Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  I can work on them on the subject later, Tahut decided pragmatically. Perhaps the child is no more capable than the mother of great workings. And if she has more power? They’ll see for themselves how dangerous she is. In time. “As my queen commands,” he replied, bowing. “Which of your daughters is this Eurydice, then?” A cold, hard, Hellene name. When she’s brought to the temple, she’ll be given a proper Egyptian name to replace it.

  Cleopatra turned, gesturing to the older of the two girls at the table. Tahut squinted at her for a moment. Long, dark hair—her own, and clearly not a wig. Probably crawling with lice. Dark eyes, golden skin. Dressed as a Roman, and not a hint of kohl around her eyes. This? This is the girl that the temple elders hoped might be our next queen? She’s Roman. The blood of the Ptolemies and pharaohs may well die with Cleopatra. I see no signs of favor about her, as with her brother. Her eyes are mortal. Her hair and skin seem normal. No visible birthmarks, though I’d have to have her strip to verify that completely. “Princess,” Tahut said out loud, with a very proper bow, which got him a blink from everyone around the table, and a nervous laugh from the younger of the two girls. “Your mother wrote only that you had demonstrated signs of power. She ordered me to ascertain if this was the power of a god manifesting in you, as with your brother, or the lesser magics known to priests. Could you be so good as to demonstrate your abilities?”

  He expected a shower of sparks from her hands, as Cleopatra had just demonstrated. But the princess looked at her brother, as if for permission. And, receiving his nod, she closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, they weren’t dark, but the wide golden gaze of an owl, the irises seeming to take up almost the whole of the white, and her pupils twice as large as they should have been. Tahut sucked in a breath, wanting to mouth an imprecation. “The city’s quiet,” she said softly. “No one’s on the streets besides the soldiers standing guard in the various districts. No signal flags positioned on Lepidus’ side of the harbor.” She paused. “I’ll bring her here, to the tent.”

  And so, a moment or two later, a large owl with a pure white face and brindled wings fluttered noiselessly into the tent, landing on the princess’ outstretched arm lightly. Tahut gaped for a long moment as the bird trod nervously up and down her forearm, finally settling its wings and turning to stare at him. “Can you control other animals?” he asked, immediately.

  “Hawks. Ravens—I don’t like them very much, but they’re intelligent. Owls. Song-birds. I haven’t tried with anything else. I see what they see.” Her eyes remained that same disconcerting shade of gold.

  “That’s . . . not possible,” Tahut managed, and then scrambled through the scroll cases tied to his belt for his copy of the Book of Thoth. No two copies were exactly alike, admittedly. He’d transcribed his own version from the forty-two other copies in the temple library. Every part that he could understand, anyway. “The Book of Thoth tells us that we can control animals, speak their secret language, yes. But not see through their eyes!”

  “You should try with horses,” the pharaoh told his sister lightly. “I’ve been thinking for a while that I need to teach you to ride. I want you ready for our next campaign next year, and I can’t have you in front of me in the saddle the whole time.”

  Her face lit up with astonishment. “But women don’t ride—”

  “Nonsense. Peasant women do it all the time. I can’t drag you along behind me in a carruca the whole way to Hispania or wherever we’ll next take the field. One of the men or I can lead your horse when you’re looking through the bird’s eyes, but I need you mobile.” He nodded, and reached for a chunk of ham.

  “Pardon me, but you’ve been using her gifts?” Tahut’s shock couldn’t be covered. “Without her being trained? My lord, you have no idea of the forces involved in magic! She could have died from overuse. And the backlash of forces in even the simplest of spells could have wiped out everyone in this tent!”

  That got everyone’s eyes focused on him. Finally, they were listening. And yet, the young pharaoh, with the casual certainty and arrogance of youth, shrugged away his words. “It seems much like strengthening a muscle. You don’t wish to overuse it at first, but through constant practice, you become stronger. I did not allow her to overexert at first, but as she became stronger, longer periods of maintaining her control over the birds seemed reasonable.” He chewed on the brown rind of the ham cheerfully, swallowed, and added, “We also found that a balanced diet, enough sleep, and a certain moderate amount of exercise seemed to help with controlling the headaches and nausea that originally attended on the power. All things that the Hellenes have recommended for years.” Heavy eyebrows rose. “So. Is she god-born, as I am? You say that none of your people can see through the eyes of their animals. Does that make her the chosen of a god?”

