Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  A faint smile from the Imperator. “My father wanted legionnaires who belonged to Rome. Not to this patrician or that patrician. There is a ring of familiarity to your words, druid.”

  And so he wants me to see the likeness between us. So that I will come to sympathize with him and his. But that cuts both ways, for the instant he comes to see me as similar to him, his sympathies, too, will engage. Matru’s thoughts churned rapidly as he evaluated his audience. Saw the coolness in the younger man’s stare, the interest and sympathy in the young woman’s. And it was to her he spoke next, carefully. “You asked why we do not use fire or air.” No honorific. “We have encountered your magic before. The Goths call it seiðr.” He paused. “Seiðr is theft,” he went on, bluntly. “You steal power from this place or that, and redirect it. Perhaps you add a little of your own to it. The power we use isn’t stolen. It’s already in the earth. Sometimes in the air or water, but most often in the ground. Some places resonate with it—usually mountains, but sometimes plains. The power echoes through the world, if you know how to find it and listen to its song. We do not steal this power. We shape it where it is, and then release it once more. The mountains here are rich with this power.” He watched the young man frantically scribble on the wax-covered tablets now.

  “Can anyone learn to use it?” the young woman asked, still appearing fascinated.

  “I doubt it,” Matru replied curtly. “Our gods taught us to shape the power millennia ago. But there are only a few in each generation who can sense the power in the earth. To my knowledge, my people and those who live on the mainland and follow our gods, are the only ones in the world who can.”

  Defeat in her eyes, and frustration, too. Longing to know more. To understand more. Ah, how interesting. I’ve baited the hook well. Will they bite?

  “Why are you speaking so freely to us?” the younger man asked suddenly. “Revealing the secrets of your magic?”

  Matru put a smile on his face that he didn’t feel. “I’m not. I can’t tell you how to harness this power. I’ve merely told you that it exists, which you have already experienced first-hand. And that we are the only people that we know of who can use it.” His smile faded, and he turned his eyes back to the ruler of these Romans. Strange to think that the young man was perhaps only five or six years younger than Matru himself. “As to why I speak freely? I am a bard, among other things. A singer of tales and history.”

  “A poet,” the younger man said sharply.

  “That word has no song in it,” Matru replied, just as sharply. “Words on parchment or stone do not live.” His eyes didn’t leave the young Imperator’s face. “But a story, told well, can change the world.”

  The god-born man smiled humorlessly. “Tell me a story, then, singer of tales. Change the world if you can.”

  Perhaps not the world. Perhaps just one mind. That would be enough. Matru marshalled his thoughts. Aucissa. Perhaps her life will have had some meaning, if I use her tale. “The woman you killed,” he said, looking directly at the son of Caesar. “Her name was Aucissa. And this is her story, as everyone in the whole of our land knows it. Twenty-eight years ago, your father came to our island, attacking us without provocation. We’d never even heard the name of Rome before. Our cousins on the mainland sometimes mentioned a place to the south, across nearly impassable mountains. Where they went raiding now and again, for gold or glory. But to us, it was a cradle tale. A place where there was never any snow, and where the people were so wealthy that they ate from trenchers made of gold.”

  “They sacked Rome three hundred years ago,” one of the guards muttered. “Delphi, too.”

  Matru ignored the interruption. “In that year, a thirteen-year-old girl happened to be traveling with her family out of the west. Driving their excess sheep to market, and carrying bales and bales of wool to Lundeiniu on the Tamesis river. Your father’s soldiers happened across this family, and, being hungry, stole their sheep. The herders, seeing a whole year’s work stolen, work that should have earned them coin enough to supply their whole village with goods for the rest of the year, resisted. The girl’s parents were killed in front of her eyes for defending what was theirs. And then those same soldiers raped the girl atop the bales of wool from the very sheep that they then killed and roasted. She staggered off into the fields, bleeding and ruined. The locals took her in, and managed to send her home to the Tegeingl. Where she begged the gods not to make her bear her rapists’ child.” Matru paused, evaluating their expressions. The young woman’s face was a mask of horror; the men’s faces, blank and empty. But yes . . . in the young Imperator’s eyes? Distaste. He has a conscience. What a wonder.

