eyes. Tom dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“Lord Mage you say?” Interrupted a rude voice, just as Lucius had opened his mouth to say more. All four adults turned their gazes then on the youngest in their midst, but Draco was not cowed.
“I’ve heard of you. You’re quite famous in our capital. We did a whole week on your research and discoveries this past ten years. And of course they clearly failed to mention y-,” Draco’s excitement was clear in his young voice.
“Yes well, I’m sure we have all heard talk of the feats of magic the Lord Mage has achieved,” Lucius cut in quickly, staring his son into submission. Draco ducked his head but was not dissuaded from his clear hero-worship. Tom looked at him. His age was more obvious now, and the magic that flowed from his young pores had yet to ripen. Not without potential, Tom thought, he was untrained and spoiled.
“Draco here has just started his formal magical tutoring in Rome this past year and, as I’m sure you can tell, your work is now in their lessons,” Abraxas needlessly explained. Tom did not care but he acknowledged the compliment.
“It’s always an honour to be reminded how my humble contribution to magic is so welcomed by those of the empire,” the family tittered at his false modesty.
“I’m sure you are weary from your journey here, come eat anything you wish. There is wine and slaves and your rooms have already been arranged for however long you will stay,” Abraxas gestured, his other hand on Tom’s shoulder. His son’s family recognised a dismissal when they saw one drifted back to their previous places. Tom was shown the buffet and entertainment that would likely extend late into the evening.
He was sat between an older woman; a visiting Roman who now worked for the Persian King, and a sallow man who turned out to be the current potions master of the Roman Lord in Northern Gaul. At his back was a talented lyre and flute player, slaves as well most likely, who performed through till well after sunset. At some point dancers and pleasure slaves came in.
Tom took no notice of those serving and refilling his crystal goblet, merely sparing a thought of their discretion and efficiency. Tom committed all those reclining and standing around the exuberant dining hall to memory. There were close to twenty other guests Tom was introduced to and he watched each of them, noting who were their friends, personal servants, and what advisors accompanied them.
They were a callous lot. Used to their power and privilege. Even Abraxas was not immune to his people’s arrogance.
Severus, Tom’s earlier dining companion, was discussing Lepontic runes in rituals (an ambitious task for someone not educated in the Gallo-Roman arts) while Tom listened with half an ear. He had noticed an exchange between Abraxas and one of his Legatus.
They murmured in the low light at the back corner of the hall, furthest from the hearth. Tom was more observant than these two were at hiding the tone of their conversation. Both were glancing towards the older woman Tom had first sat beside at the onset of the evening. Whatever their conversation concluded had the Legatus making his way over to one of the many unnoticed slave boys, standing in the shadows at the edge of the room, a pitcher of wine in hand for refilling guests' glasses. Next followed a hurried order between the two as the Legatus had his goblet refilled.
The boy looked sullen but grudgingly gave a jerky nod of his head. Abraxas’ Legatus smiled indulgently down at the boy, now with his furrowed gaze averted from the man, who brought his hand up to stroke the his fair cheek before threading his fingers into his hair, a mess of black curls not unlike Tom’s own. He whispered something more in his ear before ambling away as though their exchange had not happened.
Tom watched the slave track the man’s path. Deep hatred was etched into his young face. His features screwed in concentration and he closed his eyes. Then, bending his head over, he spat into the pitcher of wine.
Tom’s eyebrows rose quite of their own volition at this action.
The slave boy was now wending his way over to the Persian woman. Tom turned to interrupt Severus in the middle of his diatribe on the uselessness of palace physicians.
“One moment my friend. There’s something I must ask the Proconsul,” Tom excused himself.
“Of course,” Severus acquiesced with a bow of his head.
“We must continue our discussion, I will be back shortly,” Tom said, before turning and walking to near where Abraxas was sitting, and was, coincidentally, right by the Persian woman. He arrived just in time to witness the boy offer a refill from the pitcher of wine now mixed with saliva. she graciously accepted.
“Wait there,” Tom ordered the slaved, voice pitched low, just as he was turning his back to leave. The boy turned and for the first time Tom got a good look at him. To say he was surprised would be an understatement, but the obvious cumbrian heritage of the boy was eclipsed by the sight of his poisonous green eyes, sick and vibrant. Tom’s breath was momentarily stolen.
“A refill, if you would,” he managed after a pause.
The servant boy shook his head as though with regret.
