“What I did to them was an act of vengeance taken upon fools who had no knowledge of what they had truly done.” His fingers moved down and tugged at his robes. “They suffered for what they did and suffered mightily. I was, of course, praised within our own circles. ‘You did the right thing,’ they said.” Janus’s face hardened. “Zeus himself commended me for teaching mortals a vital lesson about what would come to them should they trifle with gods. ‘It is good for them to be wary,’ he said. ‘Good for them to live with a healthy amount of fear that we walk among them, and to know that should we be interfered with, the vengeance will be swift and brutal.’” Janus let out a low, cackling laugh, free of mirth. “He said this to me, Zeus did. Jupiter, you would know him as, I think. This man. This beast.” His face went slack. “He killed my parents, did you know that? Killed them right in front of me, and he commends me for striking in the name of vengeance because it will ‘set a fine example.’” Janus laughed, but it was nearly maniacal and ended in a few seconds with him wheezing in rage.
“I cannot imagine,” Marius said into the silence. He looked around the room but there was no sign of the servants who had been there only the night before.
“Of course not, my dear boy.” Janus’s entire demeanor changed in an instant; he was conciliatory. His expression softened and he nodded at Marius warmly. “I have wandered afield, I think, in my storytelling. I have amused you all day with the tales of our exploits and stories of foibles. You have likely heard all these myths at some point—”
“No, never,” Marius said, shaking his head. They had all been so wonderful to hear, even the last. It reminded him of a time when a singer had come to the village, and he had been able to listen from out of the circle near the fire. He hid in the darkness and listened to the songs, the stories told to the music. It had been magic, nothing less.
But he had been at a distance for a reason.
“Your daughter,” Marius said slowly, looking up at Janus’s shadowed face. “She was like me?”
“A succubus, yes,” Janus said with a brief nod. His face lapsed back into darkness for a moment. “She is the reason I sought you out once I sensed you at the Forum. I have tried to … assist others like her, like my former wife, in the days since that happened. I cannot bear the thought of others suffering as the outcasts our society would make them and the martyrs that humanity would make of them.” He shook his head. “I do what I can, in my own way, to help.”
“And your wife …?” Marius asked, carefully.
Janus looked straight at him and seemed to look right through him. “You need not fear to ask me a question, dear boy. Even when the answer is painful.” He straightened in his seat. “She went mad with grief and killed herself. It caused her father—she had been his favorite daughter, you see—to go blind with rage. He lost his mind in the wake of this and the death of his granddaughter and vowed to kill every human.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you have heard of him. His name was Hades. Or Pluto, now.”
Marius nodded. “I have heard of him.” He licked his lips, not wanting for the tales to end. There was so much primal emotion bound in them. And a sense of belonging had settled over him, a feeling like he was one of the actors in the tales. “And … Zeus? Jupiter? He still … rules to this day?”
Janus watched him carefully. “Indeed he does.”
Marius felt a stir of righteous anger at the thought of that man on a throne. He sounded familiar. Like the countless villagers who had made Marius afraid, made him fear them, lorded over him that he was an outsider and a freak. Stomped him down. Hit him in passing. He glanced up at Janus and met his eyes, and felt the flare of anger reciprocated. Something kindred was there, a pain they shared. Marius nodded. “It seems … unfair … for such a beast of a man to wrong you in that way and to continue to lord it over others.” He kept his tone careful, and he looked toward the fire, glancing only once at Janus to see what the man said.
There was a quiet for a moment as the flames danced in the hearth, swirling. Marius could almost picture someone dancing with them, screaming in pain, worthy of suffering. He knew a few that deserved it. He did not dare look at Janus.
“Indeed,” Janus said, and Marius could swear it almost sounded like he was smiling as he answered. “It does seem unfair, doesn’t it, for those with power to lord it over those who have it not?” There was a long pause. “Perhaps … someday … with the right … help … we might find a way to address these imbalances.”