  “Aucissa was born to that young woman,” Matru went on, telling the story just as he knew it. When he reached the part about her husbands being slain, reactions of confusion from those around him.

  “Husbands? Plural?” the younger man asked sharply, his stylus hovering in the air.

  “Yes,” Matru agreed calmly. “They were brothers. She was wife to them both. It is common in our lands, and just as common for a husband to have more than one wife.”

  “Barbaric!” one of the guards muttered again.

  The one called Caesarion cleared his throat. “I think that we’ll leave aside any mention of barbarism in the area of marriage.” He looked at Matru. “You have a point to this tale? Poets always have some pithy moral.”

  Matru regarded him steadily. “That’s just one story. One life, dedicated to hate from birth on. How many more stories have your wars begotten, son of Caesar? How many more will be told? How long before the entire world rises up, united in hatred of Rome, and brings you down?”

  “I’d like to see them try,” one of the guards muttered. “We cover the world. And no barbarians have ever been able to unite. They lack all discipline—they’re like children, always governed by their emotions. You know this, dominus!”

  Caesarion put his fingertips together in front of his chin, and stared into the mid-distance for a long moment. “I cannot allow the ambush on the mountain to go unpunished,” he said quietly after a moment. “The Cantabri arranged for that, and I cannot let the deaths of so many Romans go unanswered.”

  “Were they not proscribed?” Matru asked, taking the word that the younger man had used twenty minutes ago, and throwing it back into the conversation like a brightly-colored pebble. His jaw tightened. “They aided one you named a traitor. Does that not make them traitors, too? Should you not be grateful to us for their deaths?”

  “This one could almost be a magistrate,” the younger man muttered, his stylus once more hovering over his tablet.

  “I am one,” Matru pointed out, his tone harsh. “Did I not explain that we travel from place to place, and arbitrating disputes. How would I arbitrate anything if I did not know the laws of my people?”

  Blinks all around. Caesarion tapped his fingers together lightly. “And the three thousand men of my own that died?” he asked. “Who shall answer for their deaths? How will their spirits rest, if they’re not avenged—and how will their fellows, still living, feel if their lives are not answered for?”

  Progress. Morrigan and Taranis be praised. This one has a mind. “The Goths have a concept,” Matru replied slowly. “They call it weregild. If someone has been killed wrongfully, they sometimes find it appropriate for the killer to pay the family in gold. Wiping the slate clean.” He snorted. “I doubt it much changes the hearts of the living, or removes the taste for vengeance. But once it’s been paid, vengeance can no longer lawfully be taken.”

  The red eyes were now intrigued. “You know the Goths.”

  A faint shrug. “Our mainland cousins have fought many wars against them. We, on the other hand, mostly trade with them when their ships come. They bring amber from further away than your lands, I think.” He snorted. “But if you think that we are barbaric, they are worse, you realize. They’re more than half in love with death.”

  “This, I have seen,” the Imperator murmured
. “You say that you are the son of a king?”

  Matru considered his words carefully. “I was. I am a druid now.”

  “You will stay with us as my hostage. You will be well-treated. And when we ride to meet the Cantabri, I will give them one chance—one—to make reparations. You will speak to them and attempt to convince them that arbitration is the wiser path. If they do not accede, I will burn their fields and villages, and hunt them until there is no people by that name left on the face of the earth.” The red eyes gleamed. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Matru nodded, a shard of relief passing through him. Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . my people will come through this time intact. But then again, perhaps not.

  “Do I have your oath that you will not try to escape?” Caesarion pressed. “If you give your oath, I will give you enough parole that you will no longer be shackled. You won’t be free to walk the castra—for reasons of your own personal safety. But you’ll be able to move. Eat better.”

  Matru raised one hand. “I swear by gods of earth and sky, in the name of Taranis the thunderer and all three faces of the Morrigan, that I will not attempt escape for a year and a day.” He regarded Caesarion calmly. “A year from now, however, is another tale entirely.”

