Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  A roar from the dragon shattered his ears, and then he’d been wrenched free of the saddle, clinging still to the spear. Flying far over the heads of his men, expecting to fall at any moment—and then he had fallen, into a tangle of dead bodies and broken swords. Wind knocked out of him, ribs broken at the impact of the fall, he rolled to his feet. Eurydice is foolish to wish to fly. I’ve done it. I have no wish to do so again.

  Flicker of awareness, that this thought didn’t make sense. And then the dream swept on, the dragon coming back for another pass. It landed—larger than an elephant, all teeth and tail and terrible claws. White fire boiling in its night-black throat, and a rider perched on its back. He dove out of the way of the next stream of fire, managing to find a sword among the bodies. Twisted, ice-rimed branches catching at his helmet. Ice underfoot, making his feet slip on the slick leaves. But he knew, dimly, that the Tenth was holding the Goths off in the forest. A wall between him and the barbarians. And his job was occupying their champion.

  The claws raked his shield, cutting deeply enough that they scored his flesh—oh yes. The diamond claws had cut his skin. The pain had surprised and shocked him. Given him the first real taste of fear he’d ever had, exhilarating and nauseating at once. The first time I’ve ever fought an equal, he realized numbly, and blocking again, this time more successfully, stabbed with his gladius. Again, the sword might have been deflected, had it been held by any other hand, but his jab cut through the glossy black scales of the creature’s arm, and black blood flowed, hissing when it struck the rime-touched earth.

  Back and forth they’d fought. The long, barbed, deadly tail had swept his feet out from him, forcing him to roll and scramble back up, trying to block another claw strike. Then another. The dream made it feel like it had gone on for hours, when it had probably been only ten minutes. And then the rider on the creature’s back had lifted an indifferent hand, and said one word: Die.

  He nearly had. He’d dropped to his knees as every part of his body screamed in agony. But Mars’ voice had clamored in his head, echoes of bronze and iron: On your feet! Now!

  Swaying like a drunkard, he’d staggered forward, trying again, and again. And now, mad as it seemed, the dragon . . . refused to fight him. The rider goaded the beast. Slashed at it with a whip that seemed to be made of finger bones and claws, but the beast only backed away.

  “What, you’ll only fight me if I’m not half-dead?” Caesarion had taunted, punch-drunk, still staggering forward. “Your sense of honor didn’t stop you from slaughtering my men!” Wait. The beast has a sense of honor?

  The rider laughed, a sound that burned through his mind like salt and acid, and pulled her hood back—yes, she’d been a woman. Or at least, had seemed one. A mask hid the upper half of her face, and blood dripped from under it, as if from some savage wound. Live then, Roman god-born. We will meet you and yours again, if you do not heed our warning. The gods of Valhalla will tolerate no more intrusions into our lands. Tell your Roman gods that if they send more of their followers here, we will lay waste to them. Personally. Tell them that Hel, the daughter of Loki, she who is Death, says this to you.

  Caesarion’s eyes snapped open, and he lurched awake, covered in sweat. In the early morning light, he could just make out the lines of the claw scars on his bare left arm. They’d healed so well that no one else seemed to be aware of them. But he saw them. There are creatures like me in the world, he thought dully. Creatures who equal my power. And why not? The gods created Achilles and Heracles and all the other heroes of old to fight monsters and other heroes. Why should there not be champions of other peoples out there? He slid out of bed and washed his face in a bowl of water near his bed, trying to shake off the dream. Yet, if there are others out there, why does Rome have . . . only me? And perhaps Eurydice?

  Pointless trying to go back to sleep once the dream had occurred. He got dressed and slipped downstairs, past the fountains of the atrium to his father’s office—his, now. He could get a few hours in on the reports and dispatches before breakfast. Or he could go for a long, hard ride. One that would clear his head and all thought of dreams. I’d almost welcome dreams like Eurydice’s, if it would rid me of that one.

  That thought, however, cleared his head of last night’s dream for the moment, giving rise instead to the chorus of concerns he felt every time he thought about his sister’s insistent, seemingly prophetic dreams. A red-eyed eagle was very easy to interpret as himself, especially as the Legions had practically awarded him a new cognomen—Aquilus—for his role as their living standard. He’d even given some thought to adopting the name officially on paperwork, instead of using solely the cognomen derived from his father’s name—Caesarion, little son of Caesar. Though that might be interpreted as disrespectful to his father’s memory.

