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

by Deborah Davitt

  “No point,” Tiberius replied shrugging, and the words hit Antyllus somewhere in the pit of the stomach, as if Tiberius had just denied that bond of brotherhood. Because I . . . betrayed a brother today? Did I? By pursuing my own interests? Antyllus wavered. And then decided, I could have put it off by a day, but Father’s always told me, when Fortuna arrives, grab her by the forelock. I’m not sure Tiberius would have done any differently.

  And then a little cold stole through him, and Antyllus wondered, fleetingly, if Tiberius had been the one wounded badly enough to stay in the infirmary a little longer, if Selene would have chosen him, then, instead. Does it all boil down to which of us she felt sorrier for?

  But Tiberius, oblivious to Antyllus’ sudden inner qualms, had found a store of words somewhere. “Caesarion won that battle. He’s got the demon’s own sword to prove it. We didn’t do anything but distract it till he got up off the ground.” Another shrug. “Doesn’t seem worth bragging about.” He quickly put his hand over the top of his cup as Antyllus once more went to refill it. “No, thank you.” I wouldn’t be drinking with you if you hadn’t demanded it. Still, there was nothing for it but to endure until Antyllus gave up on whatever his goal here was. Sooner or later, he would.

  “Caesarion healed you?” Tentative words now, and again, Tiberius nodded. “You’ll be going with him south to Thebes, then?” Antyllus added.

  “He didn’t ask.” Tiberius cast around for something that would satisfy the older man and end this discussion. “I requested assignment to Britannia. My brother is there. As soon as the harbor opens, I’m gone.” Seventy days’ travel at this time of year. Maybe I’ll be able to make the trip faster alone, without keeping to a legion’s marching pace. Though it might be more dangerous to be a lone traveler.

  Silence, and Antyllus, staring into his wine cup, made one last sally. “Tiberius, just hours ago, we clasped wrists as friends.” He looked at the younger man. “You don’t give friendship easily or often. I’d like to keep yours.”

  Tiberius snorted, a sound that scraped the back of his throat. “Cicero says that the first law of friendship is that we demand of friends only what is right. And that we do for the sake of friends only what is right.” He paused and added, his tone formal, “He also says that friendship is only possible between two people of virtue, who have no conflicting interests, such as the pursuit of a wife.”

  Antyllus half-laughed. “While I hope I’m counted as a person of virtue in that statement, it’s best not to quote Cicero the Elder around my family.” A quick, wry smile. “When my father was out of favor with Caesar, Cicero once got on the floor of the Senate and libelously accused him of playing the woman to Gaius Scribonius Curio—down to wearing a bridal stola for him.” He snorted himself, now. “Cicero’s name and writings weren’t allowed in our house for years.” Of course, the odd thing is, Cicero actually was great friends with Curio and Curio’s father. And Curio’s wife, Fulvia? Divorced him, married my father . . . and became my mother. Roman politics was a tiny, crowded stage on which all the great families played out their dramas.

  Tiberius stared at him, taking the point behind Antyllus’ words. Pithy quotations weren’t needed in this conversation. How much virtue did it take to leap for the opportunity to secure her regard? But . . . her feelings for me were a child’s fantasy. Let it all blow into dust. Because that’s all it ever was. The things I gave up? Probably didn’t matter, anyway. “I told you in Rome that it didn’t matter which of us married her, so long as she was happy and had a home. That remains true.” He stood and moved away, towards the door of the room. “Alexander asked me to court his sister. As a friend, I did so.” Perfect, polite formality now, nothing more. “He thought it was the right thing to do. Plainly, he was wrong.” He swallowed. “I remained your friend even while there was competition between us. I remain your friend now.” Tiberius paused to allow Antyllus to consider that. “You seized the opportunity to secure her regard when you saw it. You truly deserve her.” He nodded, adding, his tone blank, “Gods grant you both much joy.”

  “So . . . you and I will be able to work together in the future?” Antyllus asked, standing up from his chair, starting to feel the first trickles of relief.