  “And we know that he likes stories,” the younger man muttered.

  “I grant your parole,” Caesarion replied formally. “Guards, confine him in a better area of the castra. Not the quaestorium.”

  “What about the other prisoners?” Matru asked, pushing his luck as the guards started to press him towards the door. “Have you seen the inside of your own prison? Or is all the concern for women and children—” a quick, ironic glance at the one called Malleolus, “just to show how civilized you are?”

  He saw a muscle twitch in the young Imperator’s jaw. “I’ll look into it. Take him away.”

  ____________________

  “Smug bastard,” Malleolus grated once the prisoner had been removed.

  “Confident,” Caesarion corrected immediately. “He’s the equivalent of a Senator among his people, Mal. The son of a noble. As educated as they come. A priest, a warrior, and a magistrate. And he has magic.” He grimaced. He’s a Virgil or a Cicero the Elder who’s seen combat, with powers we can’t explain.

  “What about the other one?” Alexander said, picking up one of the bloody teeth on the table. “Going to offer that one parole, too?”

  “If I did, I suspect he’d try to kill the other,” Caesarion replied dryly. “Or they’d collude together. No. The other one stays in the quaestorium.” He stood, drawing Eurydice with him, forcing Alexander to bolt to his feet. “Speaking of which, I want to see how the prisoners are being kept.”

  Malleolus frowned. “Like prisoners, my lord,” he replied bluntly. “You’ve already said that the captives would be sold as slaves, and any man who didn’t want a personal slave, would receive coin instead of their person—”

  “I want to see for myself,” Caesarion interrupted. The druid’s words still burned in his mind. How many stories do I want told, that end with the words, “And then Rome came, and everything was burned to ash, and we swore eternal vengeance?” Oh, in some cases, we’re better lords than the ones they had before. They benefit from improved roads, trade, the legions’ presence keeping them from being attacked by their enemies. But how many corrupt governors has Rome sent to the provinces to milk taxes from the people there—usually growing rich themselves, and sending only a pittance to Rome’s coffers along the way?

  Malleolus sighed, and escorted them to the quaestorium. “Lady Eurydice may not wish to see this,” he warned at the door.

  “I’ll manage,” Eurydice replied, her tone firm.

  Caesarion recoiled as the door opened, letting the smell of effluvia escape. He could see, in the dim light filtering in from the open door, that the people beyond had mostly been packed into pens, crowded together tightly. There were no more than seventy survivors of the village and the forces that had been arrayed against his army there. But seventy people, jammed together with no real access to a lavatory, could create a stench worse than any stable. He caught the hopeless, terrified looks in the eyes of the women and children, and he sighed. “I’ve seen enough,” he told Malleolus, who closed the door now.

  The guards to either side of the door flinched as Caesarion went on, with a terrible sort of calmness, “Who was in charge of prisoner administration? Which tribune?”

  “Ah, Fulvius Sosius. Of the Fourth, dominus.”

  Someone who wanted vengeance for the lives lost, or who was too inexperienced to know how to house that many people. And Antyllus has likely been too busy to check on the work of what he’s described as a very junior trib, Caesarion translated. “Fetch him,” he said, and one of the legionnaires trotted off to do precisely that.

  Looking at Malleolus directly, Caesarion said, “When you take a slave into your household, you’re supposed to treat them like a member of the family. A junior member, who must obey every command, just as Roman children must obey. But you’re also supposed to take care of them. They’re still human.” His frustration at what he’d just seen thickened his voice. “They can buy themselves free. They can be manumitted.”

  Malleolus, the son of a former slave, only nodded, his expression blank, and the erring tribune, who indeed looked scarcely older than Alexander, appeared, out of breath. “Sir?” Fulvius Sosius said, thumping his hand to his heart.

