Children of Tiber and Nile (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  Uneasy murmurs from her guests. “They’re god-born,” Agrippa told his wife gently, his heavy, graying eyebrows overhanging his deep-set eyes like grapevines on an arbor. “He’s god-born of Mars, Venus, and others. She’s god-born of Venus and Isis, too. The gods have plainly put them here for a reason. And at the moment, this isn’t a good time to question the wisdom of the gods.”

  “Did you see what happened at the tomb of Casca Servilius?” Publius Servilius Rullus asked, shuddering. “One of my cousins from that branch of the Servilii family got up in front of the tomb of his ancestor, the one who tried to assassinate Caesar. Tried to call on the memory of his late, unlamented uncle, and whip the crowd into a frenzy against, as you say, the bastard-born, half-Egyptian son of Caesar. I swear, I thought I saw two or three men advancing on him through the crowd, drawing knives, but they never got there.” He took a fortifying sip of his wine, and added, “Lightning struck the tomb. From out of a clear sky. The statue of Clementia—the only statue that Caesar would allow to be erected on the tomb of one of his would-be assassins—fell. Shattered. A piece struck his head, and he fell down dead. I was there, Livia.”

  “Coincidence,” Livia tried to sneer, but a depressing number of her guests shook their heads vehemently.

  “Coincidence that the goddess of mercy’s own image was shattered in the very instant a descendant of an assassin tried to incite the mob against the son of the man his father tried to assassinate? I’d call that a very pointed sign,” another man muttered. “One I don’t need an augur to read, thank you. Sometimes the gods speak in whispers. That one was a shout.”

  “Besides,” Rullus commented lightly, “it’s not as if he and his sister seem to have anything more than a symbolic marriage. I doubt that they, er, well. You know.” He chuckled uneasily. “Otherwise, by now, surely they’d have had a two-headed child, or at least some sort of visible pregnancy.”

  Agrippa—damn him—raised his head, and murmured, “It’s amazing how often I hear about the potential for two-headed children from that pair, when not a single one of the pharaohs of Egypt for the past three thousand years has been born with that particular defect. The occasional clubfoot. The occasional cleft palate. But singularly, no double-headed infants.”

  “It would be a marvel of anatomy, but rather hard on the mother, don’t you think?” a woman murmured, trying for delicacy of phrasing, and everyone tittered into their wine.

  “My point remains,” Rullus said placidly, “he has no heirs. Nor seems likely to have them any time soon. That will leave his brother Alexander, and he’s due to marry Octavian’s daughter Octavia, eh . . . sometime next year? Lad doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get her properly tied down.” A hearty chuckle at that.

  “He’s a busy young man,” came an arch comment from somewhere to her left. “Considering his social life, I wouldn’t be all that eager to rush into matrimony, myself, if I were to see his age again.” Considering that the patrician male saying so was heavyset and in his fifties, that would be another wonder of anatomy.

  Rullus rallied. “And there’s nothing that says that the office of Imperator will be hereditary. The gods seem to have decreed for Caesarion to follow Caesar. But after him? Who knows. Perhaps we’ll get back to selecting the best man for the job from, well. The best of the best.” He toasted those around him lightly with his cup. “But I’m in no rush to see that happen. For now, I think we can trust in the wisdom of the gods.”

  Fuming, Livia sat in silence for the rest of the evening. Saw her guests out. Endured Agrippa’s gentle kiss on her cheek, and quiet words of, “You need to let it go, my dear. Octavian was a good man. He was my friend. He had a vision for Rome—and I’ll see to it that his vision doesn’t die. But you can’t defy the gods themselves, my dear.”