  But if he was the eagle, then who the corbie, vulture, and wren might be—well, undoubtedly names from Lepidus’ damnable list. And that left only one mystery, which was who the hawk might be, doomed to love and be loved, and yet exiled, over and over again? Caesarion thought that answer was terrifyingly obvious, and yet Eurydice clearly hadn’t understood the metaphor of her own dream. Whether through true innocence or willful blindness, he wasn’t sure. Of course, I could be wrong. I could be the one misinterpreting things, out of pride or arrogance. Perhaps the red-eyed eagle is just Rome itself.

  The ripple of a woman’s voice, coming from behind the wooden screen that blocked the study from the atrium, distracted him. Caesarion opened the door cautiously, peering in. And with a mix of relief and chagrin, saw that Eurydice was already up and dressed—and seemed to be arguing with empty air. “No,” she said, firmly. “I watched the cook put out the bread and milk for you yesterday morning. I said the correct words myself. You have had your sacrifice for the week.” She tipped her head to the side, as if listening, and then shook it, again firmly. “No. It is hardly our fault if a cat drank the milk before you could take it. We made the offering in good faith. You were too distracted to take it. You still owe your services until next week, when the next offering will be made—oh! Caesarion!” Eurydice jumped as he swung the door all the way open and stepped in. “Fair morning! You startled me.”

  Caesarion looked around the room, seeing nothing but the scroll racks, the sand table, and writing tables. Backless chairs, another wooden screen separating the space from the peristylium garden beyond, and an unlit brazier. “You did seem wrapped in conversation,” he said, wondering if his sister’s visions and powers had driven her mad. And if they have, it’s your fault, for not being a better guide, his conscience kicked him in the back of the head. You can’t avoid her—meals, her magic lessons, dispatches, riding lessons all take up large portions of the day. But you’ve clearly missed something important.

  Eurydice laughed a little weakly. “Ah. Well, yes.” She glanced around the room, appearing sheepish. “Tahut left his copy of the Book of Thoth out unattended last week. Since it’s in hieratic script, it was fairly hard going, but I thought I’d see what he had in there besides the fire spell.” She grimaced. “His copy seems to be heavily abridged. It’s a codex, really, a list of smaller works copied from a larger collection of volumes.” She half-smiled. “A good thing that the Lex Cornelius was repealed, or we’d be obliged to burn it.”

  Caesarion raised his eyebrows. “And this has made you talk to the walls?”

  She took a seat on one of the curving chairs, resting her hands on the arms lightly. “The first six spells were all interesting. The fan of fire. One to allow someone to resist being burned or chilled—or, I think, if I changed the structure of the spell, to resist being drowned.”

  “He said not to change anything,” Caesarion reminded her immediately, stepping forward to take one of her hands with concern. “That these spells were all tried and tested, and any alterations could backlash and kill you.”

  She had the grace to wince, but replied softly, “He’s said that since the beginning, yes. But also since the beginning, I’ve
altered that firefan spell every time I’ve used it. More power, less power, interweaving the frost that is the backlash back out. He hates it. I think that’s why he hasn’t permitted me to move on. There’s one to summon darkness, turning noon into night over a small region. There’s one to raise a fog that an archer would have difficulty seeing through—very important military applications,” she added.

  Caesarion nodded, suddenly more enthusiastic about the notion. “Anything else?”

  “One more fire spell. Little spheres of it that, if I read the words correctly, expand outwards when they reach a target, and can therefore strike with the impact of a ballista stone.” She raised her eyebrows as Caesarion made an approving sound under his breath.

  “Can you learn them? Do you think you could aim that last one better than our engineers—”

  “A machine doesn’t get tired. I do. But I made copies of the spells in Hellene, since that’s much faster to write than hieratic, and was about to leave, when I saw the two rituals at the very bottom of the scroll.” She gestured around them. “A completely different form of magic, brother. Instructions on how to see the gods, summon their awareness.”

