Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  “I could try,” Eurydice replied, dubiously.

  “Not on me,” he reiterated hastily. “I’ve had enough for the day.” He gave Caesarion a quick bow of his head. “By your leave?”

  “Thank you for your time,” Caesarion told the younger man sincerely. “I couldn’t ask anyone else but you and Alexander to help with this.”

  A flicker of pleased pride crossed Tiberius’ face, and off he went. “He’s very good,” Caesarion noted as the door shut behind him. “A couple more years, and he’ll be one of the best.”

  Alexander shrugged a little. “I think he spent almost all his time training when he lived in Octavian’s house. Looking forward to the day he could join the legions and get out.”

  The sword and the shield were his only refuge, Eurydice thought, but from what? She suspected she’d never know; Tiberius was intensely private, and she respected that. The gods knew, more of her life had become more incredibly public than she was entirely comfortable with, of late.

  Caesarion nodded. “Got a letter from Mother,” he told Alexander off-handedly. “She says that some of my more literate centurions and looser-lipped young tribs have sent home letters to Rome announcing our marriage a little earlier than I would have hoped.”

  Alexander paused in the act of hanging up his practice spear. “Shit,” he swore, spinning around towards them. “I’d thought Dame Rumor was safely contained. What are you going to do about it?”

  Caesarion sighed. “I haven’t decided yet. Docking their pay for writing gossip home seems petty. We’re not talking about sending home plans for a full-scale invasion that were intercepted by the enemy.”

  Alexander shook his head. “No,” he replied firmly. “I meant, what are you going to do about Rome itself, and Dame Rumor? You have to go back. Both of you. Set out now, before winter really settles into the mountains—”

  “There’s already snow—”

  “There will be more if you wait.” Eurydice had rarely heard Alexander sound so implacable. The only other time that she could remember had been on the subject of the second druid prisoner. And he’d won the argument then, largely because several prisoners had tried to free the druid the same day on which Alexander had made his case. And Alexander had executed the would-be-escapees himself, with Caesarion looking on, grim-faced. Even Matru, their surrendered hostage, had seemed to understand the circumstances. Though he certainly hadn’t been pleased by them.

  Caesarion threw up his hands now, exasperated. “You want me to grab Eurydice and a thousand of the Tenth as bodyguards, ride through occupied, rough territory with few roads and winter setting in, board a ship and cross the Mediterranean, with winter storms ready to tear our vessels apart? All so that after a month or so of travel, I can appear before the Senate and squelch rumors by confirming them.” Caesarion regarded Alexander with disbelief. “Wouldn’t it be better to return next year, with our legions hopefully victorious, and the whole of Hispania in our grasp, either as allies or as conquests?”

  Alexander took a dipper from a bucket and drank water thirstily as he listened. And Eurydice once again got a clear idea of how intelligent her brother was, as he replied, patiently, “No. Because there’s no guarantee that we’ll have the whole of Hispania in our grasp by next year. Father’s legates always said it would take ten years and up to fifty thousand lives to finish pacifying this area. You don’t have ten years. You probably don’t have ten months if you don’t deal with this issue.” He met Caesarion’s eyes squarely. “I want you to take your wife and return to Rome and govern throughout the winter months, because that’s what the Imperator does, and must be seen to do. Especially one who’s been stomping out rebellion for the first two years after his investiture in the office.” Alexander held up a hand as if to forestall Caesarion’s objections . . . but Eurydice could see that Caesarion wasn’t about to object. Instead, he looked thoughtful. “And while you’re there, showing everyone that you do indeed control the price of grain and the military and all the other things that an Imperator holds in his hands, you need to deal with rumor. It ferments into a vile wine, if left unchecked.”

  Caesarion gestured for them to follow him, and tossed over his shoulder, “Dear gods, how does she do it? Our mother is thirteen hundred miles away, and I still hear her voice when you speak, Alexander.” They moved into the office, where all the maps had been tacked to the walls for ease of reading, and he took a stool at the main table, still looking grim.