  Yes, I can, Livia thought, as her personal slave helped her take down her hair for the night. Dried weld blossoms, brewed into a tisane, were brushed through her hair—officially for the herbal fragrance, but more truthfully to stave off the first traces of gray in her blond tresses. And as the Cretan slave worked, Livia brooded, staring out the window. Poison doesn’t work on Caesarion. I tried that straight away, but Lepidus, the old fool, drank from the young Emperor’s cup, and nearly died for it. But those closest to him have no such immunities, do they? Well, that bitch Cleopatra has managed to dodge every dose sent her way these twenty years. Always by somehow just avoiding whatever dish had the poison in it—and usually telling Caesar which foods ‘just don’t look appetizing tonight, dear.’ Livia’s lips curled down at the corners. Of course, if I were somehow to remove Caesarion from the game, at the moment, he has no heir. Besides Alexander. For whose life, Caesarion traded my husband’s.

  And oh, how that thought burned at her. “Eritha, have there been any messages from my sons?” Livia asked.

  The maid’s swift brushstrokes halted. “No, domina.”

  “And the men I have placed in the Julii household? Have they seen or heard anything of importance?”

  “They said that they aren’t permitted near the personal chambers of the household, my lady. But they know that while Tiberius has taken a house for himself and his brother, that they still spend three nights out of every seven in the Julii house.”

  The girl’s sweet voice irritated Livia. She tore the brush out of her hands and threw it against the wall, cracking the tortoiseshell handle. “Go! Leave me!”

  The girl scuttled out, and Livia sank into her chair to brood. She had agents dotted throughout the city, who timidly reported on her eldest son’s activities. How he and Alexander went to brothels and low tavernas together. Purchased the services of whores together. Diced together. Did everything, apparently, together. And, locked in the bottom of one of her coffers, was a report from an innkeeper in Athens, which suggested that they’d definitely tried at least a few other things, together.

  It has been my dream for years to put my sons on a path for greatness. The consul’s chair. Then the Imperator’s. Why not? They’re both of the noble house of the Claudii. Each of them betrothed to the daughters of notable, wealthy, powerful plebeians—a daughter of Antony for Drusus, a daughter of Agrippa for Tiberius. She looked grimly at a stack of reports and letters piled on her dressing table. By all accounts, he’d covered himself in glory in Hispania. Entrusted with the Tenth Legion in the position of temporary legate at the tender age of fifteen. Brought back down to tribune the following campaign season, he’d led his troops into battle against the Cantabri in the worst possible terrain—and had won several notable battles. He’d become known for harsh drills under conditions as close to combat as he could make them, and as a result, his legionnaires excelled. And while the men didn’t love him, they respected him. Knew he’d never send them anywhere, but that he’d be right there with them. All the things that would make him a favorable candidate for office on leaving the legion, and yet. . . he sullies himself. The rumors of an affair with a merchant’s wife in Athens, to go along with all the rest? Where is that famous sense of honor he once possessed? She sniffed. Oh, he used to hold himself so high above Octavian.

  A smile crossed her lips, and she nodded. “Yes,” Livia murmured. “That’s the way to reach him. It just needs the right words. He needs to understand that his dear friend is dragging him down.” And that Alexander, like all the rest of these Egyptian pretenders, must die.

  Her smile faded. Of course, if he won’t see reason, I have many recourses for dealing with him. I can expose him for what he’s become. Let him suffer the public condemnation and humiliation as he sees the scraps of his honor blown away from him. And if that doesn’t work?

  I have another son. And Tiberius—in whom I placed all my hopes—is certain to be far less immune to poison than these upstarts who carry the noble Julii name.

  Her eyes burned for a moment, and Livia settled her hand on the stack of reports, very gently. “Where did I go wrong with you?” she murmured. “You have to know how low you’ve sunk, my son. By now, an
y Roman father would be well within his rights to kill you as a shame to his house. Or at least, to disinherit you.” Of course, exercising those rights would be tantamount to confessing your immorality to the rest of the world in public. Most fathers wouldn’t do that. Even Eburnus, the censor who executed his own son as a catamite, was condemned for exceeding his parental authority, and exiled. “What would your father think of you? Not Octavian. What would Nero think? He’d have been proud of all those victories in Hispania, of course. But the rest?” She sighed, and patted the letters. “Perhaps thinking of him will reach you, where none of my words ever seem to. I do hope you’ll listen, my son,” she murmured, before leaning forward to blow out the oil lamp on her table. “Of course, children past a certain age, never do.”

