Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  More translations. “They ask what you might be interested in trading?”

  “Their . . . Qin . . . is the land where silk comes from. Silk. Spices. My brother has mentioned that they have other goods of interest as well. A kind of parchment that is thin and pliable for writing on, and is not made of papyrus or animal hide. And, of course, the weapons they were carrying before they came to the city of Rome. Like Hellene gastraphetes, but with more striking power.” Caesarion mentioned the slide-operated crossbow used in Hellas for hundreds of years casually. As if it weren’t his foremost interest at all.

  Alexander had taken as many sketches of the weapons carried by the ambassadors’ guards as he dared. And now, the Parthian began to demur, saying, “Ah, I do not know how to translate some of these words. But they ask if you would be interested in their . . . black powder. Which they use to frighten evil spirits, among other things.”

  Alexander crossed to Eurydice and held out his hand for her palla. Made of imported silk, he brought it back to the ambassadors. “Silk,” he said, clearly. He pointed at a scroll case attached to one of the ambassadors’ belts, and mimed writing. “Parchment.” And then he drew one of his own sketches from inside his tunic, and showed them his interpretation of their weapons. “Crossbows. And more information about their magical powder, too, yes.”

  The Parthian writhed a little, clearly not enjoying this conversation. “And what would Rome exchange for such?” he finally translated.

  Caesarion looked to the side, and gestured. A servant entered, carrying one of the better goblets in the house. Made of pale green glass, it was mostly translucent, and the glassblower, knowing his craft, had somehow shot threads of gold through the glass, thicker at the bottom, becoming wispier at the top, and the whole of the glass was clasped in a frame of delicate gold filigree. “Glass,” Caesarion replied, raising his eyebrows. A second servant appeared, carrying a bottle of perfume from Hellas. A third, cosmetics and a cask of spices from Egypt. “Besides luxuries like these? Oil. Olives. High-quality iron.” He paused. “They will need to return home to bring my offer, which I will make in writing to their Emperor, on behalf of the people and Senate of Rome. But they have had a long journey, and should feel free to explore our city. They may certainly stay as long as they wish. But this villa will shortly be closed, as the season for war is upon us, and I must go to prosecute it.”

  The Parthian translated, and then replied, “They thank you for your generosity. And ask, if it does not give offense, how it is that weapons may not be carried in your city, if it is the season for war?”

  “Because the city is sacred,” Caesarion replied simply. “The only people who may carry weapons on this holy ground are the salii, the armed priests, of whom there are only twelve. And even they may only do so on ceremonial days—like yesterday, when the city was not ready to welcome guests.”

  A few very formal farewells, and Caesarion pressed gifts on the ambassadors, to bring home with them to their far land—and received, in turn, several gifts sent by the Emperor of the Han, Lord of all Qin. Bolts and bolts of silk, woven in shimmering patterns. A keg of peculiar-smelling black powder, with heavy warnings not to expose it to open flame. And scrolls written in a language none of them could read.

  Once the ambassadors had left, along with their translator, Alexander snorted under his breath as Caesarion immediately started undoing the heavy folds of his toga. “So, should I hire an architect to build you a house a quarter of a mile long in which to house a thousand concubines?” he said, helping Caesarion pull the folds over his head.

  “They must be lined up in stalls like cattle.” Caesarion’s voice was muffled. “They must lead him to each like a farmer with a stallion and a herd of mares in season.”

  “Caesarion!” Selene choked from over by the fountain.

  “I thought a ranking chart, lamp, and a roadmap might be employed,” Alexander offered blandly as Caesarion cast the toga in the direction of his chair. “Perhaps a herald or two to shout loudly, ‘Is there anyone here who has not yet been f—‘“

  Eurydice made hurried shushing gestures, her eyes, dark once more, flicking rapidly in Selene’s direction, even as her own face reddened. Alexander rolled his own eyes to the heavens, and told Caesarion, “Please do find Selene a husband soon, so that I won’t have to mind my words so.” In a more hushed tone, he added, “With any luck, she’ll remember mostly my outrageous misbehavior, and little else about today.” Particularly the fact that Caesarion addressed Eurydice as his beloved, and said she’d give him many sons. He gestured now at the toga lying crumbled on Caesarion’s chair. “The highest sticklers in Roman society would hate to see how often you toss the symbol of citizenship aside,” he told his brother.

