Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  Eurydice’s mouth fell open in consternation. “You’re not going to put me in armor, are you?” she asked, her eyes going wide. “Everyone who saw me would laugh.”

  Caesarion sighed. “I would if I could, but we’ve got enough problems without people speculating that you’re some sort of hermaphrodite. That’s the sort of malicious falsehood people love to believe,” he added sourly, quoting their mother’s letter before reaching out to touch her cheek lightly. “I’m not putting a spear in your hand. Not even a pugio—too heavy for your wrist. But a parazonium might work.”

  “That’s a symbol of rank—” Eurydice blurted. The long, leaf-bladed daggers were only carried by senior officers. “People will hate seeing it in my hand!”

  “It’s also the primary symbol of the god Virtus,” he reminded her dryly. “I’d like people to see you holding that and consider, just for a moment, that you’re a decent person, of noble birth and considerable rank. And also, that you know how to use it and won’t hesitate to do so.” He frowned. “The weapons training is secondary, though. What I want to concentrate on is helping you to react more quickly when you’re under threat. Coming up with defensive spells, too.”

  “I need more books,” Eurydice told him dispiritedly. “I’ve read every philosophical tract Alexander brought from Hellas. I have ideas for how things might work, but . . . I’m really starting to think that I may need to travel to Egypt and study there—”

  “Not yet.” Caesarion’s arm snaked out and pulled her to him. Not quite with all his strength, but a substantial enough portion that she recognized the fear in the gesture. “Not yet.”

  And breathing hard, they huddled there for a long moment, before he managed to let go. “Let’s go practice,” he told her gently, rising from their bed and offering her his hand. “Everyone born can improve their skills. Let’s see what you can do.”

  To say that Eurydice felt uncomfortable in the long practice hall was an understatement. The practice hall was, for her, even more of a male space than Caesarion’s office; there, she’d been welcomed as an asset for close to two years. Even holding a weapon was a singularly male activity, and Roman society remained heavily stratified and restricted. Caesarion put his own parazonium in her hand, and then delicately adjusted her grip with gentle, impersonal fingers. “This isn’t primarily a slashing weapon,” he told her. “The edges are sharp, though, so be careful with them. Primarily, this dagger’s meant for stabbing, if you really have to use it. The edges are for making it enter the target more smoothly, and for cutting things, like rope.”

  “You’ve used it for that?” she said, her eyes widening.

  “Not really. It’s a ceremonial blade for me. For you . . . it’ll be a little more useful.” He squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Now, the movements are sharp and quick. You get in, you get out. You can hold it in three different ways. I'll go over each with you." He adjusted her fingers again. “Right now, with the point towards me, is one way. It’s the way you hold a sword, and the attack can come from many angles.” He switched it around in her hand, so that the long blade now pointed towards the ground. “This lets you tuck the blade along your forearm. All the attacks are from high to low this way. But you’re also using the blade to help protect your arm, and it’s often a concealed strike.” He paused, and then added, his tone tightly controlled, “This is how the assassins held their blades when they came for me and Alexander a few years ago.”

  Eurydice swallowed. “You said there’s a third way?”

  He flipped the dagger around in her hand again, so that the pommel—which held the face of an eagle, hooked nose jutting out on one side—pointed once more towards the ground. “You can attack with this side, too,” Caesarion told her. “The whole thing is a weapon. Not just the point. Idiots tend to forget that. If you’ve been thrown to the ground and someone’s atop you, you don’t have time to switch the blade around to stab them. You’ve got the blink of an eye to make them let go. So you bring that pommel down on their head or face or temple as hard as you can, and as often as you can, till they recoil. Then you use the point again.”

  He showed her a few strikes, and had her use them against a wooden pole planted in the dirt floor of the practice area. And then reached down and pulled on her knees, bending them into a stance more to his liking. “A stiff knee doesn’t let you move quickly,” he told her. “A flexed one lets you recover and get out of the way. Move your weight off your heels, too.” A light hand on her wrist now as he stepped behind her, and then he moved with her, letting her feel how the strikes should match the steps. “Good,” Caesarion said. “You’re light on your feet. Perhaps Horus gave you something besides control of animals. He’s god of the hunt, and of war, too, after all.”

