Ave, Caesarion (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  “Before leaping into Antony’s bed?” his mother replied bluntly.

  “Yes. That.” Caesarion shook his head. “I know . . . that you agreed to everything to stabilize my power. To prevent my sisters from being forced into similar marriages.” He set his teeth, and tried for the right words. If any such existed. “It somehow doesn’t feel like this is a sacrifice on your part, anymore.” He was quite aware of how many nights his mother spent at Antony’s home, and it rankled. But he sieved his own tone, rigorously, for all irony and hostility. His mother had a tendency to make her children pay for such.

  Still the change in his mother’s demeanor in the last month had been rather startling. And it stung his sense of filial loyalty. Caesarion couldn’t remember the last time his mother had glowed from the inside like this; it softened her face a little, made her seem a little younger, though no less queenly. And to attribute it to Antony of all men, when his father, Caesar, had bestrode the world like a god? It unsettled him. He’d been accustomed to thinking of the Tribune of the Plebs as inherently untrustworthy. And never more so than after his mother’s sharp, quick insistence that her daughters not be married to him, and her explanation that Antony’s fall from grace had been because he’d made advances upon her, ten years ago.

  Cleopatra’s eyes narrowed. “And should you not be glad for my sake that I do not regard this alliance with repugnance?” she asked, her voice hard.

  Caesarion struggled with the urge to snap at her. “Reassure me,” he told her bluntly. “You gave me every reason to believe, a year ago, that Antony was not to be trusted. Why the change of heart? Is it merely that his reputation as the world’s greatest lover isn’t unfounded?” She’s going to flay me alive with her tongue. But someone has to say the words, and damn it all, I’m head of house. And if she wants to get petty, I’m her damned co-ruler in Egypt, and her ruler in Rome.

  Her fan stopped moving, and for an instant, he could see that he’d wounded his mother. Deeply. And then Cleopatra schooled her face, inhaling deeply. “I think you know me well enough to know that I don’t think with what’s between my legs,” she told her son tightly, and Caesarion winced, already regretting his choice of words. “I have, however, been accused in the past of never telling anyone the whole story. I loved your father. Deeply. But by the end of his life, no longer passionately. What we had, became an enduring partnership. And I was loyal.” She sucked in a breath. “Ten years ago,” Cleopatra went on, dispassionately, “Antony made his advances in a moment of weakness. And in a moment of weakness, I was tempted by them. Sorely.” She regarded her son, her dark eyes bleak. “I don’t expect someone as young as you are to understand temptation, my son. For all the gifts the gods have given you? You’ve never had something in front of you that you wanted, that you could not have.”

  Caesarion lifted his head, stung. “I don’t think I’m quite that spoiled, Mother.”

  “Not spoiled. Inexperienced. Don’t worry. The gods may give to you, but humanity will do their best to take everything from you that you value.” Cleopatra’s lips curled down. “Ten years ago, I could have rejected him less stridently. Less publicly. Less injuriously to him. But I think I was so angry at myself for being tempted, that I took out that anger on him.” Her tone was reflective. Not really condemning, but . . . self-judging. “And I was still angry when I spoke to you last year. And guilty, too. Not because I had ever done more than be tempted, but because I had been tempted, and I allowed a man’s life and career to be injured rather than smoothing it over.” She sighed. “He’s forgiven me. I’ve forgiven him. And I do much enjoy his company.” A little shrug. “He’ll always be who he is, Caesarion. He’s not a smooth and polished product of the great families, like your father. To patricians, he’s coarse-mannered. Even crass. But I feel that I can trust him with my secrets. Even the ones I may never tell you, my own.”

  The enormity of that final statement hit Caesarion like a boulder falling from a mountainside. He simply stared at his mother for a long moment, not knowing what to make of it. “He . . . has seemed better, in the last year,” he finally managed. “Less apt to drink. Fitter. Healthier.” All the things I noticed before Mother started slipping out of the tent at night to visit Antony’s till dawn the next day.

  “He’s a man who loves war.” Her tone held an edge of fondness. “Much like your father in that respect. And between being useful again, and not having his third wife around anymore, I dare say he’s less apt to drown in melancholy these days.”

  It felt trite, but there was only one thing left to say. “Then I should wish you the best happiness in the world.”

  “You should. But happiness comes to those who seize it when they find it.” Cleopatra’s eyes shone for a moment, though her lips remained downturned. “As I think you, too, will discover in time. So. I would like my wedding to be performed next month. It will save on all the neighbors being scandalized by Antony’s late visits to this villa, and mine to his.” A wicked smile as Caesarion felt his own cheeks tighten with a flush of discomfort. “That does, however, leave you with several problems, when I leave this house for Antony’s permanently.”