  Tiberius remained by the door, looking at nothing in particular. “I don’t see why not,” he replied, shrugging. What in Dis’ name do you want me to say? That I’m going to help sacrifice doves at your wedding? “When I next see you, in six months, or a year, or whenever you report to the campaign in Britannia, everything should have blown over. Consider the time and my absence the best wedding gift I can give you.” Assuming I’m alive in a year. The Britons are fierce fighters, and they have their druids solidly involved now. And even so, by then, she’ll likely be pregnant, and setting up dinners in Rome. Or, if you’re daft enough to bring her to Britannia, she’ll be so occupied being an officer’s wife in a castra, and getting ready to have the child, or nursing it, or changing it, or whatever else, that she won’t even have time to play her music, let alone remember childish fantasies. He added tonelessly, “You needn’t worry about jealousy on my part. Once a woman is married, assuming she’s not being shoved down the stairs or some such by her loving husband, she ceases to exist for me in that way.”

  “That’s . . . fair,” Antyllus said, setting his cup aside, and crossing the room to offer Tiberius his hand, his expression oddly uncertain. Antyllus never looked uncertain. Always appeared ebullient and in total control of his surroundings.

  Tiberius looked at the offered hand for a moment. Then accepted the wrist-clasp. “Please inform your father that I will assist him with the efforts to find the attackers shortly.”

  And he was as good as his word, joining a group of equites sent out to follow the trail of the six donkeys that Eurydice’s hawks had just found. However, even Tiberius was surprised at what they actually found.

  Chapter VIII: Shifting Winds

  Februarius 2, 20 AC

  Back in Rome, Jocasta sat in a back room of Agrippa’s princely villa, shivering a little as her sister worked diligently, sewing a new dress for Livia. “You’re quite certain you like it here?” Jocasta asked Viola for the third or fourth time. Her sister had been paralyzed since she was ten

  “Oh, yes, sister! No more drunk hands rattling the latch while you’re out, and having to have Ianos here pick up a piece of firewood to stand guard, just in case someone kicks the door in and comes through, thinking it’s their home. Or in search of, well, you.” Viola looked downcast over that piece of truth, and threaded her needle again. “It’s clean here, and Lady Livia is ever so kind. Her physicians couldn’t help me, but the food is so much better than we could ever afford, and Ianos isn’t the only one who has to, well, help me clean myself and use the lavatory.” She flushed again. Two years younger than Jocasta, she’d turned fifteen this year, and had been paralyzed below the waist since she was ten. Having lost their parents to the same fever that had taken Viola’s legs, Jocasta had become a whore that same year to ensure her sister’s and her own survival.

  Jocasta had seen a lot in the past five years. Enough to make her doubt that any fancy Roman noblewoman would do so much out of the simple kindness of her heart. She swiveled in her seat to regard Ianos, the eunuch she’d scraped together enough coin to purchase three years ago. A year her senior, he still shrank in on himself whenever anyone looked at him directly; he’d been a puer to some Roman patrician who liked his boys young. Castrated at the age of ten, he had the high, pure voice of a woman, no facial hair, and a generally softer appearance than a man should. But apparently, he’d still grown too tall and developed too much musculature for the taste of his lord, and had been thus, sold at the age of fifteen to a whore a year his junior, for a less than princely sum. She’d kept his hair cut short since then, instead of making him keep the long, flowing locks his old master had favored. Had given him male clothing, too. “Ianos,” Jocasta asked, “is the rest of the household treating you well?”

>   He shrugged. “As well as can be expected, mistress,” Ianos told her softly. He rarely said two words when one would do; she’d heard other slaves in the street mock his high-pitched voice more than once. She’d picked up cobblestones and thrown them at the taunters, as she would have at any other mangy curs. “I stay with Mistress Viola and take care of her needs, as always. They all know what I am, of course.” He looked away.

  “What you are, is a very good person,” Jocasta told him, with feeling. She occasionally debated the notion of taking Ianos to her bed and showing him that regardless of what had been cut away, he could still be as much or as little of a man as he wished. But such fancies usually passed after her second or third customer of the night, with the exhaustion and ennui of having to deal with so many others’ desires. And in the gray light of dawn, when she usually staggered home, a bottle in hand to let her sleep through until at least noon, and Ianos met her at the door and politely tucked her into bed, it never seemed entirely fair to turn him back into what he’d once been. Or what she was now, herself.