  “The highest sticklers of Roman society do not wind up looking like a plum when they get undressed. Not many of them have to wear a toga picta on state occasions.” Caesarion grimaced, gesturing at the faint purple haze already visible on the white tunic he’d worn underneath the heavily-dyed purple toga. “A regular white toga doesn’t do for formal occasions like meeting ambassadors.” He looked at Alexander. “The Parthian’s a spy?”

  “Probably,” Alexander agreed, nodding. “As I said last night, we have to assume that everything he hears and sees will be reported back to his masters in Persepolis or wherever.” He eyed them both now. “I assume that’s the reason for the theatrics?” He gestured at Eurydice. She didn’t even bat an eye at being called Caesarion’s wife and queen. “The two of you are getting better at being duplicitous. I’m glad to see I wasn’t the only one who inherited Mother’s gifts.” A quick, merry smile. “You can take the ring off now, sister. They’re gone.”

  She shook her head sharply. Her eyes, dark again, flicked once more to Selene, who sat on the edge of the fountain still, plucking the strings of her lyre and watching them all curiously. And a flush crossed Eurydice’s face now as she said, “Caesarion convinced me last night to accept a betrothal to the Eagle of Rome. For . . . so long as the wars continue.”

  Alexander’s mouth dropped open. “Finally,” he whispered, registering the faint flush that spread across Caesarion’s face now, too. “And that’s just perfect,” he murmured, admiration filling him. “Who can object to the sister of the Emperor expressing her love and devotion to Rome by wedding the Eagle, the very symbol of the legions, after all?” He raised his eyebrows, unable to resist the faintly teasing tone in his quietly-spoken words. “And if anyone asks her when the wedding is? Well, the betrothal’s indefinite, since war never really ends, after all.”

  “You’re really going to mock a sacred oath?” Caesarion replied, his voice no louder than Alexander’s had been, but with a shift of his eyes in Selene’s direction.

  “Certainly not!” Alexander replied more loudly. “I applaud it! It’s not the thirty-year vow of a Vestal. And I think the troops will take it to heart as a symbol of how our women love and honor them for going into battle.” He nodded firmly, catching Eurydice’s hand in his own to bow over it slightly. And as he rose, he caught the look they were exchanging, and coughed into his other hand. “Might want to be . . . discreet . . . ” he added softly. “In public at least.”

  “You’d know something about discretion, wouldn’t you?” Caesarion returned, nettled.

  Alexander grimaced. “Let me tell you about Hellas later,” he said. “Over wine, and once we’re in Hispania and you feel the need for something to laugh at during the long nights in camp. Because gods do I have stories about my trip there.” He squeezed Eurydice’s hand once more, and then released it, nodding back towards the front of the villa. “Brother, in your copious spare time, find us some shipwrights who can build us vessels that can actually reach the land of the Seres, would you?”

  “I’m all for cutting out the Persian middlemen,” Caesarion returned as they beckoned Selene over to leave the atrium. “But we’ve sent ships across the Erythraean Sea to India for years. If the Seres are past them . . . it’s alre
ady a six-month voyage or more.” He shook his head.

  “Perhaps our good ambassadors have maps. Which might be worth far more than gold, eh?” Alexander offered.

  “Let me finish fighting most of the Empire. Then I’ll worry more about international trade,” Caesarion told him. “For now, it’s a problem for later.”

