Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  “Nothing,” Caesarion told her, managing to straighten up. “You have seen more than you let on, dear one.”

  Now verging on offended, Eurydice threw her free hand wide. “I told you, everything looks different through the hawk’s eyes! It’s mostly . . . distant. Not interesting, not embarrassing, not sympathetic, usually—though the children of Brundisium . . . hurt to look on.” She choked to a halt, not wanting to think about that, or remind them of it, either. “But most of the time, the hawk just observes. And so do I, except when I’m keeping watch on you.” Aggravated into speaking nothing but the truth, she turned and gave Caesarion a poke in the arm with her free hand.

  A quick, expressive lift of his brows over his red eyes. “You worry too much.”

  Eurydice met his gaze, lifting her chin. “That’s not what I meant.” And for just a moment, she felt herself back in Brundisium, watching through the owl’s eyes as he climbed the wall beside the breach. Saw the raw strength of his arms, rippling under his skin as he pulled himself up over the edge. Then the methodical, swift, merciless killing. Leaping across the gap to the other side, landing there in a crouch. Arrows deflecting off his skin, and then ending the threat there, too, before leaping to the ground, unharmed. The blood hadn’t bothered her. The only thing that she’d focused on had been the clean, efficient motions, the blank face and eyes. A god in mortal guise. Mars himself couldn’t have been more perfect. And then, once he’d come back . . . so utterly human. Weary and soul-sick and covered with gore, and she’d cleaned the blood and worse from his skin. She’d wanted so badly to take the empty look out of his eyes, somehow. But how could she?

  And then he’d sent her off to bed, and floating between exhaustion and grace, and bewildered by the need in her own body, she’d remembered her mother’s instructions. You don’t need a man to give yourself pleasure. There are things you can do to take care of your own needs. And, by happy chance, that’s the basis for the finest spell I know, and the only one I can work effectively, every time. Sly humor in her mother’s voice. Just reach down between your legs, and stroke yourself. Think of the man you love—it might not be your husband, you know—and do to yourself all the things you wish he’d do to you. And when you’re trembling with it, whisper his name. Three times. Never fails.

  Selene had laughed. Oh, how can that possibly work?

  Cleopatra had given them a wicked smile. It keeps you occupied until you’re ready to perform the spell on him in person, she’d said. It works best when you show it to him directly. And whisper his name in his ears while he watches.

  Mother! the girls had chorused.

  But in the dim light of the tent, with her sister asleep, her mother off in Antony’s tent, and Caesarion collapsed by the map table, Eurydice’s hand had slipped down under the sheets, and she’d tried to ease the burning that exhaustion and her first taste of battle-ardor had given her. And she’d whispered a name, three times, hardly daring to say it out loud.

  Eagle. Eagle. Eagle.

  And afraid that all of that must show in her face, she dropped her eyes now. Stupid. Foolish. Childish. You’ll ruin everything, so just stop talking now, and . . . go home. Read the political scrolls. Study your magic. Prepare for Mother’s wedding. And life will go on as it has. You already have so much. Do you really need more?

  The moment had gone on too long. Caesarion appeared puzzled as she peeked up at him through her lashes, but escorted her out, waving cordially to various of the senators and rich plebeians who greeted him—though one man stopped him to say, “Really, you shouldn’t have brought her here, to such a bawdy play! Your sister hasn’t even been married yet!”

  “Then certain things will not come as quite such a shock to her on her wedding night,” Caesarion replied with more impatience than she’d expected.

  And, tired of people talking over her head, Eurydice raised her own. And looked down at the first senator who’d accosted them to express his indignation. “I quite enjoyed the play,” she said brightly. “Thank you so much for asking. What was your favorite part—” she studied the man’s face for a moment, and came up with the correct family name, “my lord Veturia? Was it the costuming?”

  Outside, she blinked, startled, as Caesarion leaned down and kissed her forehead. “That,” he said firmly. “Keep doing that.”

  “What?” she asked, a little dazed.

  “What you just did. You handled Veturia like a queen.” His eyes gleamed in the last light of the sun. “And I bet it felt good.”

  She flushed a little. “Perhaps a bit.”

