Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  “My father was not a Magus,” she continued tightly. “He was, however, Chaldean nobility. And he took my younger brother and me to Judea once, on a mission to promote understanding and peaceful relations. Some of our fellow travelers did not get that message. They attacked us and our guards. Murdered my father and brother. And would have done the same to me, save that they had another purpose for me first. At the time, I had no spells. They’d thought they’d cut my face, rape me, and leave me the sole survivor, as a message not to bring spies into their territory.” She looked away. “When the fourth one was raping me, I set him on fire while he was still in me. And managed to run away while his companions were trying to beat out the flames. The three who remained—two Romans and a Judean—I’ve sought over the years. My spirits have managed to track them this far, but the trail’s gone cold.” Her voice had long since gone empty, and remained so as she added, “And when I find them, I intend to kill them. Roman citizens or no.”

  There was a pause, and the man behind her commented, tightly, “The rape of a virgin is punishable by death in Rome, domina.”

  “Magus,” she corrected automatically. “A lovely thing Roman law must be. I’m sure it keeps you all warm at night.”

  “Is that your only purpose here?” the emperor asked, his face expressionless.

  “I pass along information I receive to the Council of Magi. Mostly so that they do not interfere with me, or demand that I return home. Ehsan would make the latter very difficult, in any event.” She gestured towards her guard, who grunted in what passed for agreement.

  “A spy, then.” The older man sounded disgusted.

  She shrugged. “At present, the only loyalties I have are to the Magi, to what remains of my family, and to my friends.” A nod to Ehsan, once more. “I pass along rumors and gossip, and the Council leaves me alone.” And I compromise people, if I can, but that’s towards my own ends, not necessarily the Council’s.

  Another whispered conference, and then the young empress asked, quickly, “You said that your . . . friend . . . would make it difficult to return home. Why is that?”

  Damkina looked at Ehsan, who returned her a brooding stare that said, more plainly than words, You shouldn’t have said anything about me at all. Let me stay invisible, damn it all.

  She sighed. And, committed now to telling as much truth as would keep them both alive, Damkina replied, very slowly, “I mentioned to this one last week,” she pointed at the older man, “that the Magi have not turned over the Immortals to our beloved Parthian overlords.” She swallowed.

  The room went silent. “He doesn’t look like an Immortal,” the older man said, very quietly.

  “No,” Damkina returned, tightly. “The process for making a man into an Immortal has changed over the centuries. In the time of Darius, a spirit was planted in a living man’s body, and he was left . . . intact. Wholly himself. A reward to young, promising noblemen for loyalty and service and fealty.” She exhaled. “In later days, the kings of Persia began to suspect that some of their companions were less loyal to them, than to . . . Persia as a whole. Or to other nobles. Troublesome issues of free will and trust. So they began to alter the . . . chosen ones.”

  She licked her dry lips, grateful that her veil once more concealed her face. “None of the Magi were supposed to be making new Immortals,” she added now, sharply. “It’s been forbidden by the Council, until the kings of Parthia either stabilize, or are overthrown.” She looked at Ehsan, misery uncoiling inside her. “A rogue among us decided that the Parthian kings needed the Immortals to cement their grip on power. Found in Ehsan one of the best swords of the region. And invited him and several others to his estate, where he drugged them and . . . removed the things that kings usually find detract from loyalty. Tongues that wag. The seat of desire. And then put a spirit in him. But this Magus fumbled the Name, you see,” she added, shaking her head. “So instead of a spirit well-accustomed to taking over a human, body and soul, he planted a smaller, weaker spirit in Ehsan’s form. He had enough will to fight it. To retain his identity. And, as far as he’s ever been able to explain it to me, he broke free and killed the Magus who’d done this to him. Killed half a dozen servants and guards. Then fled, bleeding. And found my uncle’s estate, where the servants in turn found him, starving. Trying to eat raw eggs, because nothing else could he manage with a stump for a tongue.”