  ____________________

  Martius 15, 17 AC

  During the Ides of March, the people of Rome generally gathered for more celebrations in honor of the god. The salii paraded once more with their shields, and horse races were held on the Field of Mars. This year, however, Caesarion wouldn’t be there to witness either, as he rode on horseback for the massive port complex of Ostia, nineteen miles northeast of Rome, alongside the men of the Tenth Legion as they marched, the white plumes in the officers’ helmets nodding with each stride. Behind the Tenth, the Seventh, red-plumed; each legion with a golden eagle held aloft by the standard-bearers. Roman legions were trained to two marching paces: the military step, which let six to twelve thousand men cross twenty miles in five hours’ time, and the quick step, which increased the pace to let them cross an additional four miles in the same amount of time. Any faster, and the men would be moving at a run. And if they ran, exhaustion would settle in quickly. Stragglers would fall behind. And coordination became impossible.

  Caesarion had sent his smaller contingents of cavalry on ahead. Optimally, they’d pick up auxiliaries in Hispania, but the problem with asking local nobles there for cavalry and archers was simple: He had no idea where their loyalties actually lay. He didn’t want to risk a betrayal, but the Tillii had the better part of two legions of their own, and had been attempting to recruit from the local tribes for over a year at this point—though many of those tribes had turned on them, and forced them northwards in that time. He had to assume that they could field at least eighteen thousand men. Between the Fourth, already in Hispania, and the Seventh and Tenth, plus the two thousand or so cavalry he’d pulled together out of Cisalpine Gaul, Caesarion was bringing more or less even odds to a fight through territory occupied by sullen, hostile tribes.

  For the moment, however, his heart warmed, watching everyone moving in unison down the imperial road. Farmers and merchants pulled their wagons to the side, allowing the men to pass. At the rear, the wagons of the supply train, followed by, yes, the camp followers. Who ranged from cooks and merchants to women of dubious morality. And while Alexander and Tiberius were off, riding alongside the Seventh, with whom they’d be serving as tribunes under the watchful eye of tribune Marcus Tullius Cicero Minor—son of the famed orator—Caesarion had Eurydice up in his saddle in front of him. He’d pulled her up first thing this morning, to her surprise. “I can ride,” she’d said, looking concerned. “You gave me my mare, yourself.”

  “You can ride,” he acknowledged. “But you’ve ridden at most two hours at a stretch before this. We’ll be in the saddle for five today. Once we reach Hispania, eight. Give yourself time to get used to it, and gain in strength.” He’d leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “And there are two more reasons.”

  “Oh?”

  “First, it lets the men get used to seeing you on horseback. A few of them went out for our rides with us last year, but not the whole camp. And second?” He couldn’t so much as kiss her hair, or change expression, not out in public as they were. “I get to hold you for the next five hours.”

  Her startled smile had been reward enough.

  Having her sit astride, unlike last year, did make it much easier for him; this way, he didn’t have to worry about keeping her on the horse’s back, and could concentrate on the reins, and keeping his lighter cavalry shield up and over her heart. And she’d managed to come up with a skirt that kept her legs concealed while riding, too—a kalasiris with a modified body. The sides had been split, and panels of fabric inserted, making the shape of the dress much wider and less form-fitting past the hips. Watching her early riding lessons had been an exercise in frustration for him—not because she was bad at it; quite the contrary. But the desire he’d felt every time he watched her lovely arse rise off the saddle and sink back down again had disturbed him greatly at the time. He hadn’t suffered paroxysms of guilt or shame, but he’d had to force himself to concentrate, intently, on gruffly correcting her form—both for the sake of improving her riding, and for the sake of distancing himself from his own distraction.

  Now, with her in his arms, he didn’t have the visual distraction, and when she did take to her own mare’s back, she’d be riding behind him. And, given that he was in full armor, she might not have the most comfortable seat in the world, but he also didn’t think that her backside sliding into his hips for the next five hours, shielded as they were by his metal-studded leather pteruges, would present a problem, either. Other than bruising her spine. But it’s this, or she won’t be able to walk tomorrow. And not as the result of what Alexander might term fun.

