Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  “Oh, I used to dread it. I was convinced my father would give me to some old man—like Agrippa! But your brother’s handsome, Selene! And not too much older than I am.” Octavia’s voice became tentative. “I need to find a way to tell him that I don’t blame him for my father’s death. My father was terrifying. And my stepmother no better. Suddenly, I have so much more freedom.”

  Selene leaned over, giggling. “Just wait. Maybe our mother will teach you her love spell.”

  Octavia sat bolt upright in the litter. “A love spell! Do you know it? Do you think it’ll work on Alexander? I do want him to love me.”

  Eurydice closed her eyes. “You’re not going to need a spell,” she told Octavia, fighting down the nausea induced by the lurching litter. “I’m not sure how he could possibly fail to love you. You’re sweet and you’re kind. What more could he want?”

  For the rest of the trip into the city, she endured, in a ball of tight misery. On the one hand, it was pleasant to know that her future sister-in-law was tolerable, if empty-headed company, and quite determined to be the best wife she could to Alexander. On the other hand, Octavia didn’t have much in the way of conversational skills. Eurydice dismally realized that in the last year, her world had grown. Expanded. She’d already had a magnificent education, including the works of philosophers and orators. And in the past year, she’d listened to strategy and tactics as discussed by some of the best commanders Rome had ever seen. She’d observed them put their plans into effect. She’d listened as her mother, Antony, and Lepidus had counted votes in the Senate with Caesarion, trying to gauge how much wavering support had been garnered by the decisive Brundisium campaign. She’d learned to harness the magic in her own soul, and had been taken to the temples of Mars and Venus to be evaluated in much the same way that Tahut had evaluated her on behalf of the temple of Thoth.

  Listening to Selene and Octavia chatter on about sewing and weaving and embroidery, Eurydice let her mind slip out of her body. She briefly considered touching the horse’s minds, and slipped into the body of Caesarion’s stallion, just to see what it felt like. The creature startled for a moment, arching its proud neck. Different than the mare’s mind—more aggressive. Feel of weight against her—Caesarion’s body, pressing down into the horse’s back. The surprising ease of it, horse and man both so accustomed to each other’s motions that they moved as one. Hypnotic, almost, the shift of weight and play of muscle. Feel of a hand on the arched neck, lightly stroking, reassuring.

  Eurydice slipped out of the horse and found a hawk instead, circling the city high above, and rode its wings, idly bringing the creature in lower and lower, till it found their procession. The boxy litter, carried on the shoulders of four men. Caesarion, Tiberius, Drusus, and Alexander all riding. Alexander and Tiberius side by side, laughing at something, Drusus tagging along behind them on a pony, a little too young for everyone else here. A couple of Praetorians bringing up the rear. People in rough-spun tunics clearing out of the way of the horses, pressing into the walls of buildings, though Caesarion, at the lead, picked his way through the crowd with great care.

  She saw Caesarion’s head jerk as he caught sight of the hawk. Then a smile curled his lips, and he held out his hand lightly. She brought the bird in for a landing on his hand, and, through its eyes, could see the expressions of awe on the faces in the crowd.

  Then she let the hawk take back off again, and gloried in its flight, its freedom, not hearing a word spoken until the litter lurched to a halt, settled to the ground, and she snapped back to awareness as a hand took hers to help her out. She opened her eyes, still blind, and heard a gasp from Octavia’s direction as she did so. “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to fly off with the birds without telling me,” Caesarion remonstrated quietly.

  She managed to find her feet, suppressing her groan of pain, and brought the hawk in for one last pass, letting the bird land on the litter behind her. “I didn’t go far,” Eurydice told him. “I practiced a bit with your horse, but I didn’t want to stay in him for long.” She swallowed, adding quickly, “He didn’t startle too badly, but I wouldn’t want him to spook or rear here in the streets. Someone could get hurt.”

  Caesarion’s hand tightened on hers. And he said against her ear, very quietly, “Just so that I understand correctly . . . I was riding you for a moment there?”

