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

by Deborah Davitt

  Thebes had been reconstructed in part since then, mostly with the sanction of Cleopatra herself. The city, and indeed, most of Upper Egypt, had been rebellious all through the rule of the Ptolemies; culturally, the region had closer ties to Nubia than to Hellas, and it showed. The people working the farms along the Nile had skins that weren’t tawny, as those closer to the coast, but the same rich brown as the fertile soil of the river’s banks, for example. But everyone in Egypt with the means to do so, eventually traveled to Thebes. To pray in the great temples of Karnak and Luxor. To trade in its marketplace for gold, ivory, ebony, and incense, imported from deeper in Africa, or from across the Red Sea. And once again, Eurydice’s mouth hung slightly agape at the sphinx statues that lined the sun-beaten roads, each one far larger than a man. The images of long-dead kings that stared blankly back from the fronts of temples. How can I possibly rule this land, or even claim to? she thought, desperately. I can’t even begin to grasp it.

  For better or worse, however, there were plenty of things to distract her from her awe. As they drew closer to the huge temples, which loomed in the distance, they could also see the neat, orderly, utterly familiar lines of a castra, drawn up with Roman military precision. The headquarters here, the barracks for the equites and their horses there; the mess over there, the latrines over there, all surrounded by a palisade and entrenchments. It would have looked exactly the same in Hispania or Gaul or Syria. And here it stood, facing some of the most ancient buildings and monuments in the world, and the legionnaires in their red cloaks went about their business inside those walls, as if the staring eyes of ancient kings didn’t exist. I need to absorb a little of that, Eurydice thought as they rode towards the gates, the men of the Sixteenth streaming behind them, and the standard-bearer of her Hawks keeping pace beside them. Not unconcern, no. Not superiority to, either. But I need to be aware of all that history . . . without drowning in it. Somehow.

  At the wall of the camp, the guards took one look at the red eyes and grim expression on the face of the Imperator of Rome, the full legion of fresh troops behind him, swallowed, and opened the gates. “Where is Prefect Gallus?” Caesarion demanded, letting Eurydice down before dismounting, himself. She’d seen and heard him angry before, but rarely so much so. The rage seemed leashed at the moment, but given a target at the moment? She knew he’d tear strips out of that person’s hide.

  “In the command tent, dominus—“

  That was directed at Caesarion’s back as he strode on, Eurydice on his arm, and the members of their honor guard surrounding them. Mostly Praetorians, including Malleolus, with Damkina and her own guard, Ehsan, trailing behind. Legionnaires scrambled to attention as they passed, and Eurydice got good looks at men who were as sand-scoured as Tiberius and the other equites had been. Men with bandaged legs and feet, too swollen to slip into their boots, trying to stand outside their tents. The storied Sixth Legion—the Ferrata, or “Iron-clad”—wasn’t beaten. But it was hurting, to be sure.

  Near the command tent, Prefect Gallus emerged hastily, looking mildly frantic, but quickly smoothing his expression as he advanced. He was a tall, gaunt man in his late forties, with white at his temples, but otherwise black hair, combed back from a receding hairline, and a hawk-like Roman nose. Eurydice rapidly ran through her mind what they knew of him. Supported our father. Long-term, scandalous love-affair with Cytheris, a freedwoman who’d been Mark Antony’s lover, briefly, about fifteen years ago, and had borne him one of his many bastards. She was one of Rome’s few female actresses—a mima, who couldn’t act in classical tragedy or comedy, but could sing, dance, and recite commonplace verse. Things not written by dead Hellenes or that referred to the gods, anyway, but Gallus brought her with him into Egypt on being appointed prefect. He’s written four books of poetry, all dedicated to her. Great friend of Virgil, but Sulpicia turns up her nose at his verse. And most recently, has been corresponding heavily with Agrippa, Rullus, and other members of the Octavianite faction.

  “Imperator!” Gallus exclaimed now, saluting. “You arrived more quickly than we expected—we haven’t had the chance to expand the castra, set up a second command tent—“

  Caesarion stared at him, his expression tight. “I sent riders ahead of us, prefect. They should have arrived a week ago.”

