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

by Deborah Davitt

  ______________

  Februarius 13, 20 AC

  Alexander awoke in the villa of the Julii at dawn, and reached for the amulet of Sekhmet around his neck. It felt cold to the touch—like ice, really—and he frowned over it, puzzled. It’s never done that before. A little tingling warmth now and again, let him know that it was more than an inert lump of metal. Which also provided a polite warning not to go any further into the bedchamber with this person or that. Not that in the past six weeks, he’d really felt the need for extravagances in that regard.

  He’d been busy, reading all the reports that usually crossed Caesarion’s desk, as well as those that usually crossed his own. Maintaining his network of contacts. Establishing new ones, when he found himself invited to Sulpicia’s theater, and whisked to the skene, or scene-house, where the actors changed between acts, put on their masks, and, apparently, got roaring drunk after each performance. Sulpicia herself had never been inside the scene-house, and the persnickety Hellene slave who’d been purchased to be her manager for both the theater and the vineyard was scandalized that his mistress wished to go and meet her actors—on the arm of a noble of the Julii family or no.

  Alexander had done his best not to laugh in the man’s bearded face, and had continued to insist that he would provide all the protection the patrician woman would require from the infames. And as such, they’d gotten a hard, clear look at an entirely different world than the one they both usually occupied. Some of the actors had running sores around their mouths, concealed by the wooden masks they usually wore. Some of the men were incredibly effeminate, so much so that they got on Alexander’s nerves with their breathy diction and swaying walks. He might have enjoyed every minute he spent wrapped in Tiberius’ arms, rocking together, the play of muscle against muscle, but he’d never considered himself a woman because of it, and what he chose to do in bed, and who he chose to do it with, had nothing to do with who he was.

  On the outside, he smiled. Complimented people on their performances. Listened, discarding the least intelligent of the crowd rapidly. Scanned the remainder for faces with whom he might be able to work. Not the ones who got drunk immediately. Easily compromised, they could be bought by anyone for the price of a bottle. Not the ones who immediately dragged a lover off to another room—be that lover man, woman, or boy. Again, their weaknesses were evident, and easily played.

  No, Alexander wanted the ones who were still acting. Even off-stage. The ones who didn’t have evident weaknesses or vices, who could put on the façade of normal social behavior, or take it off, at a whim. Not the ones who reveled in standing outside of society’s dictates. Those, he recruited gently. Pulled over to the side of the skene with himself and Sulpicia, the poetess on his arm, and remarked, lightly, “You should write these good men something that they can get their teeth into, love. All we have these days is Plautus, Plautus, and yet more plodding Plautus. I’m tired of twins switched at birth and girls dressed as boys dressed as girls. And Plautus died almost two hundred years ago.”

  “Well, there is Quintus Novius,” Sulpicia demurred, and the various actors made scoffing sounds and rude noises. “No, no, the one he wrote about the Hellene hetaira wasn’t bad! I laughed at it, anyway.”

  “Yes, domina, but he’s written three about the cloth-fuller, the cloth-fuller’s wife, and the cloth-fullers who went on holiday,” came a quick, wickedly dry response. “I think either he’s in debt to his tailor, or he’s plowing the cloth-fuller’s daughter.”

  Sulpicia laughed out loud, her eyes sparkling. “How about Hercules the Money-Collector?” she offered, recovering. “Surely that one wasn’t all bad.”

  “Domina, if we run that one again, he’ll throw us a script about Hercules the Tender of Infants,” came the reply, and Alexander laughed himself now, getting a feel for these people. “If you write something for us, lady, make it better than that, and we’ll bless you for it.”

  “Just for the gods’ sakes, don’t write it under your own name,” came an addendum from the back of the crowd. “No one will take it seriously if they know a woman wrote it.”

  Sulpicia’s lips curled down at the corners. Just a hint, but Alexander knew that mobile face well enough by now to read every nuance of it. “I’ll keep that in mind, particularly if I feel myself take a tragic turn,” she assured the actors, however.