  He chuckled, and led her to where the horses had been held by slaves affiliated to the theater. Mounted, then held his hand out for hers, and pulled her up so quickly she felt for a moment like she’d flown there. And then rode off, Tiberius and Alexander and their Praetorians lagging behind.

  Chapter VIII: Unions

  Sextilis 22, 16 AC

  The date of Cleopatra’s wedding to Antony had arrived. She’d managed to import a proper priestess of Isis from Alexandria for the momentous occasion, instead of the random few Roman women who attended the altar of Isis here in the city, as well as priestesses of Juno, patroness of marriage. But the venue had nothing to do with the queen of the gods: the main ceremony would be held in the temple of Venus the Mother, built and dedicated by Cleopatra’s own late husband, Julius Caesar to commemorate his victory over Pompey at Pharsalus, a year before Caesarion had been born. Built in the Forum area, near where the Senate deliberated, there were few residents of Rome who hadn’t come here to pray for a loved one’s health, the birth of a child, or make sacrifices in the hopes of finding true love.

  The irony didn’t seem lost on the various guests; today, Cleopatra was marrying one of Caesar’s supporters—a man who had been disgraced for various whispered reasons that might or might not have had to do with his long-held interest in Caesar’s exotic foreign queen—in a temple built by the order of her last husband, and dedicated to his godly ancestor, Venus.

  Caesarion, who gave his mother away at the altar, passing her hand from his own into that of Antony, remained near the front. Cleopatra was resplendent today, dressed not at all as a Roman bride, but as a queen of Egypt. No flame-red stola for her—instead, a pure white kalasiris, a heavy black wig, parted at the front to show her graying hair underneath, and kohl wrapped around her eyes. Not to mention the heavy, barbaric jewelry: a collar-necklace of gold and lapis that bridged the entire span of flesh from her throat to her breasts. Rings on every finger, most with cabochon gems inlaid in them. Bracelets of precious turquoise and gold, too. She glittered, while beside her, Antony, in a simple white toga with purple bands at the hem, seemed positively ascetic.

  The rest of the family had dressed more or less to fit with Roman norms. But Caesarion had noted with interest that while Eurydice had opted for a stola and palla, they were as white as their mother’s kalasiris—so white that they might have had chalk-dust beaten into them. She wore the earrings and necklace of their great-aunt Julia, which Caesarion had promised to her. A model of young Roman womanhood—but for two things. She wore heavy kohl around her eyes, artfully applied. And while her hair was piled up, as a Roman woman’s tended to be, she wore one of their mother’s less ostentatious diadems in it, with the image of a Horus-hawk with multicolored wings outstretched across it. A perfect blending of Rome and Egypt, he’d told her on seeing her choices. Let the sticklers of the old families dare to disagree.

  In a firm voice, Antony asked for the blessing of Mars on his union with this woman. And in his capacity as the High Priest of Mars—held both by elective right and by virtue of being the only god-born of Mars in existence—Caesarion gave it. “In the name of Mars Gravidus, he who marches beside us into war. In the name of Mars Quirnus, he who guards our citizens and civilians, as you have done many times in your career as tribune. In the name of Mars Pater, he who is father of the Roman people as surely as Venus is our mother. In the name of Mars Silvanus, he who brings life t
o the fields and forests, vitality to the horses and the kine, and virility to men. Be fourfold blessed.” Father Mars, Caesarion prayed silently. Bless him, as you’ve always clearly done. Let him be a good husband to my mother. And step-father to my family, if we have need.

  No answer. He hadn’t really expected one. But as the ceremony dragged on, he watched those of Rome’s chattering class who’d crowded into the small temple, everyone sweating in the late Sextilis heat. He saw the way most of them eyed the happy couple. The whispers behind fans. No matter how many doves were sacrificed, the marriage would never look entirely sanctified to Rome. Not when Cleopatra had once been married to Caesar, Father of the Empire. And he also couldn’t miss the way people shifted to get better looks at Eurydice and Selene, in the family area of the small temple. A benediction of some sort would be a wondrous thing, he prayed silently, his lips tightening.

  And as if in answer to his prayer, an eagle—symbol of Rome itself!—swooped in through the open door of the temple, causing great outcry and consternation as people raised their hands to protect their heads and faces. But the great bird simply circled Cleopatra and Antony three times, calling harshly as it did . . . and then landed heavily on Caesarion’s outstretched arm for a moment. Then, with a wild scream, it took off once more, swooping back out through the doors. “A sign!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Praise Jupiter and Mars for this augury of good fortune!”