  “Ah, yes, they did, it’s just that, what with everything, we’ve simply been too busy—“ The various tribunes exiting the command tent behind their prefect had gone blank-faced. Their eyes found a horizon and locked on it. Eurydice winced internally, knowing what was coming now. Gallus is making excuses in front of his men, instead of inviting us inside. Caesarion wouldn’t usually dress someone down in front of his own men, but—

  “And yet, no guard sent to meet us, aside from a few sentries on patrol that we happened to encounter when coming from the north. Not your second-in-command, or even a damned tribune at the gate to greet us, and now you’re keeping us out in the sun with excuses?” Caesarion’s voice never rose. He didn’t shout. But every word had the weight of lead behind it as he addressed a man over twice his age. “I believe that my pregnant wife would much appreciate a chance to sit in the shade. Once you’ve seen to her comfort, Prefect, you may continue to tender your excuses.”

  Gallus’ mouth snapped shut. His face went rigid. And then he bowed very slightly, extending a hand to the command tent, and Caesarion stepped forward, past him, once again drawing Eurydice with him. Just past the flap, Caesarion murmured, “Do you wish to handle him, beloved?”

  “You’re taking him and the Ferrata out of Egypt?”

  “They’ve stirred up enough unrest with the locals that fresh faces might be in order, yes. Your Sixteenth has to start all over again with preconceptions about Egypt, but . . .” Caesarion shrugged.

  “You handle him,” Eurydice murmured in reply. “I’ll handle the priests. I already have a notion of how to go about it, and I need to live with them.” She’d been thinking about the problem for four weeks now, and the perfect stick had arrived in her thoughts just last night. Now I need some form of honey to go with it, and they should fall in line. It’s a pretty big stick, however. It might not need much honey.

  He found her a comfortable enough camp stool, just as the others came in behind them. Gallus clearly wanted to put a better foot forward now, and gabbled an apology, commenting, “Ah, I will pray to Juno for the safe delivery of a healthy child—“ the quick flicker over his expression said more clearly than words what he thought the chances of that were, before he straightened his features again, “—we had no idea at all that the Empress was with child—“

  “We hadn’t planned to make a public announcement until she was further along,” Caesarion said brusquely, moving to the map table as people continued to file inside. Eurydice felt Malleolus take position directly behind her, shielding her back with his body, standing between her and the tent flap. “Now. Explain to me the current situation here. Have you recovered the tax-collectors? Have you put down this very important rebellion that you mobilized an entire legion to deal with two months ago?”

  Gallus threw his hands up. “Dominus! The entire population of Thebes—a not inconsequential forty thousand people!—are in a state of unrest! We arrived here six weeks ago, and sent emissaries to each temple complex as well as to the nomarch—the, ah, governor of the region. The nome, as they call it here—“

  “Sepat,” Caesarion corrected, putting his hands on the map table. “Nome is the Hellene term for the regional prefactures. Sepat is the Egyptian one. At any rate, you spoke with the nomarch. That would be Sebichos, if I remember my briefings correctly.” He raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  Gallus appeared nettled. “He promised that he would send his agents among the people and recover our men, dominus. After three days, I felt a show of force was in order, to communicate that we weren’t merely here to pick flowers. I sent out four cohorts—“ Just under two thousand men, one third of his legion, Eurydice translated, “to enter Thebes proper, a
nd gave them orders to search every shop, every home, every stable, until some trace of our agents was found.” Gallus grimaced. “Some of the residents resisted opening their doors, and threw stones at my men. The men retaliated as they’ve been trained to do at any attack.”

  Caesarion exhaled. “I assume this turned into a bloody riot?” At Gallus’ tight nod, Caesarion asked, grimly, “How many civilians and how many legionnaires dead?”

  “Fifteen hundred civilians, and forty legionnaires” Gallus replied, very quietly. “Someone started a fire, in and around the riot. That caused the bulk of the deaths, that we know of. My men could only account for seventy, all told, when they counted off how many they’d each slain, on reporting back to camp.”

  Caesarion’s fists clenched. “And since then?” he asked through his teeth. “Have you made any attempts to help drag the debris from the fire away? Reached out to the nomarch and offered to help with rebuilding efforts?”

  Gallus’ brow creased. Eurydice knew that he had a reputation as a thoughtful man, and certainly, when in Rome, he and Virgil usually spent time drinking together, and commenting on each others’ verse. But he seemed to be a step behind Caesarion at the moment. “Dominus, they’re in a state of rebellion. You don’t help rebels; you chastise them.”

  Caesarion glared at him. “Someone started that fire, you said. If that someone was one of my own legionnaires, even by accident, then you and your men have killed hundreds of people who might not have been rebellious at all, and have certainly solidified the ill opinion of most of the locals against you. And if that fire was set by some of the rebels, and you again didn’t reach out to offer the assistance of Rome to one of its provinces, you missed an opportunity to win the hearts of the people here.” He drummed his fingers on the table now. “What since then?”

  Gallus’ lips compressed together until they nearly looked white. “Every time I send men out on patrol, they’re hit, sir. Hit and run attacks by archers, trying to draw them into the desert. If they give chase . . . magic. There’s no other explanation for it, much as I hate to use the word. Sandstorms don’t blow up that fast, hit only my men, and then vanish, once they’ve bloodied and buried the lot. Scorpions don’t naturally swarm. We’ve been hit here in the castra, too. A mist rises at night, every night. And in the wake of that strange, unnatural fog. . . I have dead and injured men. The medici have never seen this many snakebites—even with the soldiers shaking their bed-rolls every night, I have over ninety men in the infirmary, with gangrenous, poisoned bites that may require amputation. I have another thirty who didn’t survive the bites.” Gallus looked away, swallowing. “I’ve had guards on the wall fail to report in, and when the watch commander investigates the sound of screams in the mist, the men are where they were supposed to be . . . but they’re smoking piles of ash, grease, and burned bone, with the remnants of their armor slowly cooling.” He swallowed. “I’ve served for decades. I’ve never seen anything like it. And there’s nothing natural that can explain that, my lord.” He shook his head. “I’ve sent out patrol after patrol, trying to find the attackers, but they get lost in the fog, and are set on with fire and blades in the darkness. They’ve gotten lucky a few times, and have returned with the bodies of their assailants. All young men. Soft hands. Soft bodies.” He grimaced with contempt. “Priests or scribes, or some such.”

  Caesarion looked across the tent at Eurydice and Damkina. “All magical effects we’ve seen. They’re using the fog they raise to get close enough to pick off men on the walls, yes?”

  Eurydice nodded. “I’d recommend setting up a line of caltrops, hidden under the sand, forty pesi from the perimeter,” she suggested. “Also, saturate the sand, hmm, ten feet in front of the walls with pitch, and when you hear the first screams, light it. The mages have to get close enough to be able to see their targets, and thick fog should blind them just as much as it does our men. A sudden pool of fire around their feet should make it very difficult for them to concentrate.” She smiled without humor, keeping her back very straight as she sat on the camp stool.

  “Blind, perhaps, yes. Unless they have spirits to help them aim,” Damkina put in, her tone neutral from behind her veil. “However, they are not alone in that regard. If you wish, it would be my pleasure to remonstrate with them this evening.”

  “Gallus, start setting up those precautions,” Caesarion ordered. “Also, get archers on the walls. It might seem like a waste of ammunition, but when the fog rolls in tonight, I want the men to start firing volleys out, at random intervals, anywhere that there’s a man on watch. You can recover the arrows in the morning.” He glanced around. “In the meantime? I want a message sent to the nomarch of Thebes and to the high priest of Thoth. Their pharaoh and his queen are here. And requires their presence in his tent immediately.”

  Gallus gaped at him. “You . . . don’t mean to go to them—?”

  “A pharaoh doesn’t dance attendance on lesser men,” Caesarion said, his voice icy now. “Neither does the imperator of Rome, but a pharaoh is precisely what they need to see if I am to undo the damage you have done here, Gallus.” He swung towards Malleolus and his own tribunes. “Get our men working on setting up our own castra. I’ll meet with the nomarch and the high priest of Thoth in my own tent. And ensure that the, ah, marks of our equites’ good service are in full view at the gate. I want those heads clearly visible as our guests enter my camp.”