  ______________

  In quite another quarter of Rome, two young men were in bed with a whore. Each of them were eighteen, in the prime of their lives. Muscled from marching with the legions, in full kit. Riding. Fighting. Bodies sweating, straining. Muffled grunts of pleasure from the two young men, and the occasional startled sound of pleasure from the woman.

  Alexander Julius Caesar paused in his work to ensure that yes, Jocasta, the startlingly beautiful Hellene attraction of this particular establishment, had closed her eyes in enjoyment of what he was doing, and then flicked his gaze over her right shoulder, meeting the gray gaze of his best friend, Tiberius, as he did so. Of all the many sexual intricacies they’d tried over the years, this act remained their favorite—both of them firmly seated in the same woman, at the same time. The trick remains finding a woman who genuinely enjoys this. Hazy thoughts, soon lost on the wave of his own release. And then waited, watching Tiberius’ expression as he continued to work at the whore from behind. Enjoying the dazed, happy look as he, too, found his release.

  Then Alexander pulled himself out of Jocasta’s warm, very relaxed body, and gave her a light pat on the hip. “Thank you,” he told her, smiling. “Now that we’ve done business, can we do business?” He adjusted the amulet of Sekhmet, worn on a long chain around his neck. He and Tiberius had matching ones, which had cost them a small fortune each. But the charms hawked at the temple of Asclepius didn’t prevent diseases with nearly the efficacy of the talismans of Sekhmet—and talismans of Sekhmet didn’t need to be ‘re-blessed’ once a month, either, for an additional charge. His mother, Cleopatra, had strongly recommended that they purchase these items, and Alexander had seen the sense. Grimacing with burning pain every time he urinated was simply not a consequence of fun—or duty—that he particularly enjoyed.

  Now, Jocasta smiled, and slid out of the bed, still naked, and crossed the small area in which she spent her nights. She opened a small chest, from which she removed a scroll, buried deep under her various garments and a variety of specialized tools of her trade. As one such fell on the floor, Alexander rolled to his stomach, pointed at it, and asked with sleepiness that was partially feigned, “Is that an extra?”

  “It certainly is if you wish to put it in me, dominus. If I get to put it in one of you two, I might call that a fair trade.” A saucy wink, but Alexander didn’t take offense. Just held his hand out for the scroll, which he scanned now, with interest.

  “Anything interesting?” Tiberius asked, already cleaning himself and getting dressed with quick, sharp, precise movements.

  “Our good friend here has a new client. Rullus. Goodness. Apparently, all that public morality is really debilitating.” Alexander’s eyebrows rose. “Three girls and a boy?”

  “He’s the sort who likes to watch,” Jocasta supplied, perching on the edge of her bed, pouting as Tiberius continued to ignore her gloriously naked state. “He had us all doing each other. Then he told the other two girls to do to him what we’d been doing to the boy. With a little something extra added, just for him.”

  Alexander considered himself more than a neophyte in the carnal realm these days. What he read in the description, however, sickened him. “Excrement?”

  “Dis’ teeth,” Tiberius muttered. “My mother invites him to dine every time she manages to get me over to see her and Agrippa. I won’t be able to eat the next time I see him over a dinner table.”

  Jocasta rolled her eyes. “Personally, I think that if everyone just would have a good solid fuck once a day, the demand for specialty acts would decline dramatically.”

  Alexander sat up and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “Yes, but then where would you be?”

  “Giving many more people their solid one fuck a day, instead of a smaller group their darkest desires once a month.” The words were pert. Her eyes were not.

  Alexander gave her another kiss, this time on the forehead. “You’re one of my best information sources,” he told her gently. “Rullus still seemed quite rattled about that statue, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” She sighed. “Oh, and I should mention that Livia Drusilla made me an offer last week.”