  “You were riding your horse. I was riding him, too.” Eurydice’s vision had cleared now, and she looked up at him, swallowing. Selene and Octavia had just exited the litter, and she was aware of Octavia’s awed, slightly frightened stare, and Tiberius’ look of interest just past Caesarion’s left shoulder. “Just as we have before.”

  She couldn’t fathom the expression on his face, but realized she must have done something wrong. Again. She’d had that feeling constantly for the past month. Things would start to improve. He’d smile, and it would feel like they were back in the tent outside Brundisium. Using her gifts to scout the enemy, or whatever else was needed. And then he’d frown, and all the warmth would fade.

  She’d started to wonder people felt like this after every campaign. If this was why soldiers always looked back to battles fought in the past, and spoke of them with love and longing. Not for the fight itself, but for who they’d been, and who had been with them at the time.

  Frustrated, she waited for the others to pile out of the litter and clamber up the steps, Alexander very correctly taking Octavia’s arm, and Tiberius smiling and taking Selene’s. And then she caught Caesarion’s wrist and leaned up to whisper, herself, now, “Brother. If this is how it is going to be between us when there’s peace, then I cannot wait to go to Hispania next year.” His head snapped towards her, shock apparent in his eyes. And miserable in mind and body, Eurydice added, “I don’t know what I’ve done to disappoint you. I know it can’t be just the foolish dress. You’ve been upset with me for days, and it couldn’t be over something like that.” He’s not petty. “So please, just tell me what I’ve done wrong and let me address it.”

  She closed her eyes, but this time, there was no place she could run to that would be far enough. And after a sigh’s worth of silence, Caesarion tugged her up the stairs. “Let’s not make a public show of this,” he muttered, and Eurydice trotted along behind him as best she could. Her muscles had definitely stiffened during the litter ride.

  Just outside the baths, between the entrances that divided them into male and female halves, there was a small alcove where statues of the gods stood on pedestals. Caesarion pulled her there, and then leaned down. “Eurydice, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not angry with you. I . . . regret having given you that impression.” He shook his head, clearly casting around for words.

  “You’ve been very busy,” she interpreted, nodding, grateful to have understood. “I’m only reading the dispatches to do with Egypt, after all, and you have to read all of them—”

  She blinked as he put a fingertip to her lips, stilling the words. “It has nothing to do with being busy,” Caesarion told her, looking harried. “It has nothing to do with the damned dress either. You looked amazing.” His voice sounded tight. “Perfectly fine for training. We’ll . . . figure something else out for when we’re on campaign and I might need my soldiers concentrating on the enemy and not daydreaming about all the ways they’d like to take my sister.”

  She flushed. Scarlet. “I could issue them all sacks to put over their heads,” he added, musingly. “Unfortunately, then the enemy will have an undeniable advantage, as my men won’t see them coming.”

  “You are just as much of a tease as Alexander, and it’s not funny,” Eurydice told him heatedly.

  Caesarion gave her an irritated look. “I’m not teasing. All right, only about the bags.” He exhaled. “As I said, I’m not angry with you. I’ve been angry with myself, and it’s . . . not important why.” He squeezed her shoulders lightly. “Here. Let me do something for you. You shouldn’t spend a pleasant afternoon like this hobbling like an old wom
an.” His brow furrowed.

  And warmth spread out from his hands like the sun, coursing through her. Chasing the aches and pains away. As if he were administering the best and most cleansing massage, tenderly rubbing all the soreness out of her body. Eurydice hadn’t realized that she’d been holding herself stiffly against the pain, and went almost limp now with the pleasure of it, her breath catching at the back of her throat as she closed her eyes. “Oh, gods,” she said, stunned, feeling the power coursing through her. “That feels so good . . . . ” She reached out with her mind, for the first time trying to touch another person in the way that she normally reached for hawks. Reached out as she did so for the living fire inside of herself, and brought it up to meet his. Found his mind, a wall of iron around it, heat blazing in it like a brazier filled with red coals—

  His hands jerked away from her shoulders as if she’d burned him, and her eyes snapped open. Caesarion cleared his throat. “All the aches and pains gone?” Back to the distant, cool, slightly irritated tone.

