Her eyes narrowed, but she took the indicated seat with good grace, her back sword-straight and eyes alert. Eurydice and Selene sat to Alexander’s left, Selene looking terrified at the prospect of being seen by strangers. Antony, on entering with the guests, took his seat at Caesarion’s right, with his betrothed, Cleopatra, at his side. And now we look the perfect picture of family unity, Caesarion thought, not daring to allow his expression change as Agrippa ducked into the tent. Behind him, a tiny woman, younger than Cleopatra, but hardly a maiden—thirty, perhaps, Caesarion guessed—followed, removing the folds of her red-edged palla, worn like a veil, from over her elaborately coiffed hair. “May I have the honor to present Livia Drusilla, widow of the late Octavian?” Agrippa said, helping her to a seat, so that the heavily embroidered hem of her stola did not catch on anything.
Oh, gods. The best friend and the widow of a man I executed in front of the entire Senate, so that my brother could be returned to life. This . . . can only be an elaborate prelude to a declaration of hostilities. Caesarion nodded to Livia, feeling inane, and then leaned forward, catching Eurydice’s eyes. And then he nodded at the heavens once, significantly. Keep an eye on what they’re doing.
Her eyes widened, and he could almost hear her thoughts: In front of all of them?
He nodded, and Eurydice, looking shaken, turned away from their guests, pulling her palla up and over her face to disguise her eyes. A glance from Caesarion to Malleolus, and the centurion moved to stand a little closer to Eurydice, who would be unable to see at all while using the eyes of one of her hawks.
Agrippa cleared his throat. “Livia’s sons, Tiberius Claudius Nero and Nero Claudius Drusus.” The two boys entered the tent now, and both inclined their heads with what certainly looked like deep respect before taking their seats. “The daughter of the late Octavian Thurinus, Octavia Thurina.” A girl hardly older than Selene slipped in, her blond hair yanked back into cruelly tight braids against her scalp, and she scuttled to Livia’s side, looking terrified. “And of course, my own daughter, Vipsania Agrippina.” A girl perhaps six years old followed, and was permitted to make her greeting, before being escorted out once more. Like most women, she had a form of her father’s name—Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa became Vipsania Agrippina, with the family name given a feminine ending, and his cognomen attached to her as well. If the girl had been allocated any other names, they weren’t given to those present. Octavian’s daughter had a similar name: Octavia—the same name held by Antony’s late wife, Octavian’s sister.
Caesarion took a deep breath. This is politics. This is a battlefield, but it’s the battle that’s fought before men actually die. I need to win this encounter . . . but I have no idea of the terrain or my foe’s goals or forces. An ambush. But one I might be able to turn to my own advantage, if I’m careful. At least Agrippa has, very honorably, lined up all my enemies before me. “Mother, if you’d signal the servants?”
And thus, a half-dozen Egyptian servants paced around the tent on silent feet, pouring watered but excellent tawny Falernian wine into glass cups sheathed in bronze vines. Caesarion hadn’t even realized that his mother had brought the fine cups, but from her faint, secret smile of pride, he understood why she’d told the servants to use them. Show power, wealth, and ease, and people assume that you’re in control, she’d told him often enough. And with a single gesture, offering the finest wine of Rome—Falernian—in lavish cups, in the middle of a siege camp, she’d shown the newcomers all three.
“Perhaps my boys and Alexander could go . . . occupy themselves?” Livia Drusilla murmured. “I almost said ‘go and play,’” she admitted, lifting her face with a smile that seemed glassy.
Tiberius, the elder, scowled at her. “Agrippa wishes to speak of our future with the Emperor,” he returned, his tone surprisingly curt, bordering on disrespectful. “I wish to have a say in this, and I will not be sent away like a child.” He looked about Alexander’s age. On the verge of receiving his toga, but it hadn’t been given yet, in the wake of his step-father’s death. Hair as blond as his mother’s, close-cropped, and with surprisingly gray eyes, which he now turned on Agrippa, and then looked at Caesarion. “By your leave, dominus?”