“I’m sorry,” and Tom could hear no accent in his modest voice. “This slave is out of wine,” following which he left the hall through an unobtrusive doorway. It must have been a servants exit as Tom watched his silhouette reappear in the courtyard behind the shifting curtains. The small figure dumped his jar of wine onto one of the garden beds. Tom turned to Abraxas at his side, who was no longer in conversation.
“Who was it that refused to serve me, Abraxas?” He asked.
“Hmm?” Abraxas followed Tom’s gaze to where the boy had just re-entered the hall, now without his pitcher of wine.
“Our slave Iakobos. We’ve had him for a couple years now. Impolite at times but you can see why he’s popular,” Abraxas added, misinterpreting Tom’s interest.
Tom stood a little longer in contemplation. He ignored Abraxas smirk, allowing his own silence to linger until the other man shifted with discomfort.
“Enjoying the night?”
“Quite,” Tom bowed his head. “There has been some engaging dialogue among your guests,” Tom gestured to his previous conversation partner across the room.
“Severus is a fine wizard, I’m glad he accepted my invitation here,” Abraxas acknowledged.
“How did you come to know him?”
Abraxas shook his head, “His mother, passed now from this world many years ago, was the niece of a senator my father well knew. She eventually married a legion prefect and I would honour any of her children had she birthed more than Severus.”
Tom’s brow raised with surprise at this information. “He’s well read for his station. Knowledgeable in arcane arts beyond what I would expect a Roman born to his station. He did not follow his fathers career.”
“It is unusual,” Abraxas agreed, “Though not unheard of. He contributes far more as a master of spells and potions.”
Tom knew more than Abraxas was willing to say; that good Magi had begun to dwindle. A concern for not only the Empire but the common people. Many towns could no longer support even one practitioner to provide them amulets and enchantments.
The incident of the contaminated wine was all but forgotten until some hours before dawn, when the Persian woman fell to the ground seizing. She looked to be afflicted with the gods' sickness, foaming at the mouth, her back arched unnaturally and yellow bile ran down her throat and into her thick braided hair. Tom could smell ammonia from her robes as she pissed herself. Servants rushed to her aid and an old witch, who could have been no less than a hundred years old, appeared through the same door that led to the garden courtyard. She was still spry and moved with great efficiency to produce a bezoar from a pouch tied at her waist that was forced into the seizing woman’s swollen oesophagus. But by that time it was too late. Her choking and seizing died down until she stared vacantly at the villa ceiling. Tom watched avidly as the light left her eyes and her swollen purple face went lax. Tom searched the room for the servant boy Iakobos though he was no longer in the hall or the courtyard. When he left Tom could not say.
The other guests gathered around as the healer channeled spells using a healer's quartz that pulsed with a gentle light as she ran it over the cooling body. She shook her head and addressed Abraxas with a strong rasp.
“My Lord, I can detect nothing. She seems to have passed of the sacred affliction.”
“It is a terrible thing,” Abraxas raised his hand, and the rat man hurried from the back of the crowd. “Alert the libitinarii of the passing of one of my guests. Have him send his undertakers to remove the body.” The rat bowed to Abraxas and scuttled from the hall, in the direction Tom had first entered when he arrived with him.
Abraxas turned to his guests, “The rest of you I must apologise for bearing witness to such a scene under my roof. Had I known Madame Amelia suffered an illness I would have had my medical woman closer to hand. I think the party must be done for now. You will be shown your rooms. And I hope you may all sleep soundly. Do not be plagued by the business we have witnessed here tonight,” Tom could detect no obvious lie in Abraxas’ mein, but he knew he spoke false.
He looked at the other guests and saw Abraxas’ son Lucius smirking, while his son stood beside him, his pale eyes round with fear and awe at witnessing the death in front of him. Severus' expression was carefully blank, not a twitch out of place. Tom knew, in the same way he knew when others told lies, that Severus had great doubt for what Abraxas claimed.
Slaves stepped forward and addressed each person with a low bow, leading those from the hall who would be staying in the Guest quarters. Tom was shown his rooms by a balding middle-age slave who had the bearing Tom would expect of an experienced family slave. The man spoke only when needed but otherwise he breathed and walked so quietly Tom could hardly hear him except for the swish of his undyed coarse linen tunic. The slave used a flint to light a small stone oil lamp just inside the doorway to the room Tom would be staying in.
