From: Art and Opportunity - Printable Version

From: Art and Opportunity - Printable Version

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- Magma - 02-18-2026

Amara watched as Betsy gently cradled the tablet, it seeming so delicate despite being hammered in spite. There was something almost ironic in that – this thing born of bile and vengeance being handled with such reverence among curated works of art. As she watched Betsy examine the defixio, she began to second-guess herself. What possible use would someone like Betsy Braddock have for something so ordinary? Amara had almost asked to drop the whole thing, snatch the tablet back, and disappear forever in embarrassment – had Betsy not affirmed her initial thoughts. “It is unusual, isn’t it?” It was one thing to have doubt, it was another to have a woman like Elizabeth come to the same conclusion. “To curse a fellow man is human. But who would want to bring about damnation to the whole world? Seems like some deep-seeded hate.” And an unrealistic one, at that. To Amara’s knowledge, Romans didn’t believe in the concept of some Biblical or catastrophic end to the world. That was a Judeo-Christian concept, born after the fall of the Republic. So, to her, to curse the entirety of mankind seemed...excessive. And yet, watching as Betsy’s fingers traced the deliberate punctures in the lead, the intent felt far too heavy for a mere exaggeration. As Betsy focused on the defixio, Amara focused on her. There was an effortless grace to everything she did; tilt her head, turn the tablet over in her hands. Even her office seemed impressive. Decorated with personal effects, art, a collection of treasures that served as architecture, framing the woman inhabiting it. The allure and sovereignty of Elizabeth’s presence was admirable; and an odd thing to covet for someone born of a Republic where the very notion of royalty was despised. But that was then, this was now. Amara could admire the tradition, and the woman. After all, even a daughter of Rome could be awed without her ancestors weighing in. Betsy’s voice snapped Amara back, her question about the tablet’s origins a necessary compass, steering her attention once more. “Ah, of course.” That was the very reason she was here, after all. See, Betsy belonged to the legitimate art world where curators courted reputable collectors and archaeologists, pedigrees and all. Amara, by contrast, operated in the shadows of that world, motivated not by duty or wealth, but by nostalgia. Simply put, she missed Nova Roma and so she sought out Rome. For Amara, the ‘how’ of the acquisition was second to its authenticity. Besides, she knew the secret truth of conservators: what was looted today, ended up in the museum the next week. That wasn’t to say Amara was consciously seeking out black market relics. She simply didn’t view history as something that could be owned by a modern government. “A colleague of mine at NYU,” she lied. “He knows I’m a collector and thought this might be of interest.” A partial lie. Amara did know a historian at New York University, and he had put her in touch with the third-party selling off-catalogue items. “We’ve collaborated before. I can personally vouch for its authenticity. The Latin, the lead... it’s real, if that’s what you were asking.” The risk of an untruth to a telepath didn't register until the words were already in the air. Not that she was in the habit of being dishonest. She only wanted to provide enough context to bridge the gap between their worlds. The equivalent to padding her resume, except the interviewer was a psychic. When Betsy asked to look closer, Amara extended her hands, offering the tablet like a dark communion. “Of course, be my guest.” She wasn’t sure what Betsy could glean from it, though she was interested to see. “I can help translate the Latin, if you’d like.”