  Ehsan looked away, his face rigid with humiliation relived. Damkina sighed, and looked back at the Romans. “If I take him back to Chaldea, there is no one there who won’t know what he is. An Immortal, in every way but the mindless submission to the will of the king of kings. Someday, I don’t doubt that they’ll find a way to ensure it,” she added, darkly. “But I won’t turn him over to be the slave of a Parthian. To have a different spirit forced into his body, and his own mind erased. I won’t.” She looked away. “If you feel a need to dismiss us from your lands for having brought word of this plot to your attention, and because you dare not risk the presence of a Magus in one of your cities. . . ” tears prickled at her eyes, which she did her best to hold back, thinking, Even speaking these truths out loud abases us. I’ve humiliated Ehsan, humiliated myself, and for what? “. . . it will be somewhat difficult to find some part of the world not occupied by either Rome or Persia.” Where would we even go? India? They have libraries and magic, yes, but how will I ever find my vengeance, exiled there?

  More urgent whispers from the empress to her husband, and reluctance clear in his face, he finally nodded. And ordered their guards, “Let them clean themselves, and give them more comfortable accommodations. My beloved has a few other questions she’d like to ask you, Magus. If you’re inclined to answer them once you’ve had a hot meal and a change of clothing.”

  The sword withdrew from her back, and she could hear it being sheathed now, an almost-noiseless rustle as the blade slid into its leather scabbard. Her wrists and Ehsan’s, both being unshackled. And then, to her utter surprise, the guard who’d stood behind her offered Ehsan the curving silver dagger that she’d told her guard to give him. “Thank you,” the soldier said, his voice gruff. “Needed to be about two feet longer if I wanted to do any real harm to that thing, but at least I kept it occupied. Somewhat.” He rubbed at his bruised face in explanation, then turned slightly towards Damkina. “If you’ll come with me, Magus,” stress on her title, “we can see about those rooms. And a bath, and hot food.”

  Wide-eyed, Damkina nodded, and followed, gesturing for Ehsan to follow.

  ______________

  In another room of the sprawling palace complex, a smell of medicinal herbs and a hint of incense filled the air, as the royal physicians, long denied a change to practice their art on anyone but the courtiers and servants, eagerly offered their services to the wounded Praetorians and the rest of Caesarion’s entourage. Their faces fell, however, at being told by Antony, sharply, that they could assist the medici of the Praetorians, but that the legions cared for their own. And then the new Roman governor of Egypt left, letting the various physicians get on with the business at hand.

  Antyllus and Tiberius had biers next to each other. The physicians gave each of them a foul-tasting draught, which made Antyllus even more light-headed and giddy than he already felt. “Should he have that, given that he hit his head?” Tiberius asked. Antyllus heard him as if from underwater, and stared at him for a moment, wondering why it looked as if the younger man’s body kept distorting and twisting until he blinked. And then looked solid again, for at least another two heartbeats, before collapsing in on itself again.

  “It’s a small dose, dominus,” the medicus in charge told Tiberius. “Enough to keep him from squirming when we put the stitches in.”

  They set to work, washing the wound in Antyllus’ chest with vinegar, which burned like fire, but . . . distantly. He felt as if he were observing the pain, rather than experiencing it, and looked over with mild interest, hearing Tiberius grunt in discomfort as a medicus and an Egyptian phys
ician moved the broken bones in his arm around, trying to get them to line up properly before applying the boards of a splint and wrapping it with cloth. “Better run,” Antyllus said, his head still spinning. “They might not stop wrapping, and turn you into something fit for a sarcophagus.”

  That got him dirty looks from every physician present, but he also received a rare half-smile from Tiberius—before another grimace twisted the younger man’s face as he struggled not to cry out as broken bones sawed at tender internal flesh. “I owe you,” Antyllus told Tiberius, watching as a physician near him threaded an iron needle that had just been held in the heart of a lamp’s flame to purify it. “You saved my life.”

  Sweat trickled down Tiberius’ face as the physicians now gently settled his splinted arm into a sling. “You’re the one who put weapons in our hands that actually made a difference,” Tiberius reminded him. “And you stood side-by-side with me and your father. So I think it’s fair to say you’d have done the same for me, if I’d been the one smart enough to grab the brazier, and get pushed back over the altar for my pains.” He swung his feet off the bier, and offered Antyllus his good hand for a wrist-clasp. “Don’t squirm when they put in the stitches. You’ll heal crooked.”