The guest quarters were on the other side of the villa from the dining hall. Tom’s room opened out over the other side of the courtyard he had passed when he first entered the villa. The room itself was more simply designed than the entertaining rooms. The sleep palette could easily fit more than three people, and when Tom stroked his hand over the fabric piling the bed they were some of the finest cottons and wools he had felt. In deep russet and yellow the top spread was woven through with charms to keep the sleeper temperate. The door from the hall was offset so those walking past could not see into the sleeping quarters, and the archway to the courtyard had more sheer curtains for privacy.
Tom snuffed the lamp and undressed in the dark. He lay back on the palette, his feet crossed and his hands folded over his chest. He felt his heart beat, and his ribcage rise and fall with his meditative breaths. Tom stared up at the plain sandstone ceiling. Human life was at times so fragile as to feel meaningless, particularly on this island, against the backdrop of the enduring sea and cliffs. Even when one had magic.
Since the dinner party his thoughts no longer lingered on the questions of research and political discourse he had originally travelled to the Island for, but the identity of an otherwise insignificant catamite. Tom recalled the strange scene with the slave boy, he knew falsely his friend had spoken to everyone present.
Harry would not call himself ungrateful. In fact he would say that compared to many others in his position he was very grateful indeed. Gratefulness was something his mother’s family had instilled into him long before he came to his current position.
‘Excuse the pun,’ he thought with a nauseous mix of self-deprecation and shame.
Being grateful did not mean being happy or content. Something that had taken a number of years for Harry to live with.
Being grateful meant being thankful that you weren’t dead.
There were some slaves that had easier lives. Or with masters who would free them at the end of their term of servitude. But it was far more common to not be so blessed, to have a terrible and filthy life, in pain and misery.
Harry was grateful for not living that life.
What he was not grateful for was a disgusting lump of man crushing him under his putrid weight.
“Get off me if you are done so I can go and wash!” He heaved and wriggled around, earning a pinch to his rib that made Harry yelp and still his movement. “Or do you actually enjoy feeling this dirty? Does it feel more comfortable now that your outside matches your innards?”
That earned him another pinch, this time on his thigh.
“One day I will cut out your tongue so I don’t have to listen to your insults and then where would you be?” growled the man, shifting only enough to allow Harry space to worm free and stand up from the bed. He walked over to the washstand where a cotton cloth lay beside a water jug and wash basin.
“Not being suffocated beneath you, that’s for certain,” Harry muttered. “You would never do that anyway,” he continued louder.
Harry filled the basin with cool water and saturated the cotton before wringing it out gently. He ran the cloth slowly over his sweaty neck, relishing the cool water and rough fabric wiping clean sweat and discomfort. He could hear shifting and the rustling on the bed behind him as its remaining occupant made himself more comfortable.
“Are you sure of that?”
Harry ignored the question, paying more attention to his ablutions. With a grimace he cleaned his thighs off before dunking the cloth back into the basin to rinse it and wring it out again to lay beside the basin exactly as he found it. Harry admired the sound of the water sprinkling back into the shallow basin. The water had sandalwood oil floating across the surface, and the basin itself was carved from green granite mounted on a silver filigree and myrtle wood stand.
He was interrupted from his distraction by his companion. “Stop ignoring me and come back to warm my sheets,” came an ugly whine. Grown men should really not sound like that.
Still facing away gave Harry leave to curl his lip in a sneer. Gods what he wouldn’t give to spit on that man and live to get away with it.
By the time he turned back and sauntered to the bed his expression was again clear. Harry crawled onto the bed and flopped next to his Lord’s Legatus, propped up on one elbow to look down on the once handsome face, marred by age, scars, and poorly groomed stubble. Harry swallowed his irritation.
“You have already forgotten how unattractive I’ve told you you sound.”
“And maybe if you answered my questions you would not incur any of my wrath, little kitten.”
“Now I know that was to spite me!” Harry cried indignantly.
The man laughed softly and traced a large palm up Harry’s side, misinterpreting Harry’s responding shudder. He followed the path his hand took with his eyes; over the flawless skin of his flank up to his smooth chest and around to cup the nape of Harry’s neck, drawing him forward for a slow kiss. The room was quiet, all noises subdued for a few minutes except the occasional shifting of the sheets.
“I know now I could not cut your tongue out,” The man interrupted the peaceful silence after a while. Harry lifted his head from where it was resting on the lightly furred chest, roused from his contemplation of the slow approaching dawn.
“And how can you be so sure of that?” He smiled mockingly, an edge of real malice that the older man was oblivious to.
“Because it would be a waste of something so talented,” he leered.
Harry could only scoff and turn away
Just before the sun rose above the ocean’s horizon - and when Harry was certain the old leech was sleeping - he rose from the bed and redressed in his discarded tunic and indoor slippers, strapping the leather nimbly up his calves.