  Eurydice’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” she acknowledged quietly. “Thank you. I feel much better.” My gods. What just happened?

  “Good. I’ll walk you to the women’s entrance. Enjoy your swim. Get a massage. Make sure the young ones don’t spend all their coin on fripperies.”

  “Yes, Caesarion.” She found her hand tucked into his arm, and herself conveyed very properly to the entrance. But before she let herself disappear through the portal, she caught his attention one last time. “Caesarion. Brother. What little Tahut has taught me in the past month has shown me that all I do is draw energy from sources around me. Add to it some of my own, and then redirect it.” She swallowed. “If we could combine our powers . . . if I could draw on you . . . ” He burns so very brightly. Brighter than a bonfire. Brighter than anything I’ve ever seen before. “I don’t know what we couldn’t do.”

  “That may be precisely the problem, dear one,” Caesarion replied, his voice muffled. And then he turned and left, leaving her to stare after him. Oddly relieved and disconcerted at the same time. For she hadn’t realized that he hadn’t called her dear one in a month. Or how much she’d missed it until it returned.

  Or how cold it made her feel inside to hear the words without an attendant smile.

  Chapter VII: Politics as Usual

  Sextilis 17, 16 AC

  The Weser river wound, wide and slow through the rolling hills, which were concealed almost completely by a canopy of trees. The branches overhead were so thick that they blotted out the sun, turning noon to night, and even the faintest of the shadows, close to where the river provided a natural breach for the sunlight to enter, were green-tinged. So thick the trees, so deep the darkness under them, that there was surprisingly little underbrush, though vines twined up all the trunks around them. They turned every tree into a shambling, irregular giant that seemed just on the verge of waking from some long, deep slumber.

  The footing was bad, Caesarion knew. Nothing but a carpet of dead leaves several inches thick before you reached honest ground. On his stallion’s back, he sweated even in the shade. Not even a breath of air to stir this ancient forest, and he watched, stone-faced, as the men of the Seventh began to cross the bridge they’d built across the Weser. Decades ago, his father had bridged the Rhein to reach the obstreperous tribes on the other side, but Caesar had stopped short of taking all Germania. Uneasy peace between the completely capitulated region of the Gauls, all fertile fields except for the Ardennes Forest, and this barbaric, wooded region, had reigned for years.

  And then the Senate had proposed pushing east. Into the lands held by the Chatti, the Hercynian Forest. And Caesar had sent a legate, Quintus Tullius Cicero, brother of the orator, to Germania. With his own sons along; Caesarion to fight, and Alexander to learn.

  Caesarion turned in his sleep, restless. Vaguely aware that this was a dream—the dream he hated the most—he still couldn’t banish it. And helpless as a swimmer caught in a river’s current, he found himself swept on.

  The Seventh, with Quintus Cicero and his officers, crossed the narrow bridge after noon. They’d found a couple of locals who, for a bag of copper coins, had been willing to point out the best way through the forest to the Chatti’s secret sacred grounds. Cicero had been dubious; everyone knew that the Chatti were migratory, wandering like birds. But no, the guides insisted. The grounds were mounds for the dead. And every year the Chatti gathered in this region of the forest to pay homage to their ancestors. If they moved swiftly, they could take the burial grounds and break the spirit of the Chatti.

  The bridge was too narrow to allow all the men across at once. The path beyond, through the trees on the other side of the bank? Little more than a woodcutter’s trail. Caesarion rolled his shoulders under his armor, and looked at Malleolus. “Wonderful place for an ambush, don’t you think?”

  “Legate knows it. He’s pushing the cavalry out ahead. Using them as scouts. Useless otherwise in all these trees.” Malleolus blotted sweat from under his helmet.

  Alexander had ridden up at that point. “How much longer is this going to take?” his brother, then all of thirteen, had asked. “Hours?”

  “Possibly—”

  And then he’d heard the horns of the cavalry. They’d sighted something on the other side of the river. Straining his eyes, he’d been able to see the advance scouts take off, chasing something through the trees, while Quintus Cicero’s officers had played the signal to pull back and regroup.