  Antyllus chuckled, ignoring the increasingly distant pain in his chest. “A jest from Tiberius. The world may end now.” But he accepted the wrist-clasp, and then closed his eyes, bracing himself for the tender ministrations of the medicus’ skilled hands. Clamped his hands on the edges of the bier, and swore under his breath at the first few stitches. After that, the pain dulled into something that resembled familiarity, or at least monotony.

  And that was where Selene found him, as she scurried into the warm dimness of the physicians’ quarters, having been directed there by a passing servant. She didn’t see Tiberius leaving by a different door, but rather, focused on the various men lying groaning on their biers. Most of them had broken bones from having been thrown across the temple, or having had their fellows fall on them with great force. But Antyllus was in the process of being stitched up, and the physicians wouldn’t let her near at first, even when she told them, quietly, “But I’ve read about the process many times—oh!” That last, as she got a look past one of their shoulders at how much blood seemed to be involved. “Oh, Juno and Venus. Is it that bad?”

  Her world spun for a moment, but one of the physicians, this one an Egyptian, took pity on her and took her aside. “It’s actually relatively superficial, my lady,” he told her with gentle deference, his shaved head gleaming in the lamplight. “The blade, however sharp it was, and how powerfully it was swung, to cut through an iron breastplate, didn’t damage any bones. Just skin and muscle. We’re stitching it up, and he’ll need to rest until it heals.”

  Selene blinked, still seeing the red every time she closed her eyes. “He’s an archer,” she told the physician quietly. “Will it affect his ability to hold his bow?”

  A shrug. “Perhaps at first, but most ability and strength can be regained with patience and time. Of course, rumor has it that your brother holds the power to heal in his hands.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Selene said immediately. For once, the fear of her terrifying eldest brother was subsumed by a greater fear: an Antyllus unable to go about the world, smiling and doing precisely what he chose, was unthinkable to her. “The tribune is a friend of his, I mean,” she added rapidly. “I’m sure he’d heal Antyllus anyway—“

  “Is that the voice of a lark that I hear?” Antyllus asked, his voice muzzy, and, after some wrapping of bandages around his ribs, the medici propped him up, sitting and permitted Selene to come closer. And her reward was a sleepy smile as he reached out and caught her fingers in his. “It is a lark, come to perch on my hand. What a wonder.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Did you come to sing for me?”

  One of the Roman physicians leaned over and spoke to her quietly, “He took a hit to the head, too, domina. We heard Lord Tiberius ask him why he’d suggested using a rope on the creature a few minutes ago, and Lord Antonius said he didn’t remember making the remark. It’s best, if someone’s taken a head wound, even if it’s not bleeding on the outside, that they don’t sleep immediately. Try to keep him awake, if you would.”

  And then the physicians all decamped, swarming to other beds, filled with other groaning men. Selene awkwardly sat on the edge of Antyllus’ bed, wondering briefly where Tiberius was, if he’d just been here to ask that question. But then her whole world narrowed in focus to the warm hand holding hers, and the urgent need to keep Antyllus awake. So she shook his hand a little, offering, a little catch in her voice, “I didn’t bring my kithara here. And . . . even if I had . . . I’d, well . . . need both hands to play it.”

  Antyllus managed to open his eyes, fighting the call of whatever medicines the physicians had given him. “A good thing you didn’t bring it, then, for I refuse to give up my prize, now that I’ve taken it.” He lifted her hand a little, pretending to wave it like a banner.

  And, as always in his presence, Selene felt her lips quirk up at the corners. “How can you jest at a time like this?” she asked him, warmth welling up in her chest. “You’re hurt.”