  And Alexander drew the conversation gently on. Talked with them about politics. Noted which of them turned to walk away when he drew the subject there, and which showed real contempt for the Octavianites. Noted which of those mentioned having been solicited for sex by members of that faction. Tucked that information away at the back of his head, and murmured that it was a pity that so much of the finest acting in the city seemed to go on in daily life, and in noble houses, rather than on the stage. Not full-on recruitment, not at first. Just finding those with sympathies and talents he could . . . encourage.

  And then he’d whisked Sulpicia away. It had been the only time they’d gone somewhere together publically, since he was, after all, a betrothed man, and because it wouldn’t do to have people linking their names. It would damage her ability to hear all the things that he couldn’t hear from inside the Julii villa, after all.

  But in private, he met her at least once a week. Not on the same days, or at the same hours. But often at Merges, where he had his private room converted into a study for her, where she could retreat to whenever she liked. To her marked surprise, he read every scrap of her poetry that she brought him. And each day, after having exercised and bathed, eaten dinner and finished his dispatches for Caesarion, Alexander found a little peace of mind by sitting down and copying her poetry out for her. He’d trained as a military scribe, where legibility of orders and dispatches were of the utmost importance; therefore, his lettering was open, wide, smooth, and evenly-spaced. Her handwriting was crabbed, ran uphill across a page, and she had a tendency to jam all of her ideas into corners, as if her ‘twiddles,’ as she called her poems, weren’t of great importance.

  He copied them all out, neat and clean and clear. Even the ones that were about her erstwhile lover. Three copies in all, just to start with. One for his own pleasure. One to send to the Library of Alexandria, with Caesarion’s seal on the letter stating that a record of this famous Roman poetess should be kept, and a space allotted for her future works. And one, which he handed to her on the evening of the thirteenth, neatly rolled, before they were to eat dinner together in the private room at Merges. Sulpicia unrolled the scroll, and flushed a little with pleasure at the sight. “Oh, it all looks so . . . official this way,” she told him as he slipped onto the eating couch behind her. “All of them together, not tossed in with Tibullus’ works.” A note of wonder in her voice. “My twiddles. Why, they look somehow more real this way.”

  “Stop calling them twiddles,” Alexander advised in her ear. “Another copy of that codex went to the Library of Alexandria by boat this morning. Nothing can be more official than that. Your poems will be housed in a niche somewhat to the west of the shelves on Homer and his commentators.”

  She looked back over her shoulder at him, her eyes wide, and then turned, kissing him fervently. Alexander had no objections to this, though when her lips broke free, he did murmur, “Dinner will get cold.”

  “Would you rather have a hot dinner or a warm sheath?” she whispered against his ear, and Alexander had her on her back in an instant, gently pushing the scroll out of their way, lest it be crumpled.

  He found it very difficult to be careful with her. To let himself glide back and forth between her thighs, as he’d always done with Tiberius, just tantalized him with how close her warm and welcoming depths really were. And she always offered herself so sweetly, and while she made ardent sounds of enjoyment for lips and fingers and tongue, it was when he was hilt-deep in her and giving her everything he had that her sounds turned feral, and tonight was no exception. Finally, bodies cooling, Sulpicia picked a piece of now-cold quail from off the plat
ter in front of the couch, and offered it to him with her fingers. He accepted it, and asked, stretching, “Have you picked a name yet, Via?”

  He liked calling her Via, from Servia. By itself, the word could mean through or by means of, though she’d given him a look the first time he’d used it, and told him that she wasn’t a street, thank you. “But if you ever write a philosophical tract of poetry, you could call it the Via Servia,” he’d told her, teasing, and there the matter had ended.

  She rolled to her side, smiling, and told him, “Aurea, I think.”

  “Golden. Like dawn’s golden fingers. I like it.”

  “And if you really want me to write a play or two, it could be made to Aureus without much trouble. Except that sounds like the playwright’s made of money.” She rolled her eyes expressively. “Gods forbid a woman write a silly play—“

  “What, and associate yourself with all those infames?” Alexander made a rude noise, sitting up on the couch. “I really think you should. You could make fun of all the hypocrites in society today.”

