Air and Darkness by David Drake Page B

crag!”
    He pointed his whole arm in a broad, dramatic gesture. He would have used a motion as quick as a spear thrust if he were informing a legion’s commander—or directing the troops he was about to lead in an assault.
    A noble entourage was pressing through the crowd, past the ancient altar to Vulcan. Corylus recognized the leaders as the Illyrian members of Alphena’s suite. No other noble would be seen in daylight guarded by such men, so even before the girl’s head became visible beyond the taller escorts he was certain that it was her.
    â€œAnd so she was punished!” Corylus said. A successful orator couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by what was happening in the audience or beyond it. “But since the immortal gods preserved her unharmed by the fall, what business is it of mere men like ourselves to object to their august decision? The laws of our forefathers have been carried out, and the mercy of the gods has been displayed. Release her now!”
    He swept his pointing arm across the arc of his fellow students. Piso was ostentatiously chatting with his toady Beccaristo, but the others listened intently. Two were even jotting notes.
    â€œRelease her,” Corylus repeated. “Or set yourself against the will of our ancestors and the judgment of the immortals!”
    He lowered his arm. Pandareus nodded approval, and a pair of strangers—Corylus didn’t know their names, at least—stamped their feet in applause. There were always loungers in the Forum; some of them had become good judges of a speaker’s ability.
    I’d like to think these were two of the more knowledgeable ones, Corylus thought. He smiled at himself.
    Pulto stood at the back of the class with the servants of the other students. Alphena spoke with him and he—not Alphena’s own escorts—led her through the chattering students to the teacher’s side. Pandareus bent his ear to her words, then mounted the first step of the Rostra.
    â€œYoung gentlemen,” he said, “we will delay our discussion of Master Corylus’ presentation to the morrow. Other business calls us now, and possibly pleasures call some of you.”
    Laughter rippled. The class broke up with the suddenness of a bird’s egg falling to the pavement.
    â€œYour Ladyship,” said Pandareus, stepping down from the Rostra to meet Alphena. Julius Caesar had rebuilt in marble the curving steps decorated with the bronze rams, the Rostra, of Carthaginian warships captured centuries before. The Rostra was the Senate’s original meeting place, but today and most days the senators were under the cover of the Basilica Julia on the southern edge of the Forum.
    Alphena’s escort had moved up. They pressed closer to their mistress than better-trained guards would have done. Pulto stood back, watching with a friendly smile. Corylus hadn’t been sure how the old soldier would get on with Alphena’s toughs, but there hadn’t been any trouble. The parties respected one another, and nobody felt he had anything to prove.
    Corylus joined them on the Forum pavement. Alphena backed to give him room, bumped one of her Illyrians, and snapped, “Drago! All of you! Get back three steps or I’ll leave you back at the house the next time!”
    That struck Corylus as an odd threat, but the escorts retreated obediently—not three paces, but enough to provide elbow room. Alphena made a grimace of apology to Corylus and said, “They have something to learn about deportment, but they’re very, well, loyal.”
    Corylus lifted his chin in agreement. “They can learn deportment,” he said. “I noticed you asked Pulto to lead you through the crowd, though.”
    â€œI thought that was better than explaining to Father that my guards had broken the ribs of some of his colleagues’ sons,” Alphena said with another grimace.
    â€œI applaud your restraint, Your