“Stay,” Caesarion told the young man calmly. “I would not send Alexander away in any event. I value his insights too highly.” And to his left, he could sense his brother shift on his stool with nervous delight at the words.
Caesarion now shifted his eyes to Agrippa. “While the Tenth, Seventh, and Third legions, I think, are enough to take this city,” Caesarion began without preamble, looking directly at Agrippa, “I thank you and the Senate for their care in sending me more troops.” Their faith in me will keep me warm at night. “You spoke of wishing to step down as legate. If that is truly your wish, I will accept your resignation. But you hardly needed to bring your daughter with you to step down from this office.” He leaned forward and set his cup down on the table, the rich, sweet wine scarcely tasted. “Nor would such a task require you to play escort to a widow and her family.” He nodded in Livia’s direction, politely. “What brings you to a siege camp, so far from the comforts of Rome, my lady?” That with a direct look at Livia.
Women in the era of the Republic had not been permitted to travel on their own. By Roman custom and indeed, by Roman law, a woman was required to be governed by some male relative or another. A widow or divorced woman usually returned to the house of her father, or, if her father no longer lived, she might go to the house of a brother or son. Daughters stayed with their father, when their mothers were turned away. To be unescorted by an adult male of her own family bordered on the promiscuous. However, in Livia Drusilla’s case, her father had long since died, and her sons were not old enough to offer their mother a place in their households. And she certainly could not remarry until her year’s mourning had been completed—much in the same way that Cleopatra could not seal the bargain of the Julii with Antony for at least another month. And Agrippa had undoubtedly been designated guardian to the children in Octavian’s will, as Lepidus had been in Caesar’s—though in Caesar’s, that was a contingency, since Caesarion had been old enough to assume responsibilities as head of household.
But Livia was a decade younger than Cleopatra, and considered one of the beauties of her generation, though one with hard lines around her mouth. Caesarion was aware that she and his mother politely despised each other, and had heard it whispered that Livia customarily referred to Cleopatra in private as “Caesar’s foreign concubine.” Perhaps Agrippa fancies her for his second wife, though he’s probably too common-born for her patrician instincts to countenance. But it would neatly allow him to care for his best friend’s children and widow all under his own roof without too many whispers.
Livia raised her head and returned, forthrightly and with an edge of cool venom, “Why, you have brought me here, my lord. You, and no other. For by your hand, you have deprived me of a husband, my sons of a father, and my step-daughter of one, as well.”
“Have a care of your tone,” Caesarion told her bluntly, and watched her head jerk back. “Your husband plotted to have me killed and put my brother in my place. Alexander told me the entirety of the discussion between himself and your husband, and Marcus Antonius, who was also present,” and what a masterful way of making it sound as if Antony just happened to overhear the conversation, rather than being in it up to his neck, “has corroborated every word.” Caesarion leaned back, letting her have the entire weight of his red eyes. They were usually difficult for others to meet, he’d noticed over the years. “Your husband was judged guilty of treason, my lady. And while I laid hands upon the sacred person of a Roman citizen to effect my judgment upon him,” Caesarion smiled humorlessly, “so too did his assassins touch my person, and the person of my brother.”
Her eyes flinty now, Livia retorted, “No proof was ever given before a magistrate—”
“I am a magistrate, and I did not require proof.” Caesarion cut her off in a voice lik
e iron. I should have required it, if the rule of law is to mean anything at all, and yet, if I gave them all a sideshow of a murder trial, what then? Let Octavian speak for himself? Have him declaim in public his private sentiments? That having been born out of wedlock to an Egyptian mother in Egypt, that it’s hard to call me a Roman citizen, let alone Caesar’s heir? And nevermind that Mars put his hand on me before I was even born, sealed me to him with the strength of a Roman war god. That would be easy for people to overlook, when all they’re concerned with are reasons to hate and vilify, rather than to accept.