  Caesarion hadn’t actually thought past the moment of the wedding. It had held a feeling of unreality until this instant. “Such as?”

  “As you have no wife, Eurydice will become the lady of the house,” Cleopatra prompted. “She’s an adult now, so that’s no barrier. She’s still undergoing her education, but she’ll be in charge of overseeing Selene’s lessons—and young Octavia’s, too, now that we’ve sorted out the mess of all Agrippa’s wards coming to live with the Julii.” Her smile suddenly had razor edges. “Just as you will be overseeing Tiberius and Drusus’ educations. I’ll turn over all the keys to the chests and coffers to Eurydice when I leave, and she’ll be in charge of directing the slaves. Setting the menu. Coordinating entertainment for any feasts that you hold—and you must entertain, my dear. It’s the glue that holds Roman society together.” She paused. “Almost every other patrician woman in Rome makes her family’s clothing. Eurydice’s weaving skills are, to put it kindly . . . atrocious. I’ve never put much emphasis on it in her education. You’ll have to make arrangements so that none of you wind up looking like beggars.”

  Dazed, Caesarion put up his hands, trying to stop the flow of words. “Between studying magic and speaking with the priests of Venus and Mars to see if there are signs of their blood in her, and, like Alexander, helping me wade through all the dispatches on a daily basis, she won’t have time to sit around weaving. Additionally, I’m starting her horseback lessons this afternoon.”

  He couldn’t fathom the smile that crossed his mother’s lips then. “Good. I can continue to assist with planning feasts and whatnot, though I’m quite certain that Antony will have me doing much the same for him. I am simply reminding you that you need to take an active hand in your household, yourself. Before the campaign season, I took care of the few social events that were required; since we were a household in mourning, there were fewer social obligations. This year, that will change.” Cleopatra fanned herself, and then stood, leaning over to give him a very light kiss on the forehead. “Don’t look that way,” she chided. “It’s not a death sentence.”

  Caesarion looked at his scrolls, and then back up at his mother. “I have never thought that these reports looked more fulfilling or pleasurable,” he informed her, reaching for the next and breaking its seal. “Do me a favor. If Lepidus is here yet, send him to me. I’d like his opinion on how many troops we can send to Syria. The governor’s reports about Parthian movements are getting shriller by the day.” Troop movements, I can handle. Grain shipments, I’m getting a grip on. Excuses for tax shortfalls . . . should be the responsibility of the Senate, except they’re all on my desk, too. Requests for judicial intervention . . . I think the Senate enjoys sending the pleas for clemency my way. All this, and the need to fix the gods-damned-calendar, and they want me to throw parties, too.

  His moth
er paused near the door back into the house. “There is an alternative to doing this all on your own, you know,” she called back sweetly.

  “I’m listening,” Caesarion returned warily.

  “Delegate. In the case of entertaining and household affairs, you could have Lepidus find you a wife. A sweet Roman one. A proven breeder in her mid-twenties with a son or two that you could adopt,” Cleopatra went on, her tones suddenly a parody of a Roman patrician’s stately, measured reason. “Someone who knows the boundaries of her status, and can weave fine cloth with which to adorn the bodies of her family, and who will run your household smoothly and stare at you admiringly when you return from your campaigns. A perfectly capable servant, in other words.” Cleopatra’s tone slid from parody into outright jibe. “And if she takes a lover, she’ll likely considerately ensure that it’s a eunuch slave from Syria or some such.”

  Caesarion stared at his mother for a long moment, his jaw working for a moment. “You’ve hated living in Rome, haven’t you? In spite of the fact that it’s your home now?”

  “It’s a place, my son. A place isn’t a home. The people with whom you share your life? They’re your home.” That, with a firm nod. “So, when I find Lepidus for you, should I tell him to bring in his wax tablet that has his list of suitable marriage prospects for you, as well as his lists of available troops?”

  Caesarion’s stomach turned over. “Proserpina’s eyes,” he muttered. “Please tell me you’re jesting. Please tell me there is no such list.”

  Cleopatra’s ice-edged smile vanished. “Oh, he has one. You should look at it if you wish a chuckle. He showed it to me yesterday. I bruised my ribs holding my laughter in where no one could hear it.”

  Caesarion closed his eyes. Troop movements, he thought, tiredly. That’s all I really want to talk about. Safety of the Empire’s borders. Getting the army out of the hands of any random patrician who wants to summon the levies. Establishing a more central governance, instead of the many-headed hydra that Rome remains. Is that so much to ask? “Anything else I should be aware of?” he asked tiredly.

  “You might ask Alexander where he and Tiberius are going at night,” Cleopatra informed him. “Your Praetorians have been keeping it quiet for the moment, but I’m reliably informed that six nights out of the last seven found those two young men in a wide variety of tavernas and brothels.” She tsked between her teeth. “Romