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

by Deborah Davitt

  “From Persia!” the man running the booth had told her, with a bright smile, clearly smelling a sale. But she’d turned away, leaving the silk behind. A fine waste of money that would be, Selene told herself ruefully. Every night, my stola and undertunics are filthy almost to the waist. I haven’t had the heart to wear a different stola in a week, nevermind the smell of sweat, lest I ruin any more of my clothes with travel. And there’s only more of this ahead. Because life is such an adventure. That last thought held a hint of sarcasm to it, which she immediately repented and repressed.

  And yet, that night, she found that precise roll of silk, tucked in among their belongings in the room she now shared with Antyllus. “I didn’t buy this!” Selene blurted, raising her hands as if she’d found a poisonous asp in the luggage.

  “No, I did,” Antyllus said, looking up from one of the many lists he’d spent the last several nights drawing up. “You seemed to admire it. And it’ll look lovely on you.”

  “Th-thank you,” she mumbled, feeling about two uncia tall. And hoped that Antyllus couldn’t read minds.

  She had no practical advice to give regarding the trip north. Stayed firmly in the rooms in the inn, guarded by one of their men, while Antyllus went out and recruited guides, mercenaries, cart drivers, and such for the journey north. He took her to the slave market to find herself a female servant to replace Ranno, the Egyptian woman who’d been first her nursemaid and then her servant for most of Selene’s life. As if someone like that can be replaced, Selene thought, wishing Ranno were here. But that’s selfish. She’s Egyptian nobility, sent by her family to serve my mother for fifteen years. She deserves to see her home again. But I wonder what she’d think of Antioch. Would she snort and say it didn’t have a patch on Alexandria, the way she always sniffed and said that, whenever I had to go through Rome with her?

  “Look through the lists of qualifications,” Antyllus said, bringing Selene’s attention back to the present, where they sat in a brightly-lit overseer’s office, sipping mint tea and reading through records. “This one might do. She’s highly recommended. Served for seven years as a pedagogue for a Hellene nobleman’s family here in Antioch, and then another five as a lady’s maid to the oldest daughter. Thirty years old, no children born to her, impeccable credentials. Speaks . . . gods. More languages than I do. Latin, Hellene, Hebrew, Aramaic, and Persian.” Antyllus looked at her, his expression a little anxious. “What do you think?”

  Selene blinked. She’d never seen that expression on his face before. He wants to please me? “I’m sure she’ll do,” she replied, hesitantly.

  The overseer, a fat local man in his late fifties, immediately smiled and began to talk price, but Antyllus held up a hand. “Could you give us a moment alone?” he asked the overseer, and the man heaved himself to his feet and lurched off to another room. When the door shut behind him, Antyllus frowned a little at Selene. “This is someone that you have to feel comfortable with,” he told her, gently. “It’s your decision, not mine. It’s probably best to meet the various candidates first, don’t you think?”

  Uncertainly, Selene nodded. Antyllus sighed. “I’ve been trying,” he told her softly, taking one of her hands, “to get you to see that you’re not a child in your brother and sister’s house anymore. You have a say in things—maybe not about the carruca, because we really do need to move quickly—“ a swift, rueful smile over that “but in matters of the household, especially the servant who’ll help you with all your needs? Absolutely.”

  He always made her warmer inside, just by being there. But in spite of having felt for most of her life as if she were invisible, Selene had never felt more isolated than she did here, in Antioch, as far away from her family as if she’d somehow been transported to the moon or one of the other celestial bodies. “I understand,” she replied. He wants me to act like a wife. I’m trying. Gods, please know, I’m trying.

  She found the Hellene slave, Hebe, to be motherly enough, though she still terribly missed Ranno, and knew that her own grip on Egyptian was going to slip without anyone around with whom to speak it. But at least now she had someone who could help her wash her hair with astringent herbs when it itched after a stay in the wrong inn, and who could at least try to get road dust out of her clothes. Selene also found herself miserably sick just before they left Antioch, probably due to something she’d eaten. She’d thought for a day that she was never going to be able to leave the lavatory again, and it seemed unfair that Antyllus was completely unaffected by whatever it was. “Legion rations give you a stomach made of iron,” he told her as Hebe fixed her a soothing tea. “You’ll get used to the road.”