  Tahut frowned. There was a hint of eagerness behind that question that he couldn’t quite comprehend. “I don’t know what it makes her, my lord,” he admitted, grimacing. “I can start testing her on elemental magic tomorrow. See what her other abilities are. But this is dangerous work,” he stressed. “It should be done outside, away from structures and other people. No one quite knows why a spell backlashes, but even one as simple as the one performed by the queen a few moments ago—” he nodded respectfully to Cleopatra, “can do so. I have seen men attempting to distill fire out of the stone underfoot and cast it at their enemies . . . who succeeded, mind you! . . . who, seconds later, turned to ice. In the middle of the desert.” He spread his hands, trying to convey the mystery of it. “Their enemies, a smoking ruin! And they themselves, cast into oblivion by the gods for their arrogant presumption. For using the powers we’re given lightly, and incautiously.”

  “I thought you said that no one could say why a spell backlashes,” the man seated beside Cleopatra put in sardonically. “Seems to me, you have a theory of your own. Me, I don’t look for the gods behind every bush or under every stone. I like to think they have better things to worry about than every little muddle we humans get ourselves into.”

  Tahut gave the Roman a furious stare, but didn’t dare retort as his queen lifted a hand and . . . caressed the man’s cheek! Ah. She’s taken a lover, then. Well, we all know how to deal with court favorites. Mind your tongue around them until they fall from favor.

  The pharaoh raised a hand. “You can test her tomorrow. But I’ll go with both of you, as will a detachment of Praetorians. This is a siege area. I won’t run the risk of my sister being kidnapped by any rebels still feeling restive, and being held hostage to test my will.”

  At the stare he received, Tahut swallowed, wondering if the pharaoh’s powers included mind-reading. For he had thought, briefly, that if the girl proved powerful enough to be an asset to the temple, and a true danger to her family, he might be able to slip her away. For the good of all concerned, naturally. The young pharaoh is going to make this difficult. “As my lord commands,” Tahut agreed, bowing low.

  ____________________

  Iunius 18, 16 AC

  Eurydice woke before dawn the next morning, excitement coursing through her. Caesarion had promised to teach her how to ride—something prohibited to women of their social class. For all that many of the patricians had once been equestrians, mounted warriors, it was considered unseemly for a woman to ride, particularly astride. Partially because of the potential for a broken maidenhead, but also because it was the very epitome of freedom and mobility—two qualities lacking in most patrician women’s lives. While a woman who possessed ‘masculine’ virtues, such as self-control over her emotions and courage, was admired, and considered a virago, someone possessing too many masculine qualities was derided. A woman was encouraged instead to demonstrate pietas—faith in the gods, concern for her family, tenderness of heart for those in need, and an iron sense of duty towards her children and husband.

  Centuries ago, both men and women had worn the toga. These days, the only women who did were prostitutes—it was, in fact, their required uniform. The gar
ment of male privilege, worn by a woman, informed the world that she had stepped outside the social norms, and was now for sale. Eurydice swallowed, staring at the ceiling. I won’t be wearing a toga. But what will people think when they see me riding a horse like a man? Will they call me a whore? She sat up, still undeniably excited, though worried, too. But then, I’ve already stepped outside what women of my class normally do. The magic has already set me apart. Though for the moment, I’m sure only Caesarion’s authority has kept some of the men from pelting me with garbage and calling me a witch to my face. She sat up, fumbling in the darkness for a tunic. Many people in Rome wore to bed precisely what they’d worn during the day; her mother found this unhygienic and uncivilized—bordering on unaccountable from a people as obsessed with bathing as Romans were. Thus, all of her children were accustomed to sleeping in the nude, and allowing their clothes to air, or to be laundered.

  The curtains swept back, and she yanked the tunic in her hands up to her chest, startled. Caesarion loomed in the gap in the folds, outlined by lamplight behind him, his features lost in shadow. “Ah, you’re awake,” he whispered, sounding ill-at-ease. “Come on, get dressed and break your fast with me before we ride out with our Egyptian priest.”

  The curtain fell closed behind him, and Eurydice scrambled into the bleached white tunic, fumbling once more in the dark for the stola that should have been laid out to its left, and all the ribbons and cross-ties. She finally found it by touch, wondering where Nesa had gotten off to, and put on the rich red stola that had been a gift from her mother last month. Tied it under her breasts with a golden cord, and squinted down at herself in the pre-dawn darkness. Are they finished growing? I do hope so. They hurt when I ride with Caesarion. All that bouncing. If they get any more melon-ripe, they’ll just hurt worse, I’m sure. Glum thoughts as she tied off the second cord around her hips, letting the stola drape as best she could without help. And without a servant, there was really no help for her hair, either. She dragged a comb through it and pinned it up as best she could, knowing that half of it was already falling down her neck as it was. No more time. He’s waiting for me.

  She scrambled out into the main area of the tent, and Caesarion looked up from a stack of scrolls piled on one side of the table. A cup filled with water and vinegar sat by his elbow, along with a trencher. Rich smell of fresh bread. A little honey and cheese. Fresh cut apples and . . . yes. Salted fish. Her mouth watered, and Caesarion beckoned her to the table. Rather than calling a servant in to bring her a fresh plate, however, he offered her the stool beside him, and as she sat down, broke his own loaf in half, offering it to her with his own hands.

  She flushed a little, and accepted it. “What are you reading?” Eurydice asked.

  “Reports. They never stop coming in. This one tells me that the governor of Syria thinks there’s going to be a Persian incursion in the next several months. I need to decide if I can afford to send more troops in that direction, now that I only have a war on two fronts, not three.” He shook his head. “The rest of them,” he gestured at the stack of scrolls, “have similarly cheering news, I’m sure.”

  She swallowed, the bread sticking in her throat. “Do you have time to ride out with me?” she asked, shaken. “Surely, these are more important—”

  “The report took four weeks to get to my hand. It won’t light itself on fire in the next two hours.” He picked up a morsel of fish off the plate and popped it in her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips. “Eat. How’s your Hellene? You read it well enough?”

  “Yes. Mother was quite insistent about that. I can manage Euripides.”

  “Oh? I’ll have to give you Father’s copy of Elektra when we get back to Rome.” A lopsided smile. “In the meantime, you and Alexander can help me make a dent in this stack this afternoon. Half the clerks in the Empire write in Hellene. The other half in Latin. And after a while, staring at their handwriting, it all starts to look the same.”

  Her head jerked back. “How—how will I know what’s important?” Oh, gods, what if I make a mistake? How can he ask me to do this?

  “The same way I do. When it starts to smell rotten.” He rubbed at his eyes. “I’ve been up for an hour reading these. I have no idea how Father managed all of this. I mean, he had a staff of clerks. So do I. But the reports . . . I swear, they’re breeding.” He gave the scrolls a push with a stiffened finger. “I look away, and when I look back, there’s twice as many.”

  Against her will, Eurydice chuckled under her breath, looking down. “That’s better,” Caesarion told her lightly. “You looked frightened to death last night, and this morning, you’ve seemed little better.”

  She found a piece of apple on his trencher and nibbled at it half-heartedly. “I don’t like the sound of turning myself into a block of ice,” Eurydice admitted, her voice tight.

  “You’re not going to do any such thing.” He set down the scroll he was reading, taking her hand instead. “For starters, there’s still an open question as to whether or not you’re god-born. Like me.” His eyes searched hers for a long moment. “And second, you’ve been entirely sensible so far about how you’ve used your powers. I highly doubt you’ll catch fire any more than these scrolls will.” A black stare in the direction of the reports. “More’s the pity, in their case.”

  She laughed again, covering her lips with her fingers. “Oh, stop! You don’t mean that.”