  He’d also made a point of re-introducing her to the Seventh and Tenth this morning; the vast majority of the men remembered her from the Brundisium campaign, and many of them were at least peripherally aware of what her birds had done for the attack on the city. Gossip, Caesarion had realized ruefully, spread more quickly than Mercury’s winged feet, and while he trusted Malleolus implicitly, other tribunes and centurions called to the command tent when she’d been giving her aerial reconnaissance reports had surely seen and heard the details . . . and word had spread from them, through the rank and file. “My brother, Alexander, rides with the Seventh today,” he’d called out, pride clearly in his voice. “And my sister rides with us as well, for she’s taken a betrothal vow to the Eagle of Rome.” Difficult not to smile at those words. “You may remember what good fortune she brought our last campaign.”

  He didn’t hear any overt jeers, but he could sense a little confusion and uncertainty in the men. So he’d murmured, “Think you can arrange a good augury for us?”

  And, almost before the words had left his lips, an eagle plunged down from the sky to land atop one of the standards, where it sat, preening its outstretched wings. Much to the delight of the men. “You all know where we’re going, and why,” Caesarion had added, letting his voice roll over the men, pitched to carry. “I don’t have to tell you that Rome doesn’t just expect our victory—it requires it. Forward!”

  The cry of forward was picked up by centurions and horns down the line, and off they’d marched.

  And just under five hours later, past noon—and two hours past high tide, they arrived at Ostia, with its bustling docks. Passing its small stone amphitheater, brick houses, and pillared temples, they followed the smell of brackish water, human effluvia, dead fish, and the pitch that helped seal the hulls of the ships that they now could see, rocking gently against stone quays. Seagulls chattered from hundreds of stone posts to which ships and boats had been tied, and from the confusion of masts that seemed to sprout out of the water like a forest barren of leaves.

  For an instant, looking at the masts, Caesarion remembered another forest. One where the leaves and blotted out the light of the sun overhead. Remembered the smell of moldering leaves underfoot. And then he closed his eyes for a moment, forcing the memory down. Concentrated on the feel of Eurydice in his arms as she swung her head this way and that, trying to look at everything at once.

  Nestled at the outflow of the Tiber into the sea, smaller boats moved up and down the river between Ostia and Rome, bringing finished goods from Rome to pack into merchant ships headed out to sea, and bearing grain and olive oil and ingots of metal from the provinces and colonia back to the city. And today—and for most of the next week, too—the port would also serve to transfer another vital import/export of Rome: fresh troops. “Which ship is ours?” Eurydice asked, turning back towards him slightly.

  “The Victoria,” Caesarion replied, shifting a little to squint at the carvings at the prows on the various ships. He eventually spotted the image of the goddess of Victory—Nike, to the Helle
nes—and kicked his horse towards it, leading a contingent of the Tenth that direction.

  The Roman navy had been reduced, in recent years, to something of a shore patrol; the Mediterranean was encircled on all sides by land controlled by Rome itself, giving the sea something of the feel of a privately-owned lake, for all its size and fury during storms. The navy thus had little to do besides deter pirates and smugglers these days—and had been greatly reduced in size, as a result.

  The need for ships to blockade both Illyria and Hispania had stripped that smaller navy of assets that would otherwise have been used to move troops to both regions. Caesarion had sworn over the budget with Lepidus and Antony for the last six months, but there was no way around fiscal reality. He could levy more troops and pay them—and have no way to get them to the two rebellious provinces. He could buy already-constructed ships from merchants at outrageous prices . . . or he could build a new damned fleet and carry his existing troops where they needed to go. The result? A hundred and fifty-five ships waited here for his men. Another hundred and fifty had already set sail around the peninsula to wait in the ruined harbor of Brundisium for Antony and the troops heading for Illyria. He’d seen Antony off last week, with an admonition to the older man, “Don’t make my mother a widow twice in as many years.”

  Antony had grinned ferally. “Not a chance of it. Besides, I have no intention of having my newest son or daughter awarded the cognomen of Posthumous.”

  Caesarion had blinked in surprise. “My mother’s . . . I have a new sibling on the way?”

  Antony had laughed with gusto. “You should have heard her swear. I didn’t think a queen would know all those words. But yes. She’s two months along. She didn’t want to tell anyone else, but you should know.” The man looked amazingly fit, considering that two years ago, he’d been melancholic, paunchy, and cynical. Now, he radiated the leashed energy of a man half his age.