  It passed, fortunately, after only two days, leaving her able to ride her ambling donkey behind Antyllus as they left the city, with its hum of humanity and its smell of spices, and headed northeast, through the mountains. This time with twenty guards, all hardened Hellene mercenaries, two guides, Lydian boys not much older than Selene herself, and four carts of goods. Selene occasionally envied the carters their seats on the bouncing, jostling wagons. But Hebe, who rode with them, told her loftily that the carters were low men, crudely-spoken and very disrespectful.

  Weeks passed in a gray blur for Selene as they crawled through valleys, mounted hills, and followed winding, narrow trails around mountains. Several times, they had to camp close enough to Parthian territory that Antyllus wouldn’t allow any campfires at night, and Selene had no idea how she’d be able to sleep, for fear of a Parthian patrol finding them—until, of course, she woke up the next morning. Still wrapped in a haze of fatigue that never seemed to end.

  The mountains, she found beautiful; stark and uncompromising. The music of the shepherds who lived among them, played mostly on pipes as they endured the boring task of watching the flocks? A lonely, pervasive sound that followed them down this mountain, and up the next hill, where the last tune dwindled, to be picked up afresh by a new shepherd and a new flock. She tried to pick out the notes on her kithara at night once or twice, with fingers made numb by exhaustion, but Antyllus reminded her that they were close to Parthia and that sound carried at night. So she set the kithara back in its case.

  Finally, one last set of mountains lay behind them. And ahead of them, a vast and rolling plain. Almost featureless, it seemed to go on forever, a sea of winter-yellow grass just becoming tinged with fresh green, and drab, low bushes. If the mountains had been beautiful, if exhausting to travel through, this was . . . a wasteland. A desert of grass, if not of sand. Impossible to believe that people lived here. Why, there were no cities in sight—and even the people of Cappadocia, through which they’d traveled to get here, had villages.

  They’d picked up another guide in one of those Cappadocian villages, a man who spoke broken Hellene and, by his own account, some of the various Scythian dialects, and had traded with them and the Sarmatians before. “Herdsmen,” he said now, pointing to the horizon. Squinting, Selene thought she might see something that might have been smoke.

  “I wish I had Eurydice’s eyes,” she said glumly.

  “It would be somewhat helpful. But on the other hand, I’m glad you’re along, and not her,” Antyllus told her lightly, and turned back to their guide. And switched languages to the perfect, fluent Hellene that always surprised Selene when he spoke it. He had a different accent than she’d ever heard in the language before—a legacy, he’d told her, from commanding Cretan archers for several years now. “Is it better for us to go to them, or to let them come to us?”

  Their guide chuckled uneasily. “Depends on how their chieftain feels today, and if their gods are angry or not. Sarmatians worship a fire-god first and foremost of their pantheon, not the goddess of nature that the Scythians revere. But Scythians will take captives in war, and sacrifice them to their war-god, whose name they won’t teach to outsiders.” The bearded man shuddered a little.

  “Are there any signs we can give, to show our intent is peaceful trade?” Antyllus asked sharply.

  “
Set up camp. Don’t let the horses eat the grass—give them fodder. The herdsmen get angry if they come to an area where the grass has already been cut down. They have very specific circuits that their clans are allowed to follow, from this camp to that camp, over the course of the seasons. If any clan strays into the territory of another, it can lead to violence.” The Cappadocian scratched at his hair. “They’ll ride up and probably circle the camp several times with their bows in their hands. Testing your men’s mettle and your own. Don’t flinch, but also, don’t start anything. They respect courage above everything else—that’s true of all these tribes. Scythian, Sarmatian, royal Scythian—“

  “What’s the difference?” Antyllus asked immediately.

  “They don’t tell us that. All I know is, the royal Scythians have an extra god, only worshipped by them. They seem to rule over the rest of the Scythians, pretty much from their big city. It’s the only one they really have, other than small farming villages that the herders go around. They trade with each other, and everyone’s very polite, since they all go around armed at all times—even many of the women. The Royal Scythians dominate the slave-trade. Have the biggest tombs. And gods, never go near their tombs. I’ve heard rumors that they flay tomb-robbers alive.”