  “Ah, footwork,” Alexander’s voice came from behind them, and Eurydice almost dropped the knife in consternation as she tried to turn to see him. “Good place to start, brother. And I see you’ve placed your weapon in your wife’s hands.” A slight pause, and Eurydice watched Caesarion’s eyebrows rise at the words. Wait, is he saying what I think he’s saying? Eurydice thought in sudden realization.

  Caesarion turned, and his voice was dark as he replied, “Do you like your teeth where they are, Alexander?”

  “Yes,” their brother replied, smiling. “I eat with them, you know.” He spread his hands. “I was simply going to say that it was a touching display of trust.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Eurydice murmured behind Caesarion.

  “I’m just not sure I can do this,” Tiberius called from the adjoining room. “Even female gladiators are rare—mostly a novelty act. If I hit her, even accidentally, Caesarion will kill me—ah. Good evening, dominus.” That, added hastily as Tiberius edged through the doorway.

  Caesarion shook his head. “You are both going to wind up with the cognomen Gemellus, you know.” The word meant gemini, or twins. “I call for one of you, the other inevitably follows.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Tiberius is better with a sword than I am. No shame in admitting that.”

  Eurydice heard the strangled snort from Caesarion. Caught the look of chagrin on Alexander’s face as their brother, usually light on his conversational feet, suddenly seemed at a loss for words. And watched as Tiberius turned his face away, looking deeply embarrassed, but also very slightly amused. What are they laughing about now—ohhh. Well, nevermind. “You don’t want me to attack them with a bare blade, do you?” Eurydice asked quietly, trying to redirect the conversation. “You use practice swords in the yard. I’ve watched.”

  “If they actually let you get in on them with a real blade, I’ll have their hides,” Caesarion told her dryly. “But no. Accidents in practice are a bad thing. We’ll work on that later, though. Today is getting you used to being attacked. Because, as we saw months ago, a god-born can cut through ten men to get to you. We’re not the only ones of our kind out there.”

  Tiberius appeared uneasy. “Why are the gods making your kind?” he asked, picking up a practice sword and one of the large, curving scuta from one of the racks along the side of the room. Designed to partially wrap around the bearer’s body, it had a large, pointed boss at the center, which made it at least as much of a weapon as a defense.

  Caesarion shrugged. “The same reason why you forge any weapon, I suppose. You see a threat on the horizon, and seek to counter it.” He looked at Alexander. “Fight like a Gaul. Tiberius is going to fight like a Roman. Let her see what it looks like to be attacked. But slowly,” he emphasized. “Pretend you’re training a six-year-old at first.”

  Eurydice returned his dagger, her palms dampening. Tiberius’ gray eyes, always chill, lost the warmth and humanity she’d grown accustomed to seeing in them as he advanced, shield up, sword poised over its edge to strike. And suddenly, this training exercise felt entirely real. She was back on the mountainside, people with weapons all around her, and the Gallic woman closing in.

  She reflexively backed up a step, her hands rising, fingers
working together to find heat. “No fire,” Caesarion told her hastily, clearly recognizing that gesture. “Tiberius is a friend. And we don’t want to have to rebuild the command building. It’s only a week or so old.”

  “Thank you,” Tiberius said, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face, there and then gone again. “I appreciate that.”

  Eurydice backed up another step as he pressed in. “I’d use a shower of sparks in his eyes if I didn’t have a fire source to pull from,” she said tightly. “I don’t know what else I can do.”

  “When someone attacks,” Tiberius said, and thrust with the wicker practice sword, so suddenly that she barely jerked out of the way. Only to find he’d pulled the sword back, ready to attack again before she’d even looked up, “you have three or four options. Don’t be where they’re attacking, which is what you did. You dodged. Your second option is to block the blow. I use a shield for that. The third option is redirection. You can use a sword to redirect and dissipate the strength of an incoming blow—take it off its line of attack, so that it doesn’t go where the enemy was aiming. The fourth option is dying.” No humor in his voice at all.

