This Fire Burns - Chapter 8

[January 4th, 2005]

By the gods, if I hear the word “pozzolana” one more time, I might set the desk on fire.

Cassius, a legacy of Apollo and a student from New Rome University who was teaching our class, was on his third slide about the marvels of Roman concrete. His toga was perfectly pressed, and he had the vibe of a guy who genuinely loved teaching. Poor guy. He was completely oblivious to the fact that he was slowly killing us.

The classroom was inside one of New Rome’s older marble buildings, with wide arched windows that let in the morning light. 

Apparently, the Romans have a strong sense of civic duty. It’s strongly encouraged for the NRU students to provide academic instruction for the legion’s youth. So, every morning, I was grouped with the twenty or so other twelve-year-olds from across all the cohorts for lessons.

We get taught all the normal subjects: math, literature, science, and so on. The problem with these classes was that they were unnecessary for me. I had a complete high school education from a whole other life. 

The only subject that offered anything remotely new was Roman History, and even that was a bit of a gamble. Yesterday, the lecture was on Scipio Africanus and his masterful maneuvers at the Battle of Ilipa. Now that was interesting. A brilliant general using terrain, timing, and sheer psychological audacity to encircle and annihilate a larger Carthaginian force. 

Meanwhile, today’s riveting discussion was about cement production in the second century CE and its economic impact.

I yawned as Cassius paced in front of the chalkboard. “The concrete had a secret ingredient known as pozzolana, made from volcanic ash from the region, and was cured with lime. Ash and lime do make strong concrete, but this was only the original theory known to the mortals.”

Without warning, he reached under the lectern and brought out a thick slab of actual concrete and a mallet. He placed the slab on the sturdy pedestal beside him.

“The real key was how the ingredients were mixed,” he declared with a grin, raising the mallet high.

CRACK!

The sudden, violent sound jolted the class. Some of the kids next to me physically jumped. Even I blinked, my attention snapping to the front.

The concrete had a fracture running across its surface. 

Cassius held it up for all of us to see. “As you can see, small white chunks are found in the concrete, and this was originally thought to be poor mixing. But the material, derived from limestone, had a secret purpose. Rather than using slaked lime, which is done by mixing quicklime with water, the builders mixed quicklime directly with the rest of the building materials at high temperatures, in addition to adding slaked lime. This ‘hot mixing’ created new compounds only possible under intense temperatures, and reduced the time needed for curing and setting the concrete.”

“But there is still more, the secret lies in the lime clasts themselves!” He opened his bottle of water and let only a small amount of water fall onto the cracks. 

The moment the water touched it, the white lime clasts along the fracture began to fizz. A milky solution seeped from them, filling the gap. “When water—the very thing that weakens mortal concrete—meets with the lime clasts, they dissolve and create a calcium-rich solution that glues the cracks back together.”

“So you see,” he concluded, turning back to the class, “the Romans didn't just invent strong concrete. They invented self-healing concrete!”

Just as my interest was finally piqued, Cassius clapped his hands. 

“Well, that’s all the time I have. Remember, you guys are the most important people in the legion, so make sure to go to your cohort training this afternoon. You have a one-hour break. Consult your Centurions for details. Class dismissed!”

My classmates’ brief moment of fascination was already forgotten in the face of freedom as they scrambled for the exit. I pushed myself up slowly, feeling a sense of ironic frustration.

I sat through the boring parts of the lecture like the history of how it changed architecture, and the class ended just when it was getting interesting?

Still, I guess it wasn’t all that bad.

If only Cassius locked in earlier.

With the brief flare of intellectual curiosity now extinguished, I was left with an hour to kill.

Mess hall? Nah, not hungry.

I suddenly remembered that inexplicable warmth from the round temple on the hill. The sense of a welcoming pull that felt nothing like the imposing grandeur of the other gods’ shrines.

Yeah, I had nothing better to do. Maybe I’ll even check out the inside today. 

“Hey, Serif!” 

I looked back to see Gwen jogging up to me.

“How was class?” she asked, breathing slightly fast from the run.

“It had its moments,” I admitted with a shrug. “The start was boring though.”

She laughed. “Ha! That’s just how it is sometimes. Anyways, are you heading to the barracks before training?”

“I guess I can stop by to say hi. But I have other plans.”

“You’re coming to training today, right?” She held my gaze long enough for it to be clear that it wasn’t a casual question. “It was optional during Saturnalia. It went back to being mandatory three days ago. You were there the first day, but where were you yesterday?”

I sighed, not thinking anyone would actually care if I missed a session or two.

