Arrows rattled off his shield, and then the ballistae on the shore began targeting the archers. A continual hail of missiles racing through the air overhead. The archers couldn’t aim well, between the darkness and the constant ballistae shots, but some of their projectiles made it through. One arrow caught an engineer in an exposed arm, but the man swore and kept at work. Another engineer toppled with an arrow in the throat—pure bad luck.
Ten yards from shore, and men started sallying forth from the breach in the wall. Torches in hand, they ran towards the shore, throwing the fires down to give the archers on the walls more light—or threw the torches at the rafts, themselves. Caesarion heard Malleolus swear, something indecipherable in a language foreign to him, and then the centurion shrugged off his cloak and used it to smother the first flames, while behind them, more and more men stepped onto the surging, rippling, moving raft boom. Oh, they’d dropped anchors on lines here and there, to keep the damned bridge from drifting towards shore at an angle, but every single footstep echoed along the entire length of the joined rafts. “How do I know if I’m getting seasick?” Malleolus shouted to the others. “I’ve never been on a boat before!”
“You see mermaids!” came a quick, rough rejoinder, and then another curtain of arrows swept across them, and the men on the shore—a pitiful handful—scrambled back to the wall to make their stand right in the breach itself.
Twenty feet. Ten. At which point, Caesarion’s feet ignominiously slipped on the rippling wood, and he plunged into the dark water. Blank terror as the water closed over his head, and then the realization—I can’t swim in armor, but I think I’m close enough to wade, damn it. He felt a hand hook into the shoulder of his armor, letting him catch a breath. Mal. “Keep your shield up! I’ll wade for the shore!” Caesarion shouted up at his bodyguard, just as another hail of arrows sang through the air. He closed his eyes, feeling one or two bounce off his armor and skin, and then peered up to ensure that Mal and the rest of the men in the forward party were no worse for wear, before setting off for shore. Slippery rocks on the bottom. Ache of breath held too long in his chest, burning. I think I may have miscalculated—damned fool way to die—
And then his head broke above the surface and he gasped for air as he walked up out of the waves, water pouring from his lorica squamata, and, though he didn’t know it, pieces of seaweed lodged in his helmet’s crest and draped all over his shield in clinging green tendrils. A rather undignified fish flopped in his wake, having fallen from the gods-only-knew-where in his armor. Gods damned stupid thing to do. Next time, I will let Mal help me up—damn it, there won’t be a next time. I’ll be smarter than this.
To the eyes of the men guarding the breach, he looked like a creature out of legend. A triton, perhaps, one of Neptune’s own sons, who’d come walking out of the water to punish this harbor town for its defiance. They quailed as Caesarion lifted his seaweed-draped shield and shouted in a voice that seemed to split the heavens, “Tenth Legion! Forward and close ranks!” And quailed further as an owl, Minerva’s own personal symbol, hovered over this apparition’s head, before landing on his shoulder.
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“He did what?” Antony demanded in the command tent, which was lit by the light of a dozen small bronze oil lamps.
Eurydice wrung her thin hands in her lap, her eyes blank and golden once more. “I think he jumped off the bridge and walked the rest of the way under the water,” she said, her voice small.
“Gods damn the boy. No one is that hungry for honor and glory.” Antony adjusted markers on his maps. “How many men have made it across the bridge on our side?”
Eurydice’s lips moved as she counted. “Ten cohorts. Caesarion’s pushing through the breach with them—” her breath caught, her whole body swaying with the force of whatever she watched. “Oh, gods,” she whispered, her eyes wide, seeing yet unseeing. “He’s charged the men already in the breach. Just barreled right into them with his shield. They’ve been flung back into the stone of the wall, and his sword’s red with their blood now, his face wet with the spray—”
Antony blinked, and then smiled. The girl had been vaporish a few months ago, but tonight, her voice waxed nigh-lyrical in her descriptions of violence. He’d seen a similar condition prevail in young women who were taken to gladiatorial matches. Watching men fight simply roused the blood, and made some women surprisingly susceptible to amorous advances later in the evening. His eyebrows rose in consideration of her slightly parted lips and increasingly quick breath. I wonder if this is the first time our little virgin priestess has felt Venus’ warmth rise between her legs? Then he glanced at the young woman’s mother, and found Cleopatra’s eyes already on him. “What are the defenses on the inside of the wall?” he asked, putting aside his momentary enjoyment of the sight.