  “Ah. Fulvius. In celebration of my wedding day, I’ve decided to release the women and children. I will grant a gold solidus from my own personal coffers to each soldier who would have received a captive. Malleolus, you’ll take charge of escorting them out of the castra. Give them food and water and send them on their way.” And nevermind any wailing at leaving their husbands. “The men will remain prisoners, but I expect them to be confined under better conditions. Is that clear, Fulvius?”

  “But sir, they’re the enemy. They deserve nothing better—”

  Alexander cleared his throat, giving the other tribune a steady look. “Common sense says that if you plan to sell these men later, you don’t want them dying of sickness before then. And sitting in their own shit, they will sicken and die.” The irony underscoring his words was lost on Fulvius, but Caesarion heard it clearly.

  Caesarion felt nothing but gratitude for Alexander’s interruption. It had prevented him from grabbing the young tribune by the neck of his tunic and lifting him off the ground. “Enemies or not, they’ll be treated with at least a modicum of dignity. Give them a pot to piss in, and empty it periodically. Build a second prison building, and set up more guards if needed. Put the prisoners to work erecting it. Employ the ones who resist least in digging ditches to improve the fortifications. If they work well, they get more than one meal a day. I will not have men sitting in their own shit. Do you understand, Fulvius?”

  “Yes, sir!” The young tribune, chalk-pale under his summer tan, ripped off a salute and retreated hastily.

  Caesarion sighed and gave Malleolus a dark look. “Anything else I need to attend to? Any other little tasks I can accomplish today?”

  He could have sworn he saw the older man swallow a smile. “No, dominus.”

  “Good. I’ll be in my quarters. Don’t disturb us for anything less than an attack on the castra.” Caesarion caught Eurydice’s hand in his and stalked off, trying not to fume. After about ten strides, he looked down at her. “Some wedding day.”

  Eurydice half-smiled. “Other than watching Alexander extract that man’s teeth? I can’t say I’d have had it any other way. I like being busy, Caesarion. I like being useful.” She crowded a little closer to him as a group of soldiers moved past, the men not daring to stare, but awarding them sidelong looks that Caesarion itched to wipe from their faces, but chose to overlook for the moment.

  And with the sun hovering near the horizon, they headed back into the privacy of their quarters. Though Caesarion was somewhat concerned about the effect of Venus’
blessing on their chances of conceiving a child tonight, he also found he couldn’t quite resist the impulses that the goddess had awakened in him any longer. All the distractions of the day had only delayed the inevitable. And the inevitable was very sweet indeed.

  ____________________

  For his part, Alexander opted to loiter outside the vine-covered command building. Just close enough to his siblings’ window that if any curious legionnaires happened by, he could frown and shoo them away. But not close enough that he could hear the sounds from the shuttered window. Not clearly, anyway. Venus’ smile had worked its magic on everyone who’d been present at the wedding ceremony, and Alexander was no exception. No camp followers, and Caesarion just made damned sure that the women of the Vascones wouldn’t become whores for the legion by sending them off. Probably rightly.

  He leaned against the wooden wall of the command building, and stared up at the slowly dimming sky, trying to put his own frustration out of his mind. What am I becoming? he wondered. I truly would do anything to safeguard my family. And Caesarion’s instinctive generosity and Eurydice’s tender heart won’t serve them well, in the long run. He can be ruthless, when pushed. But it requires that push. I’ll have to be ruthless for both of them. Because someone has to do it.

  His head turned towards the quaestorium. He knew what he needed to do. Caesarion hadn’t ordered it. But they didn’t need the second druid. He was, in fact, a security threat. Someone that the other prisoners would rally around, and who had magical powers. Alexander sighed. It has to be done. But if I do it without orders, Caesarion would rightly say that I’d betrayed the trust between him and his paroled hostage. And given that he’s in the prison, under guard, and with all the other prisoners as witnesses, I can’t exactly go in and kill him without anyone knowing. No. I have to talk to Caesarion about it in the morning. Have to convince him that it needs to happen. Gods. Executing the second man might appease the Fourth and all the rest who lost out on female slaves, who will see one of the prisoners taken hostage instead, and who still want revenge for our losses. No. It’s necessary. He’ll just have to see it.