The silence had gone on too long, become too pregnant. He lifted his cup to his lips, and then continued, more quietly, “Though the sudden absence of attempts upon my life did suggest a certain correlation.” He held up a hand to stop the words on her lips. “Continue to protest, and I will be forced to assume that you share the same treasonous sentiments as your late husband.” He paused, detesting himself as Livia flinched. I never thought of myself as a lash, a scourge. I’m supposed to be a shield. But these people will continue to fight me. And they will never stop. “For a woman, that would not mean execution, but rather an exile, under guard, to some island somewhere. Far from your children. So, Livia Drusilla, consider your words to me with care. I am not a monster. But I am your Emperor. You will treat me as such.”
The temperature in the tent seemed to have dropped to something he’d have expected in winter, not the sweaty heat of Iunius. But as he took a sip of wine and glanced to his right, he saw approval in both Antony and his mother’s eyes, which surprised him deeply.
Young Tiberius raised his hand tentatively. “Imperator, may I speak?”
“Do you intend to protest Octavian’s execution as well?” Caesarion asked, seeing Octavia, to Livia’s left, flinch a little, and cursed himself. I am showing myself a heavy-handed tyrant today.
Tiberius shook his head. “No, my lord.”
Surprising. “Then speak.” Caesarion drained his cup and set it aside, but covered it with a hand when one of the servants made as if to refill it.
“Dominus, I wished to thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I know that my brother feels the same way, and that I may speak for him in this.” Tiberius stood and took a couple of quick, impetuous steps towards Caesarion, at which Malleolus and the other Praetorians tensed.
“Thank me?” Caesarion echoed, feeling vastly confused, and glanced at his wine cup. Surely that wasn’t enough to inebriate me. “What have I done for you that is worthy of thanks?”
Tiberius dropped to one knee, but kept his eyes locked on Caesarion’s, head up and back straight. “You delivered us from the tyranny of our stepfather,” he replied, his voice clear and sharp, and to the side, Caesarion could hear Livia and Agrippa both inhale in shock. “Our true father, Tiberius Claudius Nero, fought your father, it’s true. I won’t defend him, my lord. He was a traitor. But I am not.” His voice shook for a moment. “Octavian, under the orders of Caesar, hounded our father across Hellas when I was a child. Three years of war. And when he lost, he lost. Instead of being permitted to end his life with honor, Octavian came to our house and conceived a great love for my mother, and she for him.” Disgust in the young man’s voice now, and he gave his mother a look just short of loathing. “Octavian divorced his current wife on the very day that she gave birth to his only daughter—Octavia over there.” He nodded to his stepsister, who looked ashen at the words.
The scandal was old, and a well-known one. Octavian had deeply shamed his second wife, and almost ruined his reputation with his hasty divorce from a woman who had nearly died giving birth to his only living issue, and packing her off back to her family still bloody and torn from the birthing couch. Tiberius took a deep breath, and continued now, “And he forced my father to divorce my mother, and similarly forced my father to give her away at their subsequent wedding. As if he were her old and impotent sire.” He nearly choked on the words.
“It wasn’t like that—” Livia tried to interpose.
“I was there!” Tiberius snapped at his mother. “Don’t tell me what I did and didn’t see, Mother. You’d just barely given birth to my brother, and your women had to hold you upright, but you stared at Octavian as if at a banquet. I remember it.”
Livia’s face flushed with shame, and for an instant, Caesarion almost pitied her. She might genuinely have hated her first husband, and might sincerely have loved Octavian. But the entire affair is sordid, for all their airs of virtue in the years since.
“My father died in exile and in shame in Hellas,” Tiberius went on, almost spitting the words out now. “My brother and I were forced to come to Octavian’s house upon our father’s death.” He held his head up proudly, his expression cold. “I have considered myself duty-bound to avenge my father’s death upon the person of my mother’s husband since then, but have never had the means, being indebted to him against my will for my food and shelter, and forced to call him by the lying name of Father.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “You have taken my vengeance from me,” the young man went on, his voice shaking a little, “but I thank you from the heart for your actions, for Octavian was a harsh and unjust man in the manner in which he regulated his household.” He looked at both Livia and Agrippa then, defiantly. “They will surely tell you that I speak with the haste of my youth and the heat of my love for my late father. But I swear to you, that from this moment until my dying breath, I am your man. I will serve you and Rome with loyalty for all the days of my life.” Tiberius ducked his head, breathing hard.