  “And, after offending a consul with my sharp tongue, get myself exiled to Carthage, like Gnaeus Naevius, and have to open my veins after composing my own epitaph?” Her eyebrows lifted, and Alexander leaned down to kiss her hungrily again.

  “Never happen,” he told her when he paused for breath. “Just disguise it a bit. Set the action in Hellas, give them all Hellenic names.”

  “And make the hero a brave and dashing former Roman legionnaire?” A twinkle in her eyes as he kissed her again.

  “Just . . . so long . . . as it’s not a miles gloriousus. I hate the braggart ex-soldier type. In his fifties, and the victor of a thousand battles he never actually took part in.” Alexander sighed as a tap came at their door. “I haven’t eaten, and I need to get on with my rounds, darling. Aurea.” That, just to practice saying the new name.

  “You know, now that I hear you say it, I’m not sure I like it.” She tapped a finger against her teeth consideringly.

  “You like Via better?”

  “I’m definitely more used to it.” She made a face at him.

  Alexander chuckled. “Why don’t you stay here, and write? I’ll be back before morning, and then we can say a proper good-bye for once.”

  She just smiled, and he pulled on his clothes, and left. Once more wondering why the amulet of Sekhmet seemed so damned cold around his neck. He had to tuck it between his tunic and his toga to shield it from his skin, in fact.

  Alexander made his rounds of his informants, a frumentarii and former Praetorian shadowing his steps, as usual. Ducked into his last stop, the brothel where Jocasta worked, made what sounded like idle chit-chat with the rest of the staff, and, once Jocasta presumably finished with her current customer, was ushered to the back, where his frumentarii protector took up a post down the hall, as discreetly as possible.

  ______________

  Jocasta had found over the past two weeks that Livia’s magic potion did indeed enhance the experience for most of her customers. Some of the older men in particular commented that after a good massage from her, their aches and pains had diminished, and they felt younger than they had in years, more able to move their hips, knees, and shoulders. But sadly, as far as she was concerned, this led to an increase in their libidos, rather than the more magical sleep that Livia had suggested might happen. Still, the tips added up, even though she’d been careful to give the special treatment to only a few customers. A few had been drowsy and comfortable enough afterwards that they’d talked far more than usual. And Jocasta, with her terrible handwriting, had made two sets of notes. One for Lord Alexander, and one for Lady Livia. A year like this, and I can quit, she decided. Steal off to the countryside and buy a little farm somewhere. Bring my sister and Ianos with me.

  Of course, she knew that that would require some doing. Livia might not let her take her sister. Or let her quit, a thought that gave her qualms of foreboding. But that was a problem for another day.

  She’d been doing well enough that been able to take a night or two off from what Livia referred to as her deplorable employment. She’d spent those nights over in the servant quarters of Livia’s great house, watching her sister smile, and without the need for a bottle to put herself to sleep. And after one too many snickers from Livia’s servants in the direction of Ianos, Jocasta had simply tucked herself in bed beside her slave just last night. Had felt his tears against her neck in the early hours of the morning, and had turned over to wipe them away, gently, whispering, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” That, muffled.

  “Well, there must be something.”

  “It feels good to hold someone. To be . . . worth something.”

  She’d kissed him then. Let her hands explore whatever he was willing to let her touch. There were differing levels of castration, she knew. Some poor men—such as the gallii, the devotees of Cybele who eventually dressed like women, assuming they survived their self-mutilation—had had the whole thing cut away, and the surgeons had to put a reed in while they healed, so that they’d eventually be able to urinate. Just a mass of ugly scar tissue left behind.

  More practical, but still brutal, was the removal of just the scrotum; that prevented erections, and left the voice as high as a woman’s, but with more power. Some singers had that done to them as children, but if they were Roman-born, castration was forbidden. Thus, some singers wore instead a ring around the base of the penis, called a fibula, which was meant to prevent bloodflow from reaching the member, and thus prevent them from achieving erections that might make their voices suffer in purity. She wasn’t sure how one affected the other, but that was the common belief, anyway.