  Selene swallowed, and asked, in her own Egyptian-inflected Hellene, “Excuse me, but you said that the woman are armed, too? So these are the Amazons?” She had vague impressions of Pentesilea from the Iliad to go on here, and little more.

  Their guide laughed. “If only they were that kind. Depending on the tribe, the women might rule over everyone, yes—or not. But a woman who chooses to become a warrior, it’s said, has to kill three men before she can choose to marry and lose her virginity. They’re strict about those who take the warrior’s path.”

  Antyllus commented in Latin, very dryly, “No easily taking back that decision, eh?”

  Selene wondered, not for the first time, why on earth Antyllus had brought her here. Between the words of their garrulous guide and the tales she’d heard since the cradle of Amazons, she fully expected hairy people, dressed in skins, with the women bare to the waist to expose one breast—the other cauterized with a hot iron in infancy, to prevent its growth and to allow them to use their bows unimpeded in adulthood.

  They didn’t have time to set up the tents; instead, the men got the wagons into a sort of triangle, giving themselves both the chance to protect the trade-goods and the draft animals, and potential cover from any incoming arrows. Antyllus moved Selene purposefully into the shelter of one of them, and told her, tersely, “If it comes down to it, get under the cart. We’ve taken the pack horses off for a reason. Shouldn’t be an issue, though. They do trade with others.” A quick, light smile. “I’ll do my best not to antagonize them.”

  In the distance, Selene could hear the drumming of hundreds of hooves, and could just make out the cloud of dust that foretold the coming of the main herd. She could just make out small, cloth-covered wagons that looked like tents on wheels, moving alongside the herd, and watched, watched, wide-eyed, as the outriders now sped towards the camp.

  As their guide had predicted, the scouts rode in dizzying circles around the cluster of wagons, not holding the reins of their horses, for they had their bows in their hands. Bows that looked identical to the one Antyllus had in his own hands at the moment. But while the tribesmen rode with arrows on their strings, Antyllus just stood there, unflinching. Allowing them to take their aim, but simply watching each of them as they passed before him. Selene clutched the wooden side of the cart and wished that she had one tenth of her husband’s courage. Or some measure of Eurydice’s magic.

  Finally, the riders ceased their dizzying maneuvers around the camp. Slowed the horses to a walk, and the leader advanced. Selene’s eyes widened. These people weren’t at all as she’d pictured them. For starters, they all wore their hair long, flowing out from under their oddly peaked caps, and were universally either blond or red-haired, with gray or blue eyes. The men did wear beards, close-cropped, for the most part. All of them wore long tunics and pants, but these weren’t crude fabrications pieced together from animal skins, but carefully woven wool in bright colors. And they wore gold jewelry—some of it fantastically elaborate—which jingled from their arms and throats as they rode.

  And the leader? Was indeed a woman. She wasn’t stripped to the waist, and she certainly appeared to be in possession of both breasts. Selene flushed a little, remembering how Antyllus had laughed at that legend, and told her, smiling, I fail to see how a breast could get in the way of a bowstring. And the woman, with her flaxen hair and tanned skin, nudged her horse forward with her knees, staring directly and boldly into Antyllus’ eyes. Selene’s heart twisted a little inside her as she saw Antyllus smile up at her.

  A flurry of words in some indecipherable language, which their guide began to render into more-or-less comprehensible Hellene. Antyllus quickly established that they were here to trade. “I command archers in our lands, far to the west. But I have never seen a better bow than this one, which I found in Illyria. I would place these bows in the hands of my men, who go to fight enemies even further to the west.”

  “What lands do these enemies hold? What do they call themselves?” Rapid-fire words.