“It’s pointless for me, Gwen,” I said, trying to explain my logic. “You guys are practicing shield formations and spear thrusts. That’s not how I fight. I’m more of a—” I waved a hand vaguely in the air. “punch wizard. When am I ever going to need to stand in a line and poke someone with a long stick?”

She nodded in understanding. “I get that. Nobody here thinks you need help with fighting. But this isn’t about your fighting style, Serif. It’s about the cohort.”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. 

“People have noticed that you’re not there, and some of the other cohorts are already whispering that the Fifth gets another strong recruit and he thinks he’s too good to train with us.”

“There’s those War Games on the weekends, right? I’ll just show up and kick some ass. That’ll teach them.”

Gwen shook her head. “It’s not about teaching them. The others in our cohort are worried you’re already pulling away.”

I looked away, chewing on that. While the training itself still seemed like a waste of my time, the social implications of skipping were a headache. The last thing I wanted was to make my new cohort look divided, not when they were already fighting an uphill battle against every other cohort with their less than stellar reputation.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. I’ll be there. But if I get bored and set the practice dummies on fire, that’s on you.”

She grinned and lightly punched my shoulder. “Deal. See you in an hour, Punch Wizard.”

With that, Gwen headed off toward the barracks, leaving me free to continue toward Temple Hill.

------------------------------

I found myself standing at the open archway of the round temple, staring inside like some creep.

Even though it was a cold winter day, I felt a comfortable heat in the air. It was a welcoming warmth, the kind that made you want to sit by a fire and not say anything.

Still, I hesitated to go inside. 

Vesta was one of the original virgin goddesses. Her priestesses, the Vestal Virgins, were similarly sworn to chastity. It stood to reason that this place might have a strict ‘No Boys Allowed’ policy.

“Are you lost, legionnaire?” 

The calm voice that startled me from my thoughts belonged to a young woman in simple white robes.

“You’ve been lingering by the entrance for a while,” she added. “This isn’t the first time either.”

“Uhh,” I scrambled for an excuse. “I just... wanted to pay my respects. Am I even allowed inside?”

“Of course. The hearth is for everyone. We don’t get many visitors these days. I’d be glad to show you around.”

I hesitated for only a second longer before following her into the temple. 

As we walked, she pointed out a few of the shrines.

“These are for the Lares and Penates, the spirits who guard the family and the pantry that sustains them. Every home has these small protectors, but Lady Vesta is the hearth that warms the entire house. She is the anchor for both the smallest family and the greatest state.”

She moved on without comment, leading me past braziers scattered around the temple. “These fires are kept burning day and night. We feed them with offerings and prayers. They are small reflections of the goddess herself.”

Finally, we stopped at the center where the big stone hearth was. Unlike the little braziers, there was no flame.

Something about it made me frown. 

“Why’s the main fire empty?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“This was where the original Flame of Rome burned,” her expression turned wistful. “It was said to be a fragment of Lady Vesta’s own divine fire. It was lost centuries ago. No one knows exactly when or how. While we keep the lesser fires alive, the true heart of the temple sleeps.”

“Right.” I rubbed my wrist without thinking. The wooden flame Gwen had given me felt warmer in my pocket, as if it knew where we were.

With the short tour over, she looked at me directly. “You’re welcome to stay, if you’d like.”

I nodded. “Thanks. It’s peaceful here.”

She gave me an approving smile before leaving without another word.

Left to my own devices, I wandered around the temple, looking through all the small side chambers. Eventually, I found a thick, leather-bound book on a table. Its cover was worn, but the title was still clear in gold.

Annales Virginum Vestalium.

The Annals of the Vestal Virgins.

“Virgins and anal,” I laughed under my breath. “Nice.”

A low hanging fruit, but because I’m twelve, I get a pass.

I opened the book, wondering if I could find the name of the girl who just gave me the tour. I flipped toward the end, the entries becoming sparse, a testament to the order’s decline.

And then I saw a name that made me freeze.

Cecille Dubois — Legacy of Fortuna

Consecrated: MCMLXXXII (1982)

Released from Vows: MCMXCIII (1993)

Cecille.

My mother.

No. That couldn’t be right.

But the dates lined up. She left the order in ’93. The same year I was born.

It made so much sense.

She was a Vestal Virgin who broke her vows. She had a child with Vulcan. And that child was me.

That’s why this place felt so warm, so safe. Vesta had blessed her, and through her, me. It also explains why my fire is so unnaturally powerful.

I quickly stopped feeling shaken. While it was interesting information, it changed nothing about me or the person who raised me. A label doesn’t rewrite a person.

I gently closed the book and placed it back where I found it.