  His eyes started to drift closed again. “What are my other options?” Antyllus asked sleepily. “I get to lie on my back and hold a pretty girl’s hand. Should I weep?” And then he tugged gently at her hand, pulling her closer on the bier, so that her hip landed against his thigh, and he opened his eyes again, looking more alert. “There are four good men lying dead in another room. I’m alive. And the worst I can complain about is that I haven’t inherited my father’s talent for ducking.” A wicked light filled his eyes for a moment. “If you’re not here to sing, lark,” he added, very softly, “there’s another purpose to which those lovely lips could be put.”

  Selene felt her face turn hot. “You really did hit your head,” she told him, trying to pull her hand away. But he sat up further, with a grunt of effort, and caught her face with his other hand, catching her open lips with his own. And for several moments, Selene completely forgot that there were other people in the room. Wounded men and physicians, all quite busy about their work or in worlds of their own pain.

  When he lifted his lips again, Selene felt as dizzy as if she were the one drugged. She touched his face lightly, and watched his expression lighten as she did. “If you want more of that,” he teased very quietly, “you’ll just have to marry me. No more free samples, domina.”

  And in that split-second, feeling the danger of mortality acutely, she knew that she loved his warmth and light heart, though a voice at the back of her head whispered another name still. And Selene swallowed, and told Antyllus, “So perhaps you should go ahead and marry me, then.”

  He blinked. “They’ve drugged me very well, little lark. I’m definitely beginning to hallucinate. I thought you just accepted my on-going and very earnest proposal of marriage.”

  Selene flushed again at the teasing words. “. . . yes. Yes.” She paused, eyeing his still-dazed expression. “I said yes.”

  He nodded soberly, his mind clearly not working with its accustomed speed. “Well, then. Isn’t that a thing . . . you really mean it?”

  “How many times do I have to say yes?” Selene asked, embarrassed.

  “I don’t know. How many times have I asked you?” Antyllus let his head fall back on the pillow, but a wide smile crossed his features, lighting up his dark eyes. “Let’s say at least as many.”

  “You’re horrible.” Selene writhed a little inwardly, but relaxed as he pulled her hand towards him, and kissed the back of it lightly.

  “Best you get used to that now,” he told her peaceably. “That way, you can’t lay accusations before the Senate in years to come, for grounds of divorce on account of my having misrepresented myself as other than horrible to young women.” His eyes closed.

  “Don’t go to sleep!” Selene said anxiously, her hand tightening on his.

  “You’re actually w
orried about a scratch like this, and a bit of a bump on the head?” he asked, chuckling a little. “I’ll be up and around and being horrible to you at every opportunity by morning. I give you my oath. On the Styx, if you like.”

  So immersed was she in all this, that it wasn’t until she left the infirmary to go find Caesarion, to beg him to heal Antyllus’ ‘scratch,’ as he persisted in calling the ten-inch gash over his sternum, that reality struck her. And dazed, she stood in a corridor for a long moment. She’d given her word to marry him. And the delight she felt at that realization was suddenly tempered by another realization: Tiberius gave up his betrothal to Vipsania to come here and court me. Alexander and he have broken off . . . everything . . . for this very reason. And I’ve loved . . . or thought I loved . . . Tiberius, for years. And even told him so. She swallowed, putting one hand on the wall of the corridor, just under a brilliantly-colored fresco depicting some important acceptance of tribute by one of her ancestors, from some occupied country or another. The only reason he did any of that, past the initial offer, was because of my words. Her throat ached for a moment, and she wondered if she was about to hurt Tiberius.

  And standing in that corridor, Selene rationalized it all. He told me himself that if I chose Antyllus, he’d attend the wedding and wish me well. He said he holds me in affection. But that just means he sees me as a sister, surely. Someone who . . . needs to be taken care of. For Alexander’s sake. Maybe . . . maybe he won’t forgive me. For not acknowledging what he’s given up. But he’d . . . he’d have given it all up anyway, wouldn’t he? If he really wanted to marry Vipsania in four or five years, nothing would have stopped him. And if he really wanted to marry me . . . wouldn’t he have kissed me by now? Shown some more overt sign? And in the end, I shouldn’t choose to marry someone, because I think I might owe them that. I . . . should marry Antyllus. Who’s said he could grow fond of me. And this is surely love that I feel for him.