  “Right now, I absolutely do mean it. I have no skill for this. I do my best; I imagine that the reports are a legion of enemies, and that I must break through their center in a hard charge.” Caesarion gestured, bringing his hands together like the prow of a ship, or the spearhead formation of a charging line of soldiers. “They’re set to receive, and I reach them and then—damnation. I’m mired on all sides, and they’re not using swords at all, but pleas for grain shipments to make up a harvest shortfall.” He rolled his eyes at her. Here, in private, his face was mobile and charming, and the red gaze human and warm. “Swords and spears are easier.”

  She chuckled again, feeling warm inside. “I’ll do anything I can to help you break the enemy’s back. But I don’t know how much assistance I’ll be.”

  “You didn’t know the first thing about tactics three months ago. You’re learning. You’ll learn this, too. Same as I am.” He picked up his next scroll. “So that I don’t have any surprises this morning,” he went on, staring at the words, a frown on his face, “Mother told me to ask you about ‘the dream.’ Which, when she mentioned it, I remembered that you had said something about it once, but I’d forgotten it.” He gestured at the outside world. “Siege. Rebellion. Occupies the mind.” He glanced up.

  Eurydice swallowed; the apple felt stuck in her throat, and she looked around for something to wash it down with. His cup being the only thing to hand, she took it and sipped, letting the sour fluid push everything down. He took the cup from her hand, turned it around, and sipped himself, raising his eyebrows over the rim. “Well?”

  “She told me not to tell the priest when he arrived. But that I could talk to you about it, if you asked.” Eurydice wet her lips with her tongue quickly. “I have the dream once a month. Often when the moon is full. It’s always the same.” She stared down at the table for a moment, and then blurted out, “It’s about an eagle—a great bird with red eyes—and a hawk. The birds have made the eagle their leader, but they don’t love him. They plot against him, especially the ravens. He takes a hawk for his mate—the only other bird of prey available, but she has to be sent away. And while she’s away, rearing his eaglet, the ravens force him to take another mate.”

  She knew the particulars of her mind’s fable perfectly by now, and rattled along now, at a storyteller’s pace. “The first mate, the corbie, eats all their young, pecking them right out of the eggs. The hawk returns to the kingdom of the birds with the eagle’s son, healthy and well-grown, and the eagle’s reunited with his family. Then he’s forced to send her away again, and the ravens force him to marry a v
ulture, whom he can’t abide. She dies, choking on a fishbone, and he can join the hawk once more, and sees his two new children with her—both hawks, as she is. Again, they’re forced apart, and he marries a wren, whom he pities. The wren dies, trying to pass the eagle’s egg out of her tiny body, and the hawk has one egg more to raise. Then she dies, alone. All her children sent to their father.” She shrugged. “Every time I dream this, I wake in tears. It . . . doesn’t make any sense.” Eurydice looked up at Caesarion, biting her lower lip. “Do you think I should speak to an oneiromancer?” Oneiromancers specialized in the interpretation of dreams, deciphering their omens and portents.

  As she met Caesarion’s eyes, however, she could see shock in them. Eurydice straightened. “What, you understand it?” she asked, amazed. “Brother, tell me what it means! If I know, perhaps I’ll stop dreaming it.”

  He shook his head sharply. “No,” Caesarion replied sharply. “If I’m wrong—and I must be wrong—you’d be . . . very uncomfortable with my interpretation.” He paused. “And no. Definitely do not tell anyone else about that dream. Promise me, dear one.” He touched her face with the backs of his fingers. “Promise.”

  “I swear,” Eurydice said, eyes wide. “I won’t tell a soul unless you give me leave.”

  Expressions flickered across his face, rapid and indecipherable. Then he sighed and took a bite of his bread, chewing stolidly. “Anything else I should know about?” he asked after swallowing. “How about this ‘infallible love spell’ Mother mentioned last night?”

  Eurydice, mid-swallow, choked. As she did so, Alexander ducked in through the front of the tent, grinning. “I’d like to know about that one, myself,” their brother admitted.

  “You’re betrothed,” Caesarion reminded him sharply. “Love spells aren’t for you, little brother.”

  “I doubt anyone will let me marry Octavia till she’s sixteen. Five years is a long time to wait,” Alexander said, raising his eyebrows and grinning. All of fourteen, himself, he was a man in the eyes of their society. “So, tell us, Eurydice. Or is it something for women only?”