  “That might be because she taught me politics while Father was off teaching you war,” Alexander replied tartly, taking a seat of his own. “Doesn’t make what I say invalid. Quite the opposite, in fact. You need to introduce your wife to the Senate officially. And explain to them who she is, other than our sister. You might mention that two legions accorded her, a woman, the fucking grass crown. You could toss in that she’s the only woman in history to earn a cognomen from the troops, rather than inheriting some form of her father’s.”

  Eurydice’s instincts suggested strongly that she should do her best to vanish, and leave this uncomfortable list of her virtues to be heard by someone other than herself. Instinct, however, warred with newer impulses. Ones forged by having her voice heard over the planning maps for months now—recognized and respected. And in this room, unlike the practice room, there was comfort and familiarity. “He has a point,” she said softly, taking her seat beside Caesarion, her voice becoming steadier as she listened to her own words. “The gods themselves ensured that we can’t hide what we are to each other.”

  “I’m not hiding,” Caesarion told her, rare sharpness in his voice. “The journey is not exactly without risk. The local tribes would like nothing better than to hurt me, and there’s no better way to do that to kill or capture you, beloved. And that’s just the hands of men to worry about. Weather is a concern as well. As is what to do with the men I leave here, without a commander. I’ve never technically given up command of the Tenth.” He eyed Alexander, and then exhaled. “But . . . Alexander’s substantially correct. This does need to be dealt with. Unfortunately.”

  Alexander’s shoulders eased. “Get as many senators on your side as you can before coming back here in the spring. Cicero Minor’s a damned good commander. He’ll take care of the Seventh. And the whole castra, let’s face it.”

  Caesarion grimaced again. “And who do I put in charge of the Tenth? Mal’s prefect of the Praetorians now. He’ll be with us.” He quirked an eyebrow at Alexander. “You’re so junior that your boots haven’t properly broken in yet. But I don’t have anyone else left. The same reason Antyllus is in charge of the Fourth, back at Gravidus.”

  Alexander shook his head vehemently. “Not me,” he replied sharply. “Tiberius.”

  Caesarion’s eyebrows both rose now. “Why?”

  “Because he spends every night with a map of the area around us, trying to think like the enemy, and decide how he’d attack us, and then goes out and repositions our sentries to cover whatever he’s thought of. Because he is, as you said, very damned good with a sword. Because he’s earned it. And because he’s not the Imperator’s young brother.”

  “He’s just the Imperator’s brother’s friend,” Caesarion replied quietly.

  Alexander grimaced. “Yes. He is. But he’s still a better choice than I am, in every respect.”

  Caesarion nodded. “All right then. But only till I return, and Cicero takes command of the entire castra.”

  Alexander looked relieved. “Thank you,” he replied quietly, rising from his seat. “I’ll tell him to come and see you, then? But not tell him what it’s about?”

  A flash of humor in Caesarion’s eyes. “Going to enjoy preying on his anxieties?”

  “Watching his expression when he’s startled is one of life’s rare joys, yes. I’ll admit that.” Alexander snickered. “By your leave?”

  “Go.” Caesarion covered his eyes for a moment as Alexander left, and then reached over and took Eurydice’s hand. “You’ll want to tell
Nesa and Salatis that they need to get us packed for the journey. We’ll leave tomorrow. Because Alexander was also correct about the weather in the mountains getting worse, the longer we wait.”

  She leaned into his shoulder, dreading not so much the trip and its dangers, but the return to Rome. The eyes that would surely be fixed on her, the derision, scorn, and revulsion that she’d seen in people’s eyes. “We should offer games when we return,” Eurydice said abruptly. “You promised a set of them in honor of Mars and Venus if the campaign was successful. And it has been, so far.”

  “And the plebeians need to see that they’re receiving some of the wealth of the empire, too,” Caesarion replied tiredly. “And, of course, they’ll be pleased that we’re acting so Roman, and with such generosity. You’ve obviously listened to Mother before, too.”