  And then there was the third, most surgical and precise method of castration, reserved for prized slaves. Just the removal of the testicles, leaving the rest intact. Eunuchs of that sort could actually achieve erection if they were vigorously stimulated, and even achieve release.

  She’d never asked Ianos which procedure had been conducted on him. To her surprise, he’d proven to be of the third type, as she discovered as she stroked him lightly through his tunic. And in the very dim moonlight filtering in the windows of the servants’ quarters, she’d watched his head fall back and his mouth open, slack. Another tear streaked down his face, and she’d stopped, only to have him catch her hand. Kiss it. And then they had, tentatively, fumblingly, as if neither of them had ever done this before, joined their bodies.

  It hadn’t made time stop in its tracks, but it had been sweet and tender, and all the things that Jocasta hadn’t realized were missing from her life. He’d thanked her, softly, and in their whispered confidences, told her that he’d been taken as a puer by his master for the first time at no more than eight years of age. They traded stories; she confessed that she hated servicing other women, so that her patrons could watch, and he noted that his master’s wife had taught him to perform those same services for her, just after he’d been castrated.

  Two lifetimes of degradation. And somehow, for a moment or two, she’d felt clean.

  This morning, however, Lady Livia had caught her before she could slip away. “Ah, there you are, my dear. How’s my potion been working for you?”

  “My lady, I left a list of all the information I’ve heard so far on your desk—“

  “Yes, yes. But I can’t help but notice that a few names are missing. I know, for example, that Alexander Julius is one of your regular clients. Why haven’t you provided anything on him?” The blue eyes were penetrating.

  Jocasta had taken refuge in the truth. “Actually, my lady, he’s not been to see me in several weeks.” She blinked, and then added, tentatively, “I think that the potion might be a little weak, my lady. Many of the men report feeling quite relaxed, and very healthy, but they don’t seem to sleep.”

  “Use more of it.” Livia handed her another bottle, her eyes gleaming. “I’m particularly interested in what young lord Alexander might have to say under its effects. If and w
hen he comes to see you? Use at least half this bottle on him, dear. That should have the desired results.”

  Half? Jocasta thought, swallowing. But Livia does seem to know her business. I owe Alexander a good deal . . . but he hasn’t given my sister a new home. Hasn’t given me a way out of my deplorable employment. Well, not that Livia had, to be honest. If he tells me anything, I’ll make sure that Livia only hears the things that I want her to hear. Nothing that would hurt him. But it would be interesting to know what goes on behind those dark eyes of his. And in the end, while I told Alexander that if anyone threatened my sister . . . Livia hasn’t threatened her. She just has her. Well-kept. Comfortable. Useful.

  So this evening, as Alexander entered and took a seat in her room, Jocasta dithered a little. “My lord,” she murmured, smiling genuinely, for she liked both Alexander and Tiberius. Alexander for giving her a way to stick it to her noble clients, and being a very considerate lover. Tiberius, for being an incredible lover, and for always treating her, out of bed, as if she were fully clothed even if she was naked. It had started off as somewhat annoying, and had become a challenge to see if she could get him to react . . . till she’d become accustomed to it. She cherished the way he always bowed over her hand, as if she were a lady. “You haven’t been here in six weeks. I’d thought you’d forgotten me.” She lay on the bed, spreading her legs invitingly, while Alexander took the chair across the room.

  “Forget you? Never. You’re one of my best agents!” A quick smile. “I’ve simply been run off my feet. I wasn’t expecting how much administrative nonsense my brother has had to deal with, every single day,” Alexander told her, exhaling as he leaned back in the chair. “I’m here to collect your reports. At double your usual rate, to apologize for my long absence.”

  Jocasta laughed, and dug the scroll out from where she’d hidden it, teasingly holding it just out of his reach—even after he’d put the small bag of coins on the table, where she could get to it. Alexander, however, reached in and deftly snagged the scroll, reading through her results from the past weeks. “Interesting,” he murmured, his eyes scanning over the words. “Thank you, my dear. I’d best be getting on, however. You’re my last stop for the evening.”