Harry was feeling a little vindictive from the stupid poisoning stunt at last night's meal, so that as he left he stole the water jug from the stand.
The villa was quiet at such an early hour, the light just turning from deep azul to dawn grey. Indistinct sounds came from the direction of the kitchens and animal pens. He passed a few servants and slaves, cleaning and preparing the hallways and rooms for the coming day. Occupants of a couple more guest rooms still emitted the muffled noises of couples and groups not yet finished with their night.
Eventually Harry left the guests' wing behind and entered the herb garden from the eastern entrance, the main hall directly opposite some two hundred paces away. The villa was an immense complex, magically and strategically fitted on the narrow outcropping at the summit of the island city.
The gardens were empty and still. Peaceful.
Harry easily located the garden bed he had dumped the contaminated wine only a few hours before. The plants and bushes in a three foot radius were sickly and dying. Its smell of vegetation in decay permeated the area. Directly at the centre was an uneven patch of dead and blackened plants, almost as if it had been burnt by a dropped bucket of coals. Harry grimaced at the sight. He had not been thinking at the time, too annoyed by the whims of his Lord to give much thought to the repercussions of his actions. Namely; more unnecessary work for himself.
Holding up Harry’s small linen tunic was a silver clasp, which he carefully undid with his right hand, still holding the water jug he had taken from the Legatus’ room in his left hand. Above the mouth of the ceramic jug he grasped the pin, needle point flipped out to sparkle wickedly in the morning light. Carefully, and with his full focus, he used the pin to prick his thumb, allowing three drops of blood to fall into the water jug, immediately diluting to nothing. Harry waited a moment, counting under his breath, before slowly pouring the water onto the dying ground. The last of the water fell onto the most deadened area at the centre and Harry let go a gust of air from holding his breath. He wiped the sweat that had beaded along his hairline and shook his hands out, dispelling the buzzing feeling he always got when he performed this ritual. Like running his fingers over stinging nettles, before the pain kicked in.
Already the dying plants were healthier and invigorated, and in a few hours the blackened area would be sprouting new life. And, Harry knew, for the following years this small patch of the herb garden would be protected from rot, parasites and frost, producing unnaturally flourishing plants throughout the seasons. It was one of the first pieces of magic he had taught himself to perform, and what alerted his mother’s family to his abnormality.
Harry scrunched his face up at this fleeting reminder of his childhood and went back inside, intent on rescuing some fresh baked pastries from the kitchens and their fate of filling the bellies of pompous Roman wizards.
Harry usually tried not to think of his Lord or his rotation of guests and family. But he couldn’t help picturing again the strange celtic wizard he had met the previous night. Never before had his Lord hosted a Barbarian, one clearly respected by the man. A little thrill went through him at the prospect of talking to a Wizard not originally from the Empire.
It was too bad the man was likely to be just as arrogant and self-possessed as any Roman, Harry thought bitterly. Most magicians thought awfully highly of themselves, and this one held himself in such a manner, and with a lack of any real expression. It was disconcerting.
Harry hardly trusted anyone who chose to hide their thoughts and feelings.This translated to everyone Harry knew in the villa except small children, including Harry himself. A hypocrite he may be, but acceptance was a first step. Harry was of the firm belief that admitting to being a hypocrite exonerated himself from any criticism. That as well, being itself hypocritical, did not help matters any, and Harry studiously ignored the issue, thinking himself quite clever and above the machinations of the Politicians he was constantly surrounded by.
When he had attempted to explain this to the cook she had shaken her head and stated the obvious; “that makes no sense.” Harry knew not every one could match his acrobatic thinking.
To expect as much would be the height of delusion.
Tom rose from bed around mid-morning to a villa bustling with activity. Servants and secretaries roamed the corridors, keeping the occupied rooms stocked with refreshments and correspondence. It was like a well oiled machine; everyone in the right place at the right time. A runner on hand as soon as the need arose.
After a breakfast of stone fruit and yoghurt Tom went in search of the kitchen garden. He was lost in minutes and found himself on a Northern balcony. Abraxas was there too, signing scrolls while taking his own breakfast of freshly baked sourdough dipped in olive oil and spices.
“Tom, it is a nice surprise that you should join me. Have you breakfasted yet?” Abraxas asked without looking up, intent on the missive he was reading through.
“Not necessary. I ate in the guest wing.”