  “Most auspicious!” another voice agreed loudly.

  Caesarion flicked one glance at Eurydice, who’d pulled her palla up to conceal her face. He didn’t think Mars or Jupiter had a damned thing to do with the bird’s appearance. But he couldn’t give any sign of that. Let people believe what they want. Stops the gossiping, anyway.

  The final portions of the long ceremony were actually held at Antony’s house. He held with the customs of the common people, and, in front of a house filled to capacity with the best people in Rome, patricians and wealthy plebeians alike, he and Cleopatra lit the ceremonial hearth, and then Antony lifted Cleopatra up in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all, and laid her down on the bridal bed—currently in the middle of the atrium, traditionally considered the ‘mother’s bedroom’ of a Roman villa, though no woman ever really slept out there. The crowd, many of whom were already tipsy, made ribald noises, and Caesarion heard at least two lewd suggestions that he hoped young Selene and Octavia wouldn’t understand.

  Then, the main guests took couches strewn throughout the entire downstairs area, the most important in the comfortable triclinium. Before taking one of the wide couches for the feast, Caesarion peered out a window, puzzled by the sounds of revelry from the street outside, and his eyebrows rose. “You set out a feast in the street, too?” he called to Antony. For yes, in the street stood dozens of tables covered in meat and cheese, and barrels of wine. Jugglers and dancers roamed around, and slaves served anyone who came to the tables under the flickering light of the torches.

  Marcus Antonius smiled broadly, bringing Cleopatra by the hand to the couch they’d share for the evening meal; as the hosts, they took the low couch of the three in the room, and would sit on the left side of the open, U-shaped area. “Yes, I did. What so many patricians fail to understand—but that your father did, Caesarion—” No titles tonight, not now that they were family. “—is that there is a difference between charity and generosity, and the common people know it. Charity is a hard loaf, grudgingly given, with the expectation of thanks.” Antony’s grizzled eyebrows furled for a moment over his eyes, and then he spread his hands wide. “Generosity, on the other hand? Is the open hand of friendship. It says, ‘Come, my fellow men. Share of the good things that the gods have granted me. Join in my fortune, and rejoice with me.’” He settled onto the couch beside Cleopatra, lying on his side and bringing her scandalously close to him before popping a grape in her mouth from the trencher on the table in front of them. “Generosity, open and even-handed, wins friends. Charity embitters men’s souls.”

  Struck by the sense of these simple words, Caesarion found himself waved to the middle couch, to the left of Antony. This couch offered the best view in the room, both of the elaborate, vivid murals on the walls, and out the window to the well-lit fountains and potted plants of the atrium—and cool, damp air from there drifted in now through the open archways, perfumed with herbs and smoke and a hint of fresh water. He took his seat, and looked around to see who would be waved to join him. Such affairs usually wound up being exacting in terms of order of precedence, familial connection, and political power. To his surprise, a servant conducted Eurydice to join him, and then, on the other side of her, Antony’s eldest son. Marcus Antonius Antyllus was precisely the same age as Caesarion, and exchanged a hearty wrist-clasp with him now as he came over to crowd the couch. “Sorry not to have met you before. Seems strange to meet for the first time as brothers,” Antyllus admitted. His dark hair and eyes matched those of his father, but with a more open and warmer expression.

  “Strange seems to go with my family,” Caesarion returned as the man joined them. The couch under them had been formed of cement, poured at an angle; a plush reed-filled mattress and clean linen atop it cushioned them against the harder materials below. But it still sagged a bit as Antyllus’ weight crushed the mattress, and Eurydice scooted back from the newcomer subtly, to avoid rolling right into him. This brought her right up against Caesarion, and he could feel the warmth of her skin through his tunic. Which was pleasant enough, in spite of the evening’s heat and the presence of so many bodies in the villa; he could smell a light perfume on her skin and hair tonight which she’d never worn before. Fortunately, he’d set his heavy woolen toga aside before coming here; it was Sextilis, and he was no longer acting as a priest of Mars, after all.

  “Antyllus? The Archer?” he asked now.