  The door opened behind her, and to her consternation, the lady of the house stood there, her blond hair so pale it was nearly white. Probably is white, under some dye, an uncharitable part of Jocasta’s mind whispered as she rose to make a low bow before Livia Drusilla. “My lady,” Jocasta murmured.

  “Ah, there you are. I’ve always just missed you when you’ve made your visits to your sister. Come along, Jocasta. You and I have much to discuss.”

  Jocasta looked over her shoulder, seeing nothing but peace in Viola’s face. But Ianos’ eyes looked worried as she found her shoulder gripped by fingers that felt like claws, drawn into another of the small, cold rooms occupied mainly by the serving staff of the great villa. “Let me see you, child,” Livia said, smiling. “Why, you’re quite charming. You could do better for yourself than employment as a common whore, you know.” Livia brushed off one of the stools in this room, looking at it with distaste before taking a seat there. “Do sit down, dear. Let’s talk about your future.”

  My future? Good gods, let’s hope she doesn’t want a female lover. I’ve been paid to do that before, but it’s so boring that it’s difficult to pretend to being interested the whole time. Jocasta sank down warily onto her own seat. “My lady,” she said uneasily, “I don’t have any talents or training, and no man in his right mind would take me for a wife. But at least I’ve never been a beggar.” Taking bread and wheat at the dole line isn’t the same, of course. Everyone does that. And the times I spread my legs for food and not for coin . . . those were business transactions, not begging. She had her pride, after all.

  Livia smiled, a distant, chill expression, which warmed a little, even as Jocasta watched. “Oh, my dear girl, do you really think there’s so much difference between the high-born and the low-born in Rome?” The genteel accent and manners never changed, but the warmth in the words increased as Livia added, gently, “Why, at least the low-born girl gets a price for what’s between her legs. We high-born? Our fathers have to buy us husbands, you know. That’s what the dowry’s for. To tempt them to take us, and to pay for the costs of the household, at least initially. And to make sure the man feels the sting of it when he divorces us, because then, he has to give the money back!” A little laugh, covered by the patrician woman’s hand. Jocasta laughed uneasily, knowing that it was best to go along with the high-born when they smiled.

  Livia continued to smile, and then said, confidingly, “Honestly, I once brought another girl who shared your, ah, profession into this house. A hetaira of Athens, actually, so very, hmm. High-brow.”

  Not a trull like me, one step above walking the streets, Jocasta interpreted, but invited confidences with her eyes and smile. “Why would you do that, domina?”

  “Because when my last child was born, the physicians butchered me,” Livia replied, with charming frankness and startling intimacy. “The poor thing was stuck inside me. They had to cut it up to get it out and save my life. And they cut me too. Infection. Nothing healed quite right. You know how it is.” She reached out and put a hand, lightly, on Jocasta’s shoulder.

  Jocasta cringed. She’d watched the same damned botched operation a year ago, conducted on another whore in the house where she worked. And had even more diligently painted herself inside with white lead, and rinsed herself with vinegar after every customer, and be damned to the burning sensation of the acid in her most tender places. “Oh, my lady,” Jocasta said, with sudden, deep compassion. “I am so sorry.”

  “So was I, my dear, so was I. But we were discussing you, and your future, and the last young woman of your, ah, profession, whom I had brought here.” Livia smiled. “I brought her to me so that she could . . . teach me. I wanted to hold onto my Octavian’s love, you understand, but I couldn’t bear his touch. Not there. I couldn’t bear his body inside of mine, and the thought of going through all of that again? If it had almost killed me the last time? Never again. But she was quite skilled, and told me of all manner of things I’d never even considered before.”

  Jocasta laughed, this time freely. “Oh, there are things that I’m sure fine ladies aren’t much taught,” she acknowledged cheerfully, and missed the glitter in Livia’s eyes completely. “But what has this to do with me, my lady?”