Eurydice tipped her head and swayed a little. “They’ve pulled down houses in all directions. Heaps of rubble in the street as barricades. Fires set in front of the barricades, and—” She stopped speaking for a moment, her face tight with fear. “Archers behind each barricade, and swordsmen behind them, waiting. And archers still up on the walls, shooting down at them.” Her voice inched higher. “They need to form a tortoise, don’t they?” Blindly, she turned towards both Antony and her mother. “A testudo will protect them, won’t it?”
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Caesarion got a good look at the tactical situation from behind his own shield once they’d managed to kill their way through the thin line of defenders in the breach itself. His men were being fired on from the walls above and from the chest-high walls that were all that remained of houses in this neighborhood—improvised breastworks. The breach in the wall behind him would only admit five men across at any point, which forced his vanguard into a narrow file. And in the streets, behind barricades of flaming rubble, spearmen awaited whichever men were fortunate enough to escape the arrows of the archers. The defenders aren’t stupid. They’re going to sell their lives as dearly as they can. “Legion! Testudinem formate! Form on Malleolus and advance!”
His men were already drifting into their defensive turtle reflexively; his command only gave them more impetus. “Mal, take them up the middle. I’m going to go take care of our archer problem.”
The centurion’s head swung towards him. “You’re going to what?” Malleolus asked, but Caesarion dropped back behind the lines, into the cover of the wall itself. Further back, in the long line of men crossing the wobbling, uncertain bridge across the harbor, he knew that legionnaires were carrying siege ladders. His men didn’t have time to wait for the ladders to be brought, placed, other men’s lives sacrificed as the defenders became aware of those climbing the walls, boiling water and pitch poured down on them, or just rocks hurled down atop their heads. Speed, surprise, and the shock of attack. Power brought to a point. Let’s see what surprise buys me.
He placed his spear against the wall, wiped his sword and sheathed it, and then, as his men trooped past him, crouched a little, and leaped. Got a hand-hold on the wall, then a toe-hold. Then, barely noticing the weight of his armor, though it did cramp his shoulders and limit his range of motion somewhat, Caesarion lightly scaled the wall, long before any siege ladders could be brought into play. And before the archers emplaced at the top realized that there was a threat, he’d leaped gracefully over the top and landed among them. Sword in his hand before they could drop their bows to reach for their own. Flash of faces, eyes glistening like fish scales in the flickering light of their torches. Strangled cries as the first two men died—then the next two tried to tackle him, and he threw them over their own wall to land twenty feet below on the hard ground, their bodies twisted and broken. He twisted his head, catching sight of a snowy owl floating past him, to circle over the next group of archers, on the opposite side of the breach.
No real thought. Just a bare calculation of how wide the breach was, and how much of a running start he’d have on this narrow ledge on this side of it. Five men can cr
oss through the breach, side-by side. Somewhere between ten and fifteen feet. Doable. Backing up, running forwards, and then leaping across the gap, seeing his men’s shields under his feet for an instant. They’d never let me live it down if I crashed down on them like Icarus—
Slam of impact as he landed on the other side, jolting up through his legs and knees. He staggered, then turned the stagger into a lunge with the point of his gladius, taking the first stunned archer by surprise. Recovering from the over-extended stance took valuable time, and the other archers managed to get their bows up—quick, hasty shots, without real power behind them. He felt them deflect off his shield, but one clipped his face, perilously close to his eyes—and at that moment, the owl struck, landing in the face of one of the archers, tearing at the man’s eyes with beak and talons. Screaming, beating at the animal with his hands, the archer staggered—and then fell over the edge.