  Tiberius, now fully dressed and seated quite properly across the room, jerked as if he’d just been stabbed. “My mother?” he said, in a tone of disbelief. “She came here?”

  “No, one of her agents. Made me the usual offer of coin for information. Largely about the two of you.” Jocasta rolled her eyes again. “You should probably ask for one of the other girls next time, so that there’s less of a visible pattern to your visits here. Or you, dominus, should come alone.” She glanced at Alexander.

  He nodded. “How much did she offer you?”

  “A solidus.”

  He took out twice that, and told her, “Take her money. But I’d be obliged if you only told her what I want her to hear.” He paused. “Does she know about your sister?”

  Jocasta’s sister was an invalid; her sister’s pay at the brothel ensured that they had a slave of their own to provide care night and day, and also ensured that they could afford medications and prayers at the temples. She shook her head now. “The subject didn’t come up. If she threatens Viola, I will be sure to tell you.” Jocasta’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like being threatened.”

  Alexander nodded. Threats and blackmail work on some people. Or a handle on their addictions. But not on Jocasta. She doesn’t care if something happens to her, and a little wine at the end of the day lets her forget without recourse to poppy-blood. And try to touch her sister, and she’ll try to end the person who makes the threat. But give her good money for her services, and she’s loyal—to a point. “Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for your sister,” he murmured, putting on his own clothes.

  And then Tiberius moved over, took Jocasta’s hand, and bowed over it as if she were a lady before they left, making the low-born woman smile, suddenly delighted. And that, Alexander knew, was his friend in a nutshell. Passionate in bed. Distant, reserved, and utterly polite out of it. It drove women crazy, and was one of the reasons Tiberius was invaluable to Alexander’s work. The women that Alexander couldn’t reach with smiles and light flirtation? Many of them seemed to find Tiberius’ good looks and unapproachable air a challenge—or they saw the perennial melancholy in his chill eyes, and wanted to comfort him, somehow. As if each of them thought that they were the ones who would finally thaw and warm him.

  The lowest parts of Rome were, these days, Alexander’s personal office. He smiled at shopkeepers as he and Tiberius walked by, stopped in to chat with taverna owners, and admired new sculptures being tapped out of marble on a street full of artisans. And on every street, he checked walls for fresh graffiti that might tell him what was on the city’s mind, or at least what rumbled through its troubled viscera.

  About five streets from the brothel, Tiberius said, mildly, “Remember that magic powder from Qin that the ambassadors left three years ago?”

  “Hmm, yes?” Alexander said, making eye-contact with another of his agents—this one a retired legionnaire who was now a frumentarii—a tax-collector, officially, but an information-gatherer in reality. “What about it?”

  “The writings they left wit
h it said that we should be careful with fire around it, didn’t they?”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely. Apparently, it’s some sort of chemical compound that they use to make loud noises and drive evil spirits away.” The agent walked by, and a hand brushed Alexander’s, leaving a scrap of parchment in his palm.

  “About how much of that,” Tiberius said thoughtfully, “do you think someone would need to, say, blow up a fair-sized statue? Say, a life-sized one of Clementia?”

  Alexander turned, giving his friend a scandalized look. “Ti, I’m shocked at you. You really think that I would sneak into a cemetery in the dead of night, chancing the wrath of the manes—“

  “You don’t believe in the manes.” Clear, flat words.

  “—drill a hole in the arse of a goddess—“

  “Wouldn’t be the first time you drilled a—“

  “Shhh,” Alexander said, putting a finger to his lips as they walked through a fresh crowd of people, and Tiberius fell completely silent as the jostle of limbs passed. And once they all had, Alexander leaned in and whispered, “I can neither confirm nor deny that it would take about half of the powder that the ambassadors left behind. But I will say that I want more of that damned stuff.”

  Tiberius actually laughed. “You know that they’re saying the gods were responsible.”