  Caesarion went still, and then took a chair, sitting down across from her. “I’m god-born, and I don’t always merit their attention,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been a priest of Mars for years. Have asked for guidance many times, but the gods only answer when it is their will to do so. And I’ve never seen our gods.” A chill came over him. “Though I believe I met a Gothic goddess once. Face to face.”

  Eurydice’s head snapped up. “When?”

  “It’s a story for another time.” He closed that door as quickly as he’d allowed it to crack open, angry at himself. “Have you tried any of the rituals?”

  “I copied them, too, and tried the less powerful of the two,” she admitted. A sparkle came to her eyes as he sucked in his breath. “Caesarion, it’s fine. The lares were the ones who answered. I can see them now. I think you could, too, with a little practice.”

  He blinked, looking all around now. “The house-spirits? You can see them?”

  “Yes, now. I think more people were able to, long ago.” Her lips curled up at the corners. “They’re just like the spirits Mother had the priests bind to each of us at birth, only they’re bound to a place in bargain, not a person.” She reached out now, taking his hand, as if to comfort him. “The one on the table looks like a cat and a woman combined. Nut-brown, and clayish, with the most vibrant green eyes. She hunts the mice and vermin from within the walls of the villa, and was most displeased not to have her bread and milk this week.”

  Caesarion looked down, not at the desk, but at her fingers on his hand. “How do you see them?” he asked.

  “I started off with drawing a circle on the floor in my room, and asked for their attention. And then it’s . . . a matter of defocusing your eyes and opening your mind, I think. Creating a state of anticipation, but not of . . . expectation. If you don’t expect what to see, you’re more . . . open.” Eurydice sounded embarrassed. “It’s difficult to put into words.”

  “I think you said it well,” Caesarion told her, trying to achieve that state himself. Letting his vision go gray at the periphery, as it did in combat. A wide gaze, which saw everything and nothing at once. Trying to relax the muscles in his back and neck into the same combat stance. Being rigid in combat accomplished nothing but exhausting yourself before the fight even began. Fluid muscles, inner calm.

  “Good,” Eurydice said, releasing his hand and standing. She slipped around behind him, the folds of her stola catching and stirring the air, and leaned over him from behind, pressing her fingers lightly to his temples. “I think I might be able to let you borrow my eyes,” she offered, tentatively. “The way I borrow those of animals.”

  “How do I get my own back?” Caesarion countered quickly. Impossible to relax now. He could feel the curves of her breasts against his shoulder blades, and concentrated, intently, on . . . nothing at all. Empty mind. Hollow soul.

  “I’ve never left an animal blind before.” She set her forehead against the back of his head, and for a moment, he could feel her breath curling down his neck. But before he could jerk away, his vision spun, and then he could see the cat-woman sitting on the desk beside him, and he jumped, startled in a different way entirely.

  The tiny creature was no taller than one of his hands. Two-legged, like a human, but with inhuman curves to her furred legs, which terminated in paws. Above and between the legs, human, like a faun—he could see the dainty indentations of a vulva and a navel, as well as the curves of breasts no bigger than a cobbler’s leather thimble. A long tail, mackerel-striped, lashed behind her, and her humanoid face held feline eyes—vibrantly green, as Eurydice had said.

  Do you intend to stare all day, or will the master of the house hear my complaint and render judgment? the tiny, nut-brown spirit demanded, baring her fangs.

  “Ah . . . I am satisfied with my sister’s judgment that the offerings were made in good faith,” Caesarion managed. “But I’ll award you half your usual milk in token of trust.”

  Fair and wise, Eagle. The creature nodded gravely, and jumped down off the table, only to vanish entirely. There was, however, something in the name that the creature had called him that resonated, deep under his sternum, thought it was the same name the legions shouted when he rode past. Something that called to him.

  “Let me have my eyes back,” he said, swallowing.

  Eurydice complied, pulling away from him. “See if you can see them on your own,” she suggested softly. “I really think you might, if you practice it.”

  He caught one of her hands before she could take them from his temples. Pulled it forward, and kissed the palm, very lightly. Heard her inhalation of surprise at the gesture. “So now I take lessons from you, too.” A smile in his voice, though, and he kept his eyes defocused. Caught glimmers of movement he’d never noticed in the shadows before. “Do you see the penates, as well?” Penates were the souls of ancestors, bound to their family through their visages, death-masks, kept in a locked cabinet until it was time to have mummers parade them behind a funeral procession.