As I walked towards the exit, I passed the cold, empty central heart one last time. A fleeting thought crossed my mind. I could light a fire for them. Something symbolic to return the favor.

I stopped, looking from my own hand to the ashen hearth.

No. That would be an insult. That hearth held divine flame once, a piece of a goddess. It would be like trying to replace a masterpiece with a knockoff wouldn’t do anyone any favors. 

My fire would have no special meaning to Vesta.

“Better get going,” I muttered.

And I left the temple behind.

------------------------------

[Jason Grace]

Jason stood at the edge of the Field of Mars, arms crossed over his chestplate as he deliberated.

The earliest memory he had was of a woman abandoning him.

He could’ve focused on the fact that his life was offered up by Jupiter to placate Juno’s wrath. That would’ve been enough to send any kid spiraling. Instead, he held on to a distant memory of a loving sister who took care of him.

Still, his mother’s unkept promise was at the core of who he was. He’d built his whole life around the pain of her words, like a grain of sand at the center of a pearl. People lie. Promises are broken. That was why, as much as it chafed him, Jason followed rules. He kept his promises. He never wanted to abandon anyone the way he’d been abandoned and lied to. 

Even the smallest lapse, like being slightly late for a meeting, felt like a betrayal. But he didn’t hold others to this impossible standard, only himself.

It was suffocating. 

From the moment he’d arrived at Camp Jupiter, the legion had treated him like a prince in waiting. Legionnaires whispered when he passed. Older recruits straightened, as if they were already saluting their future commander. Every success was not his own, but a fulfillment of destiny. Every failure was not a mistake, but a crack in the foundation of Rome itself. 

He had tried to escape it—choosing the disgraced Fifth Cohort, befriending the outcasts, attempting to reform camp traditions from the bottom up—but it was no use. The role of the perfect Roman was a gilded cage he could never leave. They had made him Centurion anyway. As a son of Jupiter, his future had never belonged to him.

Perhaps that’s why Serif was the first person he disliked to such a degree.

Plenty of legionnaires misunderstood what it meant to be a son of Jupiter. But Jason didn’t hate those who envied him. Power was the thing they all needed, the weapon against the constant tide of monsters and death. How could he fault anyone for desiring what the world denied them?

On the training field, the contrast was unbearable. Legionnaires stood stiff-backed, trying to embody discipline. Meanwhile, Serif leaned lazily on his scutum, letting Dakota jab at him with a pilum as if it was nothing more than a child’s game. His block was sloppy, almost mocking.

Jason clenched his jaw.

When he’d first seen Serif fight in the Gloria Periculum, watching as the flames cut through opponents one after another, he had felt something he never felt before. Hope. Lupa was there beside him, speaking of the boy’s potential with pride. For a moment, Jason had believed the Fates had granted him a partner. Someone who could shoulder the impossible weight with him. A friend who might make him feel less alone.

But that had been a fantasy.

While Serif may not be a child of one of the eldest gods, he possessed power that rivaled them. And he wielded it like everything was a joke to him. All he did was burn whatever stood in his way.

The disappointment curdled into a cold, hard resolve. The time for passive observation was over.

Jason drew a deep breath. As his posture straightened, the observer was replaced by the Centurion of the Fifth Cohort. He pushed himself off the railing and began walking across the training field, receiving respectful nods from the legionnaires he passed.

Up ahead, Dakota executed a textbook thrust aimed at the center of Serif’s scutum. It was a solid, disciplined move. It was also completely ignored.

Instead of blocking with the scutum as the drill intended, Serif’s free hand shot out. He grabbed the shaft just below the point, then tugged the pilum out of Dakota’s grip. He tossed it to the side as if it were trash instead of a weapon.

Jason stopped a few feet away.

Dakota immediately snapped to attention. The Fifth might treat him with casual familiarity, but they knew when it was time to be serious.

On the other hand, Serif had the expression of someone who’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Wassup, Jason?”

Part of him actually preferred the casual address, though he didn’t let it show.

“Serif,” his voice took on that formal cadence he polished through habit. “I need to speak with you. In Private.”

Serif shrugged, letting the scutum fall from his arm. “Yeah, it’s about time,” he met Jason’s gaze directly, dropping the disinterested act. “Cause I’m seeing a fire in your eyes for the first time.”

As they walked toward an isolated part of the field, Jason was left with one final thought.

What truly bothered him was that Serif embodied the one thing he craved more than anything. While Jason had spent his life bound in chains of expectation, here was someone who acted like chains didn’t even exist.

So was it wrong to feel this way? To resent someone for having the freedom he himself had never been allowed?