Abraxas nodded distractedly, and Tom dispersed his growing ire at the man’s inattentiveness with a sharp nail to the palm of his own hand. He contemplated the sea before him. In the distance, only barely visible, he could see another small island. There were dolphins playing in the turbulent surf. It was all very serene.
At last Abraxas finished with his letters, loading up the runner at his elbow with the pile of scrolls and sending them on their way. He turned to Tom with a sigh and an amiable smile.
“I hope the rooms and service have been to your satisfaction?”
“The service has been excellent,” was Tom’s easy response, affecting a smile of his own that he knew hardly reached his eyes.
“Tom you have not changed one whit,” Abraxas said with some degree of fondness. A flash of heated irritation at his tone caught Tom off-guard.
“How very forward of you,” He examined his nails for leftover fruit pulp.
“To this day you cannot abide the thought that someone might actually get to know you.”
“If people are allowed to know me, then they can preempt me, and in no school of thought is that ever considered to be an acceptable thing,” he explained. Abraxas had become awfully straight forward in his old age. Tom suspected this was a side-effect of military life.
“There has been much difficulty in my home-land of late. Christian priests insisting magic is no longer a necessary aspect of worship. As if it is not proof enough that those born to it are blessed.”
“Ah yes… the christians,” Abraxas mused. “We are having a little difficulty with that sort in Rome. But what power do they truly hold? It is our belief a few public executions and they will be sufficiently cowed,” Tom scoffed at that. “It may appeal to some of the masses, but fortunately has no real foothold. All shall hopefully blow over soon. It certainly won’t take root here,” he finished, looking out at the hazy horizon. A slave carrying a tray with sweet meats and citrus infused water arrived to interrupt their conversation. Tom accepted a goblet. He chewed over Abraxas’ last thought a while before speaking again, sipping on his chilled water.
“It is not just an issue of differing opinions. I am lucky that my relationship is well with the Roman contingent,” to which Abraxas gave a single nod in acknowledgement, “There have been deaths. The Murdering of druids as they perform rituals. Just before I left to journey here I heard that the few surviving texts of the pictish mages were destroyed.”
“No!” Abraxas cried, clearly surprised. “Were those not carved upon menhir?”
“Toppled into the ocean or scorched beyond recognition,” Tom confirmed.
“And their location was supposed to be known only to wixen kind,” Abraxas muttered as though to himself. “You showed me yourself when I last visited,” he looked up, a frown creasing his pale brow. “A traitor amongst the northern mages?”
“Something like that. I have my own suspicions, as you have heard before.”
Abraxas grimaced, “You would have to enlighten me. I have not heard you talk of the northern covens in many years,” he confessed.
“The high mage of Northumbria now resides in Caledonia after a skirmish near his home village. A shamefully trusting old man,” Tom sneered.
“Dumbledore?”
“Correct,” Tom carefully placed his now empty goblet on the round table Abraxas had been working at.
“It would have been much easier to earn our retribution if the secrets were revealed maliciously. I fear the old man was told a lie and chose to think the best. Perhaps a warlock or jealous squib in league with the christians showed an academic interest and he showed them the way.”
“Ignorance cannot be an excuse.”
“Abraxas, I agree. This should never have occurred,” Tom sat down on the spare stool at the table, tired by his own agitation. He had not had anyone to speak to about this since he left Britannia.
“And when your knowledge relies so heavily on oral teachings. This is a heavy blow to the magical community,” Abraxas turned to look Tom in the eye. “If there is anything to be done for it, do not hesitate to ask. The favour returned shall be the help given I assure you.” Tom did not believe it for a second but thanked the man anyway.
“Another problem is Dumbledore’s enclave and their distaste for blood-magic. This is part of the reason I have travelled here. Research on sacrificial magic, that may buffer the fallout from so much knowledge lost. I told The Circle of Druids of my true intention, and I suspect Dumbledore had attempted to prevent my journey. Something has truly been compromised. He has been refusing the rites of human sacrifice, even animal sacrifice. I suspect Dumbledore,” he spat the name, “is the reason not has been done about the Christians.”
“Truly!” Abraxas exclaimed.
“He will have us lose our knowledge and our magic for the sake of the very few. I will not stand by and let this be lost by a soft-hearted imbecile at the end of his life,” Tom was vehement on this topic. After his impassioned speech the only sounds were the crashing of waves on the cliffs and the cry of the sea-gulls for some minutes.
“And so you are searching for the equivalent of what was lost?” Abraxas asked, once it was clear Tom was done.