  Antyllus made a face. “My father hung that cognomen on me as a boy. I loved nothing more than target practice when I was six. As it turns out, the name was apt. I commanded an auxiliary band of Cretan archers in Illyria till this past year, before half the province decided to go over to the Servilii faction. I was recalled two months ago.” He grimaced. “When do we go give them a good kicking?”

  “We’ll have to talk about that,” Caesarion told him immediately. He liked Antyllus, instinctively. “I need people who’ve actually been in Illyria, and recently. I need eyes who’ve seen the ground, and can tell me who’s with the rebels, and who’s not.”

  “I’ll do my best, but my information’s already out of date.”

  On the last couch, across from them, Alexander and Tiberius crowded in beside each other as Jullus, Antony’s second son, joined them. And as much as Caesarion instinctively liked Antyllus, he disliked Jullus. It wasn’t anything that the younger man particularly did or said—two years younger than Caesarion, he seemed vaguely annoyed by sharing the couch with two men three years younger than himself. He also had features so handsome that they verged on prettiness, and was of an age where his face should have been hardening into the lines of manhood, but somehow still seemed too smooth. The kind of face that usually attracted women as honey attracted flies.

  The younger children of the Julii household—Octavia, Selene, and Drusus—along with Antony’s younger daughter, Antonia Minor, were brought around to give their good wishes, and then whisked upstairs by Antonia’s pedagogue, where they’d likely spend the night. A wedding feast could get raucous, and was no place for children. But Caesarion could see both Selene and Octavia’s eyes widen as Jullus greeted them with polite indifference, and they both headed upstairs, clearly overwhelmed and giggling.

  When the servants came around to place trenchers in front of the guests, there was evidently a mix-up; six guests besides the happy couple, and only four trenchers. “Don’t worry about it,” Caesarion insisted. “Eurydice and I can share one.”

  “I can share one with Tiberius,” Alexander called across the room cheerfully. “Let the sons of the house have their own plates. It’s the
ir father’s feast, after all.”

  Antony, clearly irked with his servants, dismissed them abruptly, and apologized, “They’ll be back with more, I promise—”

  “It’s fine,” Caesarion insisted lightly, breaking the roasted quail on the trencher in front of him in half with his fingers. Stripping the flesh from the fine bones, he offered Eurydice a mouthful, and felt her lips graze his fingertips as he did so. “We’ve shared plates and cups before. Your servants have hundreds of other guests to attend to, Antony.”

  “But none more important to me,” Antony replied. “Also, no others so gracious.”

  Between bites of the succulent quail, Caesarion leaned in and whispered in Eurydice’s ear, “I assume that the eagle in the temple was your doing?”

  She nodded rapidly, her hair falling over his chest as she did so. With her back to him, and so tightly pulled in against his chest, he couldn’t see her expression. “That was very well done,” he murmured.

  “Thank you,” she replied, leaning her head back so that she could whisper in his ear. “You were fortunate, standing by the altar as you did. You couldn’t hear the comments of the people behind me. The eagle bought us ten minutes of blissful silence.”

  Caught off-guard by her words, Caesarion laughed, and reached for his cup—making sure that the servants had poured water and wine into it in equal measures before offering her a sip. Falernian wine was the only gift of the grape that burned when flame was applied to it, and as such, was potent in the extreme. He usually didn’t notice its effects much, himself, but he’d been drunk once or twice before, though it had required embarrassingly heroic portions to accomplish the feat.

  Idle chitchat through the first course, as dozens of people circulated through from other rooms to give their best wishes to the bride and groom. Caesarion lost count of how many senators and wealthy plebeians and their wives strolled through, making the same inane compliments on a feast that featured no fewer than twelve roast boars, three roast bulls, four boiled flamingoes in honey, and fish stuffed with its own roe in garum sauce. Dormice and quails and perfectly boiled quail eggs, no bigger than the tip of Caesarion’s little finger. Fruits and vegetables also abounded, as did a half dozen different kinds of cheese. But as he glanced across the room, he saw that Alexander was watching each group of well-wishers. Not straight-on, but with lazy-looking eyes that nevertheless missed nothing. He’s watching them the way I watch a battleground, Caesarion realized after a moment. Did Mother teach him how to do that?