  “No,” she murmured. “I have yet to see any of those. And I’m grateful. I am not sure what I would do if I saw Father striding around the house with all his old energy and quick, impatient steps. Slapping his knuckles into his palm, waiting for someone to arrive for a meeting.”

  Caesarion allowed himself to lean back, still holding her hand lightly. “I know what I’d do,” he told her wearily. Politics became a kind of refuge, the humdrum, daily, monotonous grind of governance. Something to think about that wasn’t magic or prophecy. “I’d ask him for his damned advice. The Senate doesn’t much like the idea of giving land around Brundisium to retiring legionnaires. You see, they become land-owners then, and land-owners have more rights. Also, they see it as a precedent that I could exploit against them.”

  “But land’s been given to legionnaires for loyal service before,” Eurydice objected.

  “Yes, but not by me.” Caesarion’s tone became dour. “And it was always state-owned land before. I just happen to be offering land previously owned by rebellious patricians who are conveniently dead by their own hands. Their remaining family and the magistrates representing their children are kicking up a fuss.”

  “They were proscribed,” Eurydice pointed out immediately. “For being rebels. All their assets, including their lands, were forfeit to the state anyway.”

  “Doesn’t stop the shouting in the Senate. Half of them had their eyes set on buying the land themselves, at a very cheap rate. Especially some of Crassus’ descendants.” He became aware, dimly, that she’d rested her left hand on his shoulder, and was rubbing there lightly now. It felt good, and it wasn’t intrusive, so he didn’t object. “My votes in the Senate rose after we crushed Brundisium, but the numbers are wavering because of all this—”

  “And it was my idea,” she said,
sounding crestfallen. “I’m so sorry—”

  “It was a good idea, and it still is. Just have to get past the good men of the old families.” He wanted to roll his eyes. “Not like we Julii aren’t one of the oldest, but at least Father had the great good sense to move with the times and try to serve the people.”

  “Is that why you’re awake before dawn?” she asked, her voice tentative. “You couldn’t sleep for all these worries?”

  He shook his head slowly. “No. Dream. About Germania.” And, to his own surprise, words began to steal their way out of him, into her silence. About what the dragon looked like—black wings in the night sky—the savage intelligence in the white eyes. The cold death of its breath. The sick feeling in his stomach as he’d been wrenched off his horse.

  The worse feeling as he’d sailed through the air to the ground below.

  The words that the goddess had spoken. And his inner feeling that he’d be back in Germania again someday. “Some idiot will do it,” he told her quietly, his voice sounding lifeless in his ears. “There’s no damned good reason to go there. The land’s covered in forest. It’s barely arable, and it’s colder there than in Gaul. We have Gaul. Given a little time, it’ll be a breadbasket bigger than Egypt. We don’t need Germania, and they haven’t given provocation. But someone will see land that can be farmed, not for grain, but for taxes and profit. And in the Legions will go—probably chasing after some Senator’s private levies that have gotten in trouble—and I’ll have to go with them. Because I know what’s waiting for them there.”

  Her arms had slipped around shoulders, face pressed against his neck, and she just stayed there, silent for a long moment. “That’s why Alexander said you deserved a triumph when you came home for Father’s funeral,” she whispered.

  Caesarion closed his eyes. “They gave me the damned grass crown,” he told her wearily. “That night, after we’d gotten the remnants of the Seventh back across the bridge. Couldn’t even burn the bodies of the dead—too many Goths and too much forest. Some of the men of the Seventh came to me with a crown made of ivy vines stripped from the trees. Oak leaves. And what little grass actually grows in that night-dark forest. Put it on my head for saving them. It’s in a chest in my room. Slowly falling to bits.” He sighed. “I didn’t want a triumph. It wasn’t a victory. The men of the Tenth who fought with me deserved the recognition. Theirs was the real courage.” He twisted in the chair, and got one arm around her waist. Pulled her alongside him. “I promise, I don’t wallow in it. But when I see it in my dreams, all I see for the next day is the bodies. Men frozen where they stood,” he added, his throat closing. “Shields still over their heads, white frost covering them. Erasing their faces, thank the gods, because I don’t think I could bear to remember their expressions.”