  “They are no allies of yours,” Antyllus assured her. “They are called Gauls. Some of their distant kin pushed as far east as Thrace, hundreds of years ago, and still dwell near there. But these live on an island in an ocean so far from here, that we will take nearly two months to cross the lands and rivers to reach them.” Antyllus paused for the translation to catch up. “They call themselves by many names—Caledoni, Cantiaci, Dobunni.” He gave her an appraising look, clearly admiring the horses, the bows, and the people themselves. “If they were not so far from your lands, I would ask if any of your young warriors wished to make a name for themselves, fighting them. We of Rome often bring warriors of other people with us on our battles. Many hands are stronger together.”

  Selene had never seen Antyllus exercising the famous Antony charm on someone else. His eyes gleamed, but, clearly watching the faces of those around him, he didn’t smile as much. Tailored his facial responses to theirs. All the gentleness he normally displayed towards her was in abeyance at the moment; nothing in his face and eyes but a stern soldier admiring the skill of other warriors.

  And these Scythians or Sarmatians, or whatever they were, responded to that. Their demeanor lightened. They promptly gave permission for Antyllus’ party to put up their tents, and extended the group grazing rights—for a few days, anyway. So that Antyllus could meet with the elders, and speak more seriously of bows, bowyers, and what might be traded for them.

  Selene again watched, feeling useless, as their guards set up their tents—and the nomads, who’d driven their horses and cattle into the area around them, set up their own camp around the foreigners. Parked their tent-covered wagons in a series of circles, hemming them in. “Well, they certainly know how to keep an eye on us,” Antyllus said lightly, taking Selene by the hand. “Come on. One of the scouts is going to introduce us to their leaders. It’ll be helpful for you to be there when I meet their elders. Generally, a man doesn’t bring his wife places where he intends to make trouble.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Selene hissed as he pulled her along in the wake of the same flaxen-haired woman who’d met with them at first, their interpreter following behind them doggedly, through a small city that hadn’t been there a half hour ago. People were taking items out of their wagons and setting up their homes more comfortably. Curved pieces of wood, stowed in the wagons, were removed, and each family raised these in circles, spreading cloth over them to form odd little huts, with peaked roofs. Wicker hutches with chickens in them, which had been bundled along the sides of the wagons, were settled onto the ground, and the birds released to forage for the time being. Selene almost tripped over one of the chickens, which flapped out of her path, squawking. “How can you joke?”


  Antyllus glanced down at her as they walked, and told her, in that same light, almost affable way, “Well, just about four years ago now, I was riding along a mountain path, being shot at now and again. My legate and the rest of the senior tribunes were up with the regular legion, and had just sent me back to chivy the auxiliary cavalry along a little faster—I’m always sent to deal with the auxiliaries. I usually speak their language.” He shrugged. “And when I looked up, an avalanche was coming down the mountainside. If I’d been up with the legate and the rest of the regulars, I’d have been killed. Probably wouldn’t even have had time to feel the pain—at least, I hope they didn’t. That avalanche was a force of nature, if one unleashed by men.” He patted her hand, where it sat on his arm. “I was never one to get worked up over the small things even before that. Now? If they’re not actively pulling out my fingernails, I can work with them.”

  Selene felt as if all the blood had left her head. She’d never even considered how close Antyllus had been to death in Hispania. She swallowed, and let him pull her into the wagon that they’d been directed to, which smelled oddly like cheese and wool and other things. Nodded politely to the wizened elders inside, who had faces like apples that had been dried in a kiln, their eyes almost invisible among the wrinkles. And the elders opted to put off talking of details, saying that they could only speak of business once they’d extended their hospitality to the foreigners. “Another way of taking our measure,” Antyllus assessed. “I’ll talk to our guards, and tell them to stay away from the local women. Too many chances for misunderstandings here.”

  So that first night, the nomads, safely arrived at their spring grazing grounds, put on a feast, and the foreigners, including Selene, as the wife of the guest of honor, were required to attend. There was roasted calf—fresh-slaughtered, the pick of the herd. Flat, unleavened bread. And a horrible, thick, sour drink that fizzed slightly as they passed it around in leather drinking skin, and clearly expected everyone to drink communally. Selene managed one mouthful, and felt quite proud of herself for not spewing it onto the ground, in spite of the laughter from the nomads all around her. “What is that?” she asked their guide.