  “I don’t recommend that one,” Alexander called over. “Also, keep in mind, that if, gods forbid, you ever have to fight a Roman? We’re trained to attack far more quickly and aggressively than you’ll ever see a barbarian doing. They all carry great big lumbering weapons. By the time they’ve managed to bring their sword around for their first slash, we’ve jabbed them in the gut and groin three times.”

  A faint snort from Caesarion at Alexander’s words. “They’ve been known to win a few encounters. Don’t underestimate them. But the overall point is valid, Eurydice,” he said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall to watch. “We don’t have to think about defense. Our shields and our formations do that work for us. All we have to do is think about offense. And reacting to someone trained for speed and ferocity is going to be much different than this practice floor.” He shrugged. “Little steps. Block, dodge, redirect, and don’t die.”

  Dodge. Block. Redirect. Something tickled her mind. Something about strength and force. Eurydice nodded, swallowing. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s . . . try a few things.”

  Tiberius came in at her again—slowly, she recognized this time—and she tried to thicken the air in front of the sword’s point. As she did, she could feel heat burning there—enough to ignite the sword!—and rapidly pulled that heat away, too, to hover over her hand. A white barrier of something formed in the air—the sword struck it—and then a white shower that burned with cold flew around the room like sparks. Eurydice danced back, still holding a ball of incipient flame just above her hand.

  Tiberius stared at the disk of white material into which his sword had struck. It dissipated around its edges into white smoke, and what looked like water dripped from it to the earthen practice floor. A drop hit his bare leg and he hissed with pain. “What is this?” he asked in disbelief. “It’s not water—water doesn’t burn!”

  “I . . . don’t know,” Eurydice admitted. “It’s whatever comes out of air when I pull heat out of it to make flame. I usually throw it back out like a fan made of knives to follow the firefan. I, ah, tried to use it on Aucissa.” She grimaced. “If I hadn’t used every spark within me for the avalanche, I think it could have burned through her armored skin, once with fire, and once with ice.” She let the heat dissipate gently back into the air of the room.

  Tiberius shook his sword to remove the white object, sending it flying into a corner, where it shattered. “Successful block, but it takes too much time,” he assessed, sounding mildly rattled. “Unless you can cast that more quickly, someone will have you spitted before you’ve even started.”

  She caught Caesarion and Alexander’s nods, and sighed, a little dispiritedly. “That was blocking,” Caesarion called over. “Try deflecting.”

  Tiberius came in faster the next time, letting her see something closer to real combat speed. And in reflexive panic, Eurydice lashed out, again with ice, trying to bat the sword away as she dodged. The ice shards struck the sword, sure enough—and cut through it, sending the top half spinning through the air to the floor.

  Tiberius stopped precisely where he was, eying the wicker practice sword warily. And then, carefully dropped the broken sword on the ground and wiggled his fingers experimentally. As if verifying that they were still there. “Think that would work on metal?” he asked, sounding interested.

  “I don’t know,” Eurydice replied, flustered. “Metal’s much stronger than the practice swords. I just wanted to move it away, and I had to hit it with something to do that.”

  Caesarion moved in behind her, putting a hand lightly on her shoulder. “You don’t need to hit the blade to redirect an attack,” he said mildly. “Redirect the man, and the entire attack falls off-line. Here. I’ll show you without magic. Alexander, attack me.”

  Alexander had picked up a much lighter shield and a spear, to simulate how a Gaul might attack, and regarded their brother warily now. “This is going to be one of those lessons where I wind up on the ground repeatedly,” he said with a flicker of humor. Then his eyes, too, went blank. “You need to make yourself empty,” Caesarion told Eurydice calmly as Alexander advanced. “Concentrate, yes. But make yourself open to whatever comes at you. Able to react. Like when you taught me how to see the spirits, beloved. Lack of expectation. It’s the same mental state for me. I suggest—”

  Alexander moved in at full attack speed, trying to take Caesarion off-guard. Eurydice barely even saw what Caesarion did, but within half a second, Alexander was, indeed, on the ground. Caesarion kicked his spear out of his hands, sending it rolling across the floor to Tiberius’ feet. “Lack of expectation. Though it helps to know that Alexander always feints on his first attack.”