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“Got him!” Eurydice exulted, leaning forward at the table. Sweat rolled down her face, and one of the servants pressed a cool cloth to her skin, while Cleopatra prepared a drink heavy with honey and spices for her daughter. “We took his eyes, and he fell to the ground. One less for Caesarion to worry about.”
Antony’s brows rose again. Where’s the girl who threw up at her first sight of viscera? he wondered. “Keep your mind on the task at hand,” he ordered curtly. “How far are they in?”
“Three ranks of men facing the men behind the barricade. The others are trying to flank left and right, jabbing over the walls at the archers, who’re falling back—prepared positions deeper in the ruined houses—” Eurydice’s words stilled as Cleopatra pressed the cup to her lips, and she swallowed, looking confused. “I ate, Mother!”
“Several hours ago, and you’re using much of your strength now. Your hands tremble.” Cleopatra’s voice was calm.
“It’s not exhaustion that makes her tremble,” Antony remarked, tracing routes and obstacles on his crude map. “That’s battle-excitement. Never thought to see it in a woman. Is there Amazon in your family lineage, my lady? Did Ptolemy claim a Pentesilea among his ancestors?”
The sharp glare Cleopatra gave him only made Antony laugh.
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Caesarion made short work of the remaining men, then looked around for the owl. When he spotted it again, the beast seemed little the worse for wear, and he held out his hand for it, surprised when it actually landed on his arm. “Poor creature. You wouldn’t have done that of your own account, I’m sure. Tell her not to take such risks. We don’t know what happens to her if she’s in your mind and you die, eh?” I’m talking to a bird. She can’t even hear me through it. He bounced the owl back into the air, and then looked down at the battle situation on the ground. Malleolus had brought the men right down the center, as ordered. With three rows of men engaged with the men behind the first barricade, and the rest trying to make their way in around the breastworks, it was time to start flanking.
Teeth bared in a grin of concentration, Caesarion dropped off the wall far to the left of his men, and came in from beside the retreating archers. Three more short, quick stabs. Three more dead men. Quick, imperative gestures, and a cohort of the Tenth moved with him, up between the houses, behind the men at the first barricade, and took them from behind while they were occupied with Malleolus and the first three ranks of men.
And so on through the city. Buildings filled with defenders, set alight. Caesarion had been explicit with his men before the battle. No rape. No looting. These are our own people. Their Latin might have a bit of a Hellene accent, it’s true. But they’re our own. They didn’t ask for Cassius and his men to take refuge here, and have been caught between him and us ever since. Show mercy to those who surrender. But for any man who raises a weapon against us? No quarter.
And in the light of those fiery buildings, in the deep pall of smoke rising over the city in the hours before dawn, Caesarion felt nothing but emptiness in his soul as his men found Cassius Lupinus and the last cohorts of his men in a villa at the center of town. Or rather, the mortal remains of Cassius Lupinus. The commander of his forces walked out of the villa alone, unarmed, his hands in the air, surrounded on all sides by men in whom battle-fury was scarcely leashed. Men covered in the blood of friend and foe alike, banded with the black of ash and soot. Indistinguishable from monsters out of legend, they might well have been whelped up from Mother Earth overnight, still covered in birthing blood. Rictus grins of pain, concentration. Tremors in every limb, of exhaustion. Of reflexes ready to snap, to kill, at the least provocation.
The legate was a patrician, and Caesarion gave him full credit for courage as he stared down a street filled with death in many guises. “I have been authorized by my lord to surrender the city to Caesarion, the Emperor of Rome,” he called, his voice filled with shame. “He and his wife took their own lives twenty minutes ago. Poison. You may enter and verify, if you wish. His eldest son and daughter await you within.”
Caesarion moved forward, his stride no longer energetic, but still firm. He beckoned for Malleolus and several others to come with him, and wasn’t entirely surprised when the owl that had drifted alongside him all night found a perch on his blood-stained shoulder. “Bring us to them,” he croaked, his voice harsh from smoke and exertion.