  “From time to time,” Eurydice admitted, smiling a little. “If we want to be generous, we can give away all those dried figs Alexander brought back from Hellas.” She chuckled under her breath. “Don’t tell him, but I’m so tired of them, I don’t think I could ever eat another.”

  “If we do that, the sewers will overflow.” Dry amusement in his voice now. “If we offer games, love . . . jointly . . . with you sitting beside me in the box . . . .” he kissed her hair lightly, “do you think that you could add a little something to the show?”

  Eurydice looked up at him. “By something, do you mean fire?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I think that this could be arranged.” She considered that. “It would be most impressive just as the sun goes down, and if there are no lights in the arena. Just fuel, so I can start one torch, and then . . . go from there.”

  “We’ll hold them on Divalia, then. The winter solstice. When everyone needs to see light in the darkness, and all Rome honors Angerona.” Caesarion nodded. “We should be there by then. Horse racing or gladiators?”

  Eurydice blinked. She hadn’t expected to be consulted. “You held races for Father’s funeral. You haven’t presented gladiators yet. It’s not usual on Divalia, since Angerona’s about peace, plenty, and surcease from sorrow, but I don’t see why not. No bouts to the death, though.”

  He nodded. “All right. It’s settled then. Now we just have to get there.” Caesarion rubbed his fingers against her scalp. “I think we’ll take that druid with us,” he added consideringly. “It might even help for one of these Gallic priests to see Rome. For one of them to understand the size of it, the number of people under our rule. And why they can’t win in the long run.” He sighed. “Go start packing, beloved,” he added, giving her another light kiss. “I’ll be in to do the same after I get Cicero Minor over here and write up a formal change of command letter, and all that.”

  ____________________

  “You want me to take over as legate?” Tiberius said, stunned. “Dominus, I have just over a year’s experience!” He cast about wildly, looking around the office, lit as it was with golden light from an olive oil lamp. “Your own men will surely object—”

  “I only have one tribune left. Titus Lucretius and two others were killed in the avalanche. He had ten years’ experience, and I’ve been limping along with Lucius Valerius Potitus as my single remaining trib, since. He’s just about your age. He’s a marvelous scribe,” Caesarion added, leaning back in his seat a little, and giving Tiberius a sharp look. “He can go through a stack of daily reports in under two hours, and can tell me, down to the cohort, which men are short on blankets, or which centurion’s been reporting an unusual number of disciplinary infractions. So that I know which issues are genuine problems that require my personal intervention, and which are not.” Caesarion paused. “Potitus is a great administrator, and makes my life easier every damned day. I suggest leaning on him heavily while I’m gone, Tiberius. But what he’s not, is a leader. And the men know it every time he gets up in front of them.”

  Tiberius’ lips twitched slightly, against his will, glancing at where Alexander stood, his back to the wall, nearby. “His voice is a little nasal, yes, dominus.”

  “We all work with what the gods gave us,” Caesarion agreed wearily. “In his case, they gave this noble scion of the Valerii Potiti a voice that sounds like a nine-year-old, bandy legs, and a perpetual squint. He’s not a coward; he rode straight into the mouth of Tartarus with the rest of the Tenth on the day of the avalanche.”

  “Is there any possibility that he wasn’t able to see what waited for us past the walls?” Alexander asked drolly.

  Caesarion gave Alexander a look. “I ask myself that question every time he rides into battle. And restrain the urge to tell the soldiers to either side of him to duck when he draws his sword.” He shook his head. “In fairness, he’s a good young man. He just belongs behind a desk in the worst possible way. But don’t, for the love of the gods, tell him that. I think he’d be heartsick.” He regarded Tiberius with a brooding stare. “I can’t promote a centurion to legate over an existing trib. They’re career soldiers. They have experience and intelligence, but there’s a division between the line officers and the command staff, and that needs to stay intact. A trib from another legion, however, is a perfectly acceptable alternative. And you’ve got three months’ more experience than Potitus. I checked.” He paused. “The men need a leader, not a clerk. Alexander here thinks you can do that for me. Prove him right.”