  “Why, I’m quite fond of Viola, and I know it distresses her that you’ve been forced into your, ah, line of work, simply to support her. And I know that you’re suspicious of my motives, dear.” Livia patted her shoulder as Jocasta looked up with a start. “And you’re wise to be, for everyone in Rome wants something. Nothing for nothing, as the saying goes.” She smiled again. “That’s why, even with your sister’s needs entirely attended to, and with her making enough money as one of my servants to support you for once, you haven’t quit a job that you must hate. Because you’re uncertain of what will happen if you become dependent on me.”

  Jocasta licked lips that suddenly felt dry. “I mean no disrespect, domina—“

  “Of course you don’t.” Nothing but affability in Livia’s tone now. “But if I can’t convince you to leave your deplorable employment, because you’re afraid of what might happen, and because you wish to remain in control of your own life—a distinction which so few Roman women possess—then the least I can do is give you the means with which you might improve your conditions. And pass on a few of the hetaira’s lessons to me, which, I must confess, my Octavian dearly loved.” A very becoming flush stained the older woman’s cheeks. “Things that perhaps, might not be commonly available in your particular, ah, establishment.”

  Jocasta’s eyes widened. Of all the places this conversation could have gone, this was the last she’d have ever considered. “My lady?” she asked, trying not to laugh. “Surely, I think I’ve had it shoved all the places it can be shoved, if you’ll pardon the crudity.”

  The warmth faded for an instant, and then returned as Livia smiled once again. “Oh, no, my dear. I’m sure your expertise far surpasses mine in that area.” She went to the door and summoned a servant, murmuring quietly for a moment or two, and then came back with a bottle. “This, for example, my dear, is a delicious concoction—olive oil and warming herbs, mixed with wolf’s blood. Not to be eaten or drunk, mind you, for it can make someone very sick. But rubbed into the skin, it soothes. Tingles. Makes everything feel that much better, you understand.” Livia’s little, secretive smirk make Jocasta perk up her ears in more interest. “And if you give a man just enough, why, he thinks that he can fly. He sees the gods. Murmurs his deepest thoughts, gets out all the hates and vileness. Never remembers a word of what he spoke when he dreamed, and when he wakes up, refreshed, why, he feels sated as if he’s had you all night, and all you might have had to do was rub it out of him once or twice while he dreamed.” Livia shrugged.

  Jocasta’s spine snapped straight. “All of that, from a few herbs?” she asked, incredulous. “Why doesn’t everyone do this?”

  “Because most men don’t want to bare t
heir souls,” Livia murmured. “No matter how much good it will do them, no matter how good it will feel to fly with the gods. They want to think that they’re in control, all the time. Hold it all in their cramped, little hearts. But so long as they don’t know that they lost control, and all they know is that they feel the best they’ve ever felt? My goodness, girl. You could name your price.”

  Jocasta stared at the bottle consideringly. And then looked at Livia and asked, “And what would be your price for giving me this potion, my lady?”

  Livia set the bottle in her hand. “The first? Free. See if I’m wrong about its effects. And mind that a strong, healthy, young man may need quite a bit more to unlock his mind and heart.” A sly smile. “After that? You can bring me their secrets for more of the potion. But no telling any of them about it. We wouldn’t want word to get around, and for customers to avoid you, for fear of what they might say or do when they’re flying with the gods, and not firmly in control of themselves.”

  Jocasta considered that. It’s no different than what I already do for Lord Alexander, she thought pragmatically. And involves much less risk of pregnancy and disease, and the ache between my legs and in my stomach might abate a bit, if I have a few nights off a week. I can still give Lord Alexander his information when he comes around—maybe all the same information that I give Lady Livia. And all this, and Viola keeps living here, in this wonderful house. Clean and well-fed, useful and safe. The more she thought about it, the better it sounded. “How do I rub it in?” she asked, dubiously. “Won’t it have the same effect on me?”

  “Oh, no, no,” Livia murmured. “It only affects men. Another reason they’ve tried to keep wolf’s blood out of women’s hands for centuries.”

  If Jocasta had been literate at all, or had had a country girl’s education in basic herbalism, she might have recognized the term wolf’s blood as another name for aconite. But she wasn’t and she didn’t. And, profoundly grateful to Livia, she accepted the bottle, made her bow, and left to start her night’s work.