  Then the barbarian archers had emerged from the trees, firing at the men already on the bridge, flaming rags attached to their arrows. Futile, of course; the wood was still green and wouldn’t catch. But the men of the Seventh crossing were caught. Unable to go forward until the men ahead of them moved, unable to go back, they lifted their shields and endured. Which was when the shouts from the other shore began, and more horns called and called, and suddenly, there was a pitched battle going on, and Caesarion couldn’t get to the men in danger. “Forward!” he shouted to the men on the bridge. “Get forward so we can move up and assist!”

  The battle had raged for hours. The men of Rome had been able to lock shields on the other side of the bridge, discipline saving their lives. Most of the Seventh had crossed, and Cicero sent orders for the Tenth and Eleventh to hold fast where they were, and pick off any Goths who tried to cross the river, themselves. Seething, but understanding that more men wasn’t the correct answer, Caesarion set up ballistae along his shore. The siege weapons couldn’t reach the far shore with their shots, but they could pelt anyone who tried to use the Roman bridge. They needed to preserve the escape route for the Seventh. Let them retreat back to a fortified location, and use the river as a barrier against the Goths. “And crucify the guides who brought us here,” Caesarion muttered under his breath, seeing the bodies pile up.

  In the last hour of the day, the Goths had all begun to sing and chant, beating on their shields. And the forest came alive. Trees ripped themselves free of the ground, their roots trailing behind them, and attacked the legionnaires. A shield wall was no defense against a tree seventy feet tall—Caesarion could see men flying as if they’d been flung from siege engines themselves. “Gods damn it, call the retreat, Cicero!” he’d said, over and over. Wanting to charge forward, but if he blocked the bridge with his men, the Seventh could be ground against them. “Or call us forward. Make up your mind.”

  And with the last light of the sun, it had happened. A shadow passed overhead, blotting out the stars for a moment. And then it had roared, shaking the earth.

  “What, they have elephants?” someone behind him had asked, incredulous. “A few of Hannibal’s got very lost, and bred?”

  “That’s not an elephant,” one of the veterans had replied, tight-lipped.

  And then the creature had descended from the sky like a piece of night. Flickers of its winged shape, black against the darkness of the trees. And then white fire lit up the night, blasting the men of the Seventh as they
tried to defend themselves against living trees and a piece of night incarnate that had taken exception to their intrusion.

  Romans. The word felt as if an icicle had been pounded into his head with a hammer. You always come to conquer. You always come to steal. Today, you’ve come to die. A woman’s voice, but with the chill of the grave in it.

  And the Goths on the other side of the river screamed in frenzy, “Hel! Hel! Hel! Hel!” and the great beast swung around in the air, coming back for another pass, and all Caesarion had known was the voice of Mars burning in his ears. No. Today, my people will live. Because you will save them. Forward, Caesarion!

  The dream melted into chaos. Ordering Alexander to stay back. Ordering the Tenth to cross the bridge, against the legate’s orders. Leading the charge himself, on his horse. Timing it as best he could, keeping an eye on the great beast overhead as he did. It has to stay to the river, or to the woodcutter’s track. The branches foul its wings. So long as our men stay in its kill alley, they’re dead. “Under the trees!” he shouted. “Don’t stay in the middle, you’re targets. Split the formation, half south, half north, and keep your shields over your heads!”

  Flash of that white fire—fire that was cold, not hot, pouring over the shields of some of the men of the Seventh who’d been caught. Turned to frozen statues. He caught one of their pila, the long spears carried by the infantry, as he rode by, feeling the arrows of the Chatti clip his arms harmlessly. Saw the handful of archers attached to the Seventh trying to fire on the beast, their arrows deflecting harmlessly away.

  And as the beast banked and came back for another pass, Caesarion timed its flight and as it came lowest, raised up as high as he could, stabbing with the spear. The soft iron point might have been deflected in any other hands. But with his god-born strength behind it, it actually penetrated. And, just as the pilum was designed to do with enemy shields, the upper portion of the soft iron shaft bent like a hook in the softer flesh beneath the scales.