  Gods, Tiberius thought, the weight of it landing on his shoulders. Six thousand men. And I’m accountable for every one of those lives. “I’ll do my best, sir,” he said, swallowing. “Fortunately, in winter quarters, the biggest issues should be keeping everyone fed, sharp, and out of trouble, and additionally making sure that we don’t get attacked because a sentry’s fallen asleep on watch.” Gods, please let that be so.

  Caesarion nodded. “You’ll take my quarters here in the command building for the Tenth. Get your kit moved out of your tent in the morning. Cicero Minor’s been advised that he’s down to just two tribs himself now, where he started our campaign with four. He gave one to the Fourth to help Antyllus out.” He gave Alexander a look. “He’s going to work you hard.”

  Alexander looked resigned. “I’m aware. I already get up an hour before the horns to start going through the reports.”

  Caesarion nodded to both of them. “Any questions?”

  Tiberius raised a finger. “Will you be back at the start of the campaign season?” He didn’t ask why the Imperator was leaving. That wasn’t his purview. His job was to take an order and execute it.

  Caesarion gave Alexander a look just as resigned as the one his brother had just accorded him. Alexander counted off on his fingers, “Say, six weeks to get from here to Rome—two months if the mountain passes are blocked. You should arrive at the beginning of December. That, Ianuarius, and Februarius . . . three months might not be enough time to get everything resolved.” Alexander glanced over at Tiberius. “Seems Potitus or some of the lads of the Fourth might have written letters home describing my brother’s marriage in less-than-comfortable tones.”

  Tiberius frowned. “Was there something?” Caesarion asked mildly.

  Tiberius chose his words carefully. “I’m not always sure how comfortable I am with it, myself,” he replied candidly. I’m fortunate in that I don’t have any sisters to create any more discomfort with the notion in my head. Octavia isn’t blood, and therefore doesn’t count. I also wouldn’t marry Octavian’s daughter for all the land in Gaul. “But I saw the faces of both Mars and Venus. Any time I feel discomfort, I think of that moment . . . and that’s all I really need to know.” He grimaced. “Is there any indication of which families and senators will lead the chorus of disapproval?”

  “I’m assuming that your mother will have her place in the chorus,” Alexander replied, just as cautiously. “But if I had to guess? Most of the optimates. People like Rullus. Even relative newcomers like Agrippa, since he’s taken a stand for many of the social reforms of the Octavianites.”

  Tiberius’ head snapped up at
the mention of his mother. “The most I’ve said in my own letters to Drusus is that I’ll be taking my sacrifices to both Mars and Venus more seriously in the future, and that I’d explain why when I got home. He doesn’t know anything to tell our mother.” He felt his jaw tighten. “And, on my honor, I’ve not sent her so much as a single letter.”

  Caesarion raised a hand. “We weren’t accusing you,” he replied simply.

  Tiberius exhaled, but his mind continued to churn. No, there’s nothing in any of my letters to Drusus that he might have inadvertently let slip to her. He’s still hungry for her love. He hasn’t realized yet that there’s no such thing in her. Not for us, anyway. “Have I your leave to go?” he asked Caesarion, his stomach churning as it always did when he thought about his mother, and the man she’d married.

  Caesarion nodded, and Tiberius let himself out, realizing after a moment that Alexander had fallen in step with him back towards the tent they’d shared since Martius. “You haven’t sent her any letters,” Alexander noted. “But you’ve received several from her. Two today.”

  “Wasn’t aware that you were counting them.” Terse, tight words.

  “The fact that you tossed them in our kindling box without reading them did draw attention to them.” Alexander’s tone remained carefully light as they trudged through the light dusting of snow on the uneven ground. Tiberius’ legs, bare beneath his tunic from mid-thigh to the tops of his boots, felt the chill of the autumn air, but it was invigorating at the moment, a welcome respite from the unending heat of summer here in Hispania. Come the winter, though, and we could be walking through snow several feet deep, if the locals are at all to be believed. Ah, well, so long as the feet and toes are covered, we shouldn’t have issues with frost-bite.