  “I do not,” Alexander muttered, rolling to his feet.

  “Yes, you do,” Tiberius told him, finding another practice sword on the rack. “I keep telling you that it’s a terrible habit.”

  “Did you see what he did?” Alexander asked Eurydice, straightening.

  She shook her head silently. “Again, but more slowly,” Caesarion told Alexander, who retrieved his spear. And, with a sour look at both Tiberius and Caesarion, didn’t feint at Caesarion’s eyes before aiming for his chest this time.

  And this time, Eurydice could see it. Caesarion stepped into Alexander, but not head-on. He stepped in at a forty-five degree angle, and stopped there, putting out a hand to keep Alexander from moving. “The point is now behind me,” Caesarion told her over his shoulder. “It can’t do a damned thing to me unless he somehow pulls it back and jabs again. But the most he can do at the moment is smack me in the ribs with the rounded side of a stick. Not even very hard, at that, since all of his strength has just been exerted to thrust forward. What can I do now?”

  “Ah . . . grab the spear in your left hand?” Eurydice offered.

  “Could, but then my hand’s tied up. Also, more than likely, I’m carrying my shield. But we’re doing this for your benefit, and you probably won’t be carrying one of those.” Caesarion took a second step in, so that he stood beside Alexander on his shield side. “He might reflexively try to hit me with his shield,” Caesarion said now, and Alexander raised it towards his face in illustration, “so don’t waste time.” He pivoted to face the same direction as Alexander, lifted an arm and drove his elbow—gently—into Alexander’s face, knocking him towards the floor, while at the same time, he kicked Alexander’s shield-side knee. Alexander went right back down again, this time with more grace. “The shield-side knee is almost always going to be forward, because you lead with your defense,” Caesarion told her. “Knocking his head back throws him towards the ground. He’s already got his weight forward on that flexed leg, leaning into his shield and his attacks. You don’t want to kick it further forward when you’ve knocked him back. That would just help him back up. But you can kick him to either side
, where the knee’s not strong.”

  “There’s another option,” Alexander pointed out, picking himself up off the floor. “Duck down after the initial parry, and drive your fist into the attacker’s groin. Unless he’s wearing armor there, that’ll make him crumple up nicely. A set of pteruges deflects some of the force, but not always all of it.”

  Eurydice stared as Alexander picked himself up off the floor. “I . . . can’t do any of that,” she said, her voice tight. Even Alexander outweighs me by forty librae these days, and he hasn’t finished broadening out yet.

  Caesarion shook his head. “I wasn’t saying for you to hit him with your fists,” he told her gently. “Every man on a battlefield is likely to have wrestled with his friends since he was a toddler. Even if the Gauls don’t train the way we do—we spent half a year, every year, making sure we’re good.”

  “They train their cavalry pretty damned well,” Tiberius muttered. “Nothing amateur about them.”

  Caesarion let that pass. “Every man on the field is also going to outweigh you and be stronger.” He shrugged. “Try to use your magic to unbalance someone the way I just unbalanced Alexander. Not with ice. Not with your hand. Just with force.”

  Eurydice tried. “Everything I do needs to come from somewhere,” she said after a fruitless half hour. “Even the avalanche and the storm at sea, I took the energy for the shield from—oh!” That’s it. I take the energy from their own attacks.

  It required timing. Very, very delicate timing. But at the end of the first hour, she’d developed a method by which, if someone thrust a spear at her, she could take the power of that thrust, steal it, and drive it into a knee or elbow with the same amount of strength—plus a little taken from the spark of power that dwelled inside of her. She still had to dodge. She still had to be aware. But the harder the attack, the harder her retaliatory strike.

  Tiberius picked himself up off the floor after the last series of counters. “I’m not volunteering to test this,” he told her, half-smiling, “but if you get good enough at dodging, couldn’t you collect the force from several strikes, and return it all to your attacker in one blow? Preferably to right here,” he added, taking the heel of his hand and gently lifting upwards into his nose. “Or here,” he added, tapping his temple and the bulge of the skull just behind and below his ear.