He nodded. “This Island is well known for its dramatic history. And the oldest known, the most powerful magic, is said to have been studied and practised here.”
“Sacrifice?”
“Yes.”
Soul Magic was what Tom did not say.
Abraxas eyed Tom thoughtfully. “I know there are some ruins and surviving tombs and inscriptions on the far island here, even below the city itself. Unfortunately I do not know them well and am quite busy myself, but I can find someone who does. One of the servants or secretaries. They are popular to explore amongst the youth.”
“That would be most helpful,” Tom said with a nod.
A teasing glint entered Abraxas’ eye. “In fact I am quite positive a certain boy, that you have had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of, has regaled a few of my advisors with tales of his adventures amongst the ruins.”
Tom sat a little straighter, now reminded of what originally had him wandering the villa’s halls that morning.
“That would be useful. I am likely to leave as early as convenient today, to give enough time for a preliminary search of these ruins you speak of.”
“Of course, I will have him waiting at your rooms in half an hour, if that is adequate?”
“Yes, excellent,” Tom accepted. “Which reminds me, how would I find the hall your guests were entertained in last night? I have a desire to view it again in the light of day.”
“Easily done, I will have Yulita show you the way,” Abraxas gestured to a slave girl discreetly standing to the back of the balcony.
“Many thanks, Abraxas,” Tom stood and once more gave his due respect.
Abraxas waived it off. “Not at all Tom. And though you said in your message you would not visit for any great length; if it is for the preservation of magic, you will have rooms here.”
Tom thanked Abraxas again before stepping away from the balcony and following the slave to the centre of the villa complex, where lay the hall, and more importantly the garden, that had been on his thoughts for hours now.
The slave girl left him when they reached the eating hall. It didn’t take long searching before Tom found the little patch of garden that reeked of death and magic. Amongst a large area of overgrown common herbs amongst which were scattered magical plants that most benefited from the pest repellent varieties like licorice-mint and basil was an even circle of scorched plantlife.
Tom took careful note of which plants were growing where. It was interesting to see the varying practices in magical horticulture between here and his home, not to mention the enormous array of native flora he had never seen before. In the garden bed opposite the reduced one was a wildly growing collection of morning stars, their colourful and delicate petals quivering in some small breeze, a few opening and closing like jellyfish.
Tom turned back to the reason he entered the gardens in the first place. From a close range the buzzing of ungrounded magic was a light tang in the air and fairly old now. At first glance the area that had died looked to have been caused by a small fire. There was a black area two hand spans in diameter containing no plant-life. Surrounding this were yellowed and dying bushes and grasses that looked as though they had been dried out by a great heat. The area spanned the breadth of a man’s height and gave off a strong smell of decayed organic matter rather than burnt leaves that Tom would have expected.
Tom crouched down to investigate and noticed what at first appeared to be charcoaled grasses was actually whole blades that had turned black, as though the decomposition process had accelerated.
Willing magic to his fingertips, Tom was surprised to feel the pulse of life. It was distant and shy, not at all as strong as if he were to feel the flowers growing behind him, but nevertheless there. He looked closely and sure enough new sprouts were breaking the surface of the soil, fecund and green.
Whatever magic had been used to regrow the plants felt similar but not the same as what killed them. There was a potency to it that Tom found familiar and after thinking a little longer he decided that like the saliva in the wine, it was some kind of potion or liquid substance that had brought life back to the soil. Being on par with a slave the boy could not own a wand or staff, so it could not be a spell. Tom was also reluctant to believe he could have a will strong enough to perform such powerful feats of magic without a channel of some kind. Perhaps a quartz like the healer woman used.
And while that may have been correct, Tom was still certain there was something he was missing, as the magic seemed more familiar to him than merely the product of the same practitioner. Perhaps another conduit similar to spit? Sweat or tears maybe? Both were common ingredients in potions and rituals. And while rare to have such antithetical results from the same source, spit may have once again been used.
As academically interesting it was to solve this, Tom did have a far more pressing avenue of research to pursue. His purpose for coming to the Island. And with his guide being the boy Iakobos himself, there was a more direct way to get his answers.
Tom rose from his crouch and dusted off his robes, thoughts on the garden, the death of the Persian woman, and the ruins he was about to be shown.