  “Heads?” Gallus asked blankly.

  Caesarion gave him a dark look. “Yes. The heads of seven priests of Thoth who made their way out of this rebellious area, which you have under such good control, prefect. Seven priests who made an attempt on my life, the life of my wife, and the life of the unborn heir of the Julii that she carries under her heart.” Eurydice knew that Caesarion was taking out some of his bad temper on Gallus; the man probably didn’t entirely deserve the tongue-lashing. That being said, he’d responded heavy-handedly to what seemed like deliberate provocation, giving the residents of Thebes an excuse to rebel . . . and giving the mage-priests, whether universally or independently of each other, the opportunity to strike. “You will forgive me, prefect, if I am not particularly in a good temper. This month, I meant to settle my wife in the safety of Alexandria, and perhaps take an enjoyable tour of our mother’s ancestral homeland.” That, without so much as a blink, threw their marriage and mingled ancestry right in the Roman prefect’s face. “Instead, I’m forced to deal with assassination attempts, quell uprisings, and generally clean up a mess that shouldn’t have been allowed to happen in the first place. I am not pleased, prefect.”

  Gallus swallowed, hard, his face devoid of color. “Does Rome require my life in reparation?” he asked, tonelessly.

  “I see no compelling reason for you to open your veins,” Caesarion informed him tautly. “You were already slated for replacement by a full governor. Whether the Senate chooses to offer you any further positions will be up to them.” Your career isn’t necessarily over, and I’m not sending you into exile in shame, so there’s no need to commit suicide to efface the dishonor. But your political allies in Rome may find your actions here embarrassing, especially if I succeed where you failed, so keep your knife handy. Eurydice didn’t smile over her mental translation. The stakes in politics at this level were very high, indeed.

  Caesarion extended his arm to Eurydice, who accepted it and stood. And then they walked out together, heading for the men of the Sixteenth outside this castra. Caesarion stopped at the infirmary of the Sixth along the way, where a terrible smell of suppurating flesh emanated from the men inside, and asked for the man who was the worst off. And healed him, immediately. Eurydice, beside him, wished profoundly that she shared his gift for healing, and simply pressed as many hands as she could, whispering prayers as she did. But while Caesarion’s gifts from the gods are in perfect balance, harm and healing in the same hands, the gods didn’t grant me the same gifts. Or if they have, they have yet to reveal them to me. At the back of her head, a naggi
ng concern now, for the infant inside of her. The spark of power to heal must come from within, too . . . .

  And then they headed into their own camp, through the bustle of men rapidly working to set everything up. Inside their own command tent, Eurydice asked Caesarion, with a certain dry irony in her voice, “If you wish our nomarch and the high priest to see a pharaoh and his queen, does this mean you’re going to break out the regalia?”

  Caesarion grimaced at her. “Yes. Probably. Any man who laughs, I will personally punch.”

  Damkina, who’d lurked at the entrance of the tent, asked now, her voice interested and concerned, “Will you require me for this meeting, my lord, my lady? You will, I expect, have to demonstrate power to the mage-priests. And in your current condition—“

  Eurydice raised a hand, cutting the woman off. “I’ve learned a little in the past three years,” she said quietly. “There’s power, and then there’s power. I made the mistake once, of showing Tahut-Nefer how much magical power I have, when all I really needed to do was order him to leave, and have a few guards throw him out of the villa. Concentrated to a point? You don’t need a lot of power to have the effect you want.” She felt her own lips thin. “And in this particular case, information is power.” She looked up, met Damkina’s eyes, over the woman’s veil, and made herself smile. “Stay outside the tent, if you would. Let them see you. I’m quite sure they’ll know what you are, at a glance.”

  “I should certainly hope so, my lady,” Damkina replied, gesturing at her clothing. “I do not dress this way to blend in. I wear the garb of Chaldea to proclaim as loudly as I can, who and what I am.” Her strange, green-bronze eyes were hooded as she added, “It saves much time and effort, in the end.”