Inside, the eldest son of Cassius Lupinus proved to be about ten years old; his sister, barely six. The daughter wept inconsolably, clutching the hand of her dead mother, where the woman lay on a bed, her face swollen and distorted by the poison she’d taken. So many of our writers extol poison as a pleasant way to end one’s life, Caesarion thought blankly. They should, perhaps, see the immediate aftermath. The limbs contorted in agony. The face, not perfectly composed for a peaceful bier. Beside her, on another bed, her husband’s tongue protruded grotesquely from his mouth, and his young son sat on the bed beside him, face and eyes empty.
“I regret,” Caesarion said suddenly, loudly enough for everyone to hear him, “the waste of life that this rebellion has caused. And never more than in this moment.” He rubbed at his face, feeling the battle-tide within him suddenly start to ebb and wane. “Let them be prepared for an honorable burial. Their bodies cleaned and made ready for a pyre, so that their family may pay them proper respect. Take the children from here, when they’re ready.” He considered his options for a long moment. Legally, he was almost entirely obligated to return these two scions of the Cassius family to . . . someone of the same name. And what does that gain me, but their thirst for revenge in another ten years? “I may ask Agrippa if he would consider taking these two into his care. He’s a fine man.”
The shrieks of the younglings told him that they didn’t care about his good intentions, and that they wanted nothing to do with the soldiers surrounding them. That they wanted to stay with their dead parents. With the boy held firmly by Malleolus, Caesarion dropped to a crouch, and looked the child in the eyes. “Listen to me, Cassius. Your parents abandoned you. They abandoned your sister. Their family, for whom they should have given their lives. And for what? The semblance of honor, but not its substance. This won’t make sense to you for a long time. I hope it does someday. For now, you’ll be taken somewhere safe. That’s all that matters.”
Malleolus cleared his throat. “Will you offer the same mercy to Cassius’ legions?”
Staring out the window of the villa at the blood-stained faces of his own men, the distant looks in their eyes, Caesarion weighed that question. His men wanted revenge for the deaths of their own, lives spent taking this city. The exquisite, primal release of blood. He was already denying them rape and loot. And yet, the remnants of Cassius’ legions . . . we’re all Roman. We need to step past seeing ourselves as being of this city or that city, and understand that we’re one people. Egyptians understand that. Why can’t we? “A decimation,” Caesarion decided abruptly. “Every tenth man of those left standing, will pay for the lives lost here. Their ghosts will cross the Styx to join thos
e of our fellows.” He met Malleolus’ worried stare squarely. “The rest of them will be dissolved of their current cohorts, and will fill the ranks of the Seventh and Third Legions. They had heavy losses today.”
Malleolus looked appalled. “But they’re traitors—”
“And if we’d lost today, there’s a good chance that someone would be calling you a traitor right now. They followed orders. I won’t sacrifice all of them to appease the men.” Caesarion’s voice became uncompromising. “Make it happen.”
And after that . . . aftermath. Watching, eyes burning with weariness, as every tenth man among the prisoners was executed. The horrifying relief in the eyes of the survivors, knowing that after this, it was over. Except it’s never over, lads. That’s what people don’t quite grasp.
Picking up the bodies of the dead, and burning them. Carrying the wounded back to camp—made easier by having the main gates flung wide open. Caesarion made his way back to his camp, feeling weary in every bone. Sank down onto his camp stool, and as Eurydice entered, carrying a pitcher of water and towels, saw the exhaustion in her own face. The dark rims to her eyes, the tremors in her hands. And pulled his sister to him, heedless of the filth on him for once. “You stayed beside me all night,” he whispered into her hair. A few months ago, it would have horrified him, that she had seen everything. Had seen him at his best and his worst at the same time. When the beast that lived within his soul had been freed to fight, to kill. “You should rest now. You’re exhausted.”
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