Tom reached his quarters in no short order. In the antechamber stood the slave boy—Who had behaved as a Catamite the night before, Tom remembered— waiting with his hands behind his back. When he turned at the sounds of Tom’s entrance the older man was taken aback by the features he had not got a good look at the night before. He had freckles and olive skin like a greek. But his sable hair was the fine large ringlets of a Celt, rather than coarse tight curls of those men living around the great inland sea. In this way he was not dissimilar to Tom in features. Except for his eyes. His eyes were an intense green Tom had never seen before on a man. They were eyes like a cat.
The boy had a suspiciously innocent look upon his face. And when Tom glanced around the room he noticed the manuscripts he had brought as part of his research were disturbed from the position he had left them in that morning. Now Tom was interested to know if the boy was literate in Greek. Tom contemplated if this would be peculiar or not, along with all the other anomalies. He noticed then the young man was becoming visibly uncomfortable under his scrutinising gaze and chose to do nothing to alleviate these troubles. Embarrassment had been something Tom had never personally suffered, and viewing it in others was always amusing.
After what must have been a painfully long time, Iakobos at last worked up some form of courage and broke the silence.
“I was informed you were in need of a guide to the ruins on the other side of the caldera, my lord,” he spoke with confidence and exceeding politeness, as a servant to their superior. His head was bowed and eyes and lashes lowered in well-practised deference. When Tom remained silent and unmoving an obvious frustration crept into his countenance.
“Unless of course I have been misinformed?” And there was the rude and disrespectful youth he had addressed the night prior.
“No, no mistake at all,” Tom replied softly, “I was merely surprised to find you here so promptly.”
The boy muttered something so quietly that a less astute person might have missed it. Tom chose to ignore it, Instead he moved to the sleeping quarters to collect his travelling cloak, journal, and scribe’s stick.
“I am under the impression there are ruins below the city itself, or do you have the authority to consider those inadequate?” Tom questioned, a note of reprimand in his tone.
“Well you’re here for magic or learning or something, aren’t you?” Iakobos looked him boldly in the eye and Tom felt his eyebrows move in surprise. “The ruins on this side are just where the regular people lived. On the other side are where you will find the temples and the old Gate.”
“Then that is where we will go,” Tom said, fastening his cloak with a silver pin and ensuring the case his journal and writing implements were kept in was attached securely to his belt. It was then that he noticed the hessian bag by the door. Iakobos walked over to it, his overly short chiton riding up the back of his thighs when he bent over to pick it up, before carefully slinging it over his shoulder and turning to wait for Tom to leave first.
They walked through the corridors of the villa with Iakobos a pace ahead of Tomso he could lead the way. “Through here,” he gestured to a hidden side door that he easily ducked through. This opened into an alley between the Proconsul’s villa and the treasury next door. They walked for a time through now bustling streets at a steady decline towards the inner shore of the crescent island. It had already been a fifteen minute walk, with Tom taking in new sights and strange activities of the people before he noticed his guide seemed somewhat deep in thought, brow furrowed. Either that or he was feeling uncomfortable with Tom’s silence.
“You have not yet given me a name,” Tom asked.
“Oh, erm,” he hesitated, flicking his curling fringe out of his eyes. “It’s Iakobos.”
“You don’t seem so sure,” Tom said, the corner of his mouth tilting.
“No, well, I mean yes. I’m certain that’s my name but-” And he abruptly cut off. Tom didn’t press, guessing that he would soon cave under the pressure of Tom’s silence. They were now going down a set of roughly hewn stairs at a much steeper angle than the ones Tom had climbed from the main harbour the afternoon before. He was disappointed to find Iakobos had clearly grown more comfortable with being silently in Tom’s presence and soon they reached a small harbour where fishing boats were moored.
“These are all my Lord's fishers. We will be taking the third one down with the red sales,” he explained, pointing to a small thing without sales that Tom could see, or even a set of oars.
Along the small jetty there were no more than twenty boats tied up, and Tom guessed they must all belong to other fishermen or Roman vassal’s. Further round the just of a pier he saw a single war ship, but it looked distinctly repurposed. Iakobos had entered a small shed at the base of the stairs they had just walked down.
Tom took his time approaching the small boat. Inside were two benches running up each side for passengers and after lifting a trap door he confirmed that the bilge had generous space for supplies. towards the hull was a small wooden bench in front of which a pedestal that rose to Tom’s hip, on which was set a bronze ring.
Not a moment later Iakobos returned with his burlap and a large, green quartz rock which he immediately set into the centre of the bronze ring. He then stooped down and lifted the hatch at the floor of the boat, which revealed the generous space for storing supplies and now apparently mysterious bags. When he stood again he had to take a step back so he did not stand so close to Tom. He was a head shorter, the wild black hair just tickling the bottom of Tom’s chin.