He’s clearly wanted to say that for a very long time. And while there’s many an actor in Rome who could perform this scene, I refuse to believe that a boy his age could be so convincing if he didn’t genuinely feel this, in his heart. Caesarion reached out and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Rome values your loyalty and your service,” he told Tiberius firmly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to join Alexander here on my staff. He serves as my chief scribe these days. And learning the art of war at a young age is no bad thing.” He glanced at Agrippa. And if the young man is your eyes and ears in my camp, at least I’ll know to whom those eyes and ears belong.
Agrippa had covered brows that hung like grapevines over his eyes with one hand, lightly rubbing his temples as he did. “This is not entirely how I thought that this meeting would progress,” he admitted wearily. “Tiberius, do please sit down, and mind your tone when you speak to your mother. There’s a good lad.” He lifted his hand away and regarded Caesarion steadily.
“Then what is the purpose of this meeting?” Caesarion asked, raising his own eyebrows.
“An effort to bandage the most bleeding wound of the Empire,” Agrippa returned bluntly. “There’s a rift in the Julii family that I’m surprised that you haven’t tried to repair, my lord. In executing Octavian, you open the door to an internal feud that might weaken you.”
Caesarion looked at Agrippa, then at Livia. “That might have been a very compelling argument ten minutes ago, but I believe that young Tiberius has pulled the teeth of that argument, leaving it without sting.”
His mother suddenly spoke in Egyptian, soft and imperative, “Do not underestimate her, my son. She may have spoken in haste earlier, but she draws men to her with her beauty and her wit. A grieving widow, with access to her husband’s fortune? Many men will seek her favor. Rally to her cause. She can still be a force against us, as can the daughter of her husband, depending on to whom she’s wed.” Cleopatra paused, having been careful not to use a single name in all her rapid speech. “Do not make a decision today lightly or in haste, that you may come to regret in decades to come.”
Livia sniffed as Cleopatra spoke, turning her face away as if the sound of foreign syllables affronted her. Caesarion nodded to his mother, and then turned back to Agrippa. “However, my mother has reminded me of an old proverb about keeping one’s family’s best interests at heart. Please, do continue. How do you propose to bridge the rift between we Julii and our lady cousin?” This,
with a glance at Octavia, who was the only person in the tent who had a legitimate claim to being blood-kin.
Agrippa raised his heavy brows. “Why, with a marriage, of course, my lord. You would wed the lady Octavia when she comes of age. She’s eleven now, and would be marriageable in two years’ time—much like your sister Eurydice is now.” He nodded towards Eurydice, who pulled her palla’s folds more securely over her face, turning more towards Caesarion, like a flower towards the sun.
Caesarion swallowed, darting Octavia a glance. Octavian’s daughter looked horrified, cringing slightly, which earned her a light cuff across the back of her head from Livia, who frowned now, herself.
She was a pretty little thing, to be sure, but she was a child. And while he certainly had no current plans to wed, and, in theory, could wait for her to grow up, the thought did not appeal, even remotely. After a moment of frantic thought, Caesarion seized upon the first excuse he found, grateful that it was a valid one. “Agrippa, marrying Lady Octavia would be a great honor, I’m sure. But I think that it would be cruel to require her to wed the man who was her father’s executioner. And it would invite strife into my household, which I’d prefer not to resemble something out of Sophocles.” With me no doubt in the role of Agamemnon.
Agrippa’s brow furrowed. “Tiberius is already engaged to my own daughter, Vipsania,” he offered heavily. “He could instead marry your sister, Eurydice. They’re both of age. It would be a good match.”
Tiberius was already shaking his head. “I respected few of my step-father’s decisions, but I respect you, Agrippa,” the young man said firmly. “I like Vipsania well enough, and find the thought of marrying her when she comes of age acceptable.”
Ave, Caesarion (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 1) Page 11