They looked at each other before the silence finally made Iakobos uncomfortable.
“Well, are you going to sit?” he asked, rather rudely.
Tom narrowed his eyes in displeasure before stretching his mouth into an accommodating smile.
“But of course. I was waiting on the captain,” he spoke with the utmost grace, so that Iakobos could surely find no complaint. The young man pursed his lips in a moue of irritation at Tom’s polite tone and huffed to himself. He was, ultimately, a servant, and had no right to even talk the way he did.
“If my Lord is ready then we shall set sail for that island there,” Iakobos pointed to the hazy, though not greatly distant island to the south-east. “It won’t take longer than an hour to reach,” he spoke while unwinding the more-line. He pushed off from the dock, with an arm and one leg braced against the stern.
Soon the gentle waves and sea current was easing them away from the dock.
“How long does it take to reach our destination?” Tom asked.
Iakabos shook his head. Now that they were on the water, a grin that he seemed unable to control kept lighting up his features. He took a firm stance before the large quartz rock, his back foot turned out to brace himself, a slight bend in his forward knee, similar to a swordsman’s stance. He raised his arms so his hands were straight out in front in line with his face, palms facing out and forefingers and thumbs just touching in the shape of a loose triangle. He took deep breaths and pulled his shoulders back. Tom saw how his muscles were still flexed, but his joints were loose to accommodate the bucking of the boat's deck.
He felt magic begin to stir the air over them, and a humming at the back of his mind started up that seemed to emanate from the quartz crystal and boy both. The ship jerked once, twice, and then took off as if it was a spooked horse. Had Tom been standing he would have been knocked off his feet by the sudden and incredible speed. A galley of fifty men could not travel so fast! And the catamite boy stood relaxed and clearly unstrained as he moved their vessel and two souls across the wide bay. As though performing such magic, without a wand, and with only the focus of a quartz stone, was the easiest thing in the world.
Tom felt the edges of his mind for how much his interest had grown.
The Barbarian man was creepy. He kept staring at different and innocuous parts of Harry’s body for extended periods of time, as though calculating the exact length of his fingers or the distance between his eyes. And he hardly ever showed anything on his face, except maybe academic interest. For the past ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, unfortunately not quite drowned out by the rumble of the ocean, he had blinked maybe twice. Harry had been trying to keep tally while avoiding eye contact.
This also meant that if his gaze did happen to wander over to the man he had to stare at his offensively long legs. And think about the fact he was wearing black robes in the middle of the day. He probably knew some fancy spells to help with that.
He was on a grand total of three blinks in seven minutes when Tall Man decided to speak.
“I’m surprised someone of your status has been taught such a feat.” His tone may have been going for disinterest but the unnerving stare rather broke any illusion of that being the case.
Harry gave his head a little shake, not sure what was meant by such a statement. “My Lord?”
Tall Man looked a little irritated at that. “You’re a slave,” Harry could not help wrinkling his nose at the slight. “And yet you’ve clearly had a tutor in advanced magic.”
Harry couldn’t help but let out an incredulous laugh. “I assure you my Lord, I have never paid or had tutoring paid for me in the noble art of magic. And I have certainly never owned a wand,” he shrugged.
Tall Man twitched his head to the side. “Then how do you explain what you’re currently doing?”
“My Lord?” Harry was feeling a little despairing at this point.
Some true emotion did flicker in the man’s black eyes, the skin around them tightening minutely. A thrill of fear flashing down Harry’s spine. Whatever it was soon vanished and was replaced with his usual calculation. It was like watching a snake decide if the energy expended for catching an enticing mouse would be worth it.
“You use the Focal Quartz with admirable efficiency. Or perhaps it’s a rarer kind, capable of far greater magnification?”
Harry could feel his face screwed up in annoyance and maybe a small amount of embarrassment. Not at all sure what he was talking about. Magnifying what?
From what Harry understood, from what he had been told by the impatient and lecherous ship master, the Focal Quart had magic stored up in it which could then be released to do whatever magic it was supposed to. Harry’s education was a little sketchy on how Spell-magic worked.
“The -er... magic’s already in the quartz. I’m just letting it out and steering the boat.” was his hazardous explanation, not at all sure if there was proper terminology for this.
“‘The magic is already in the quartz’ and you’re ‘just letting it out’?”
Tall Man sounded so taken aback, and that this first show of genuine emotion was bafflement, Harry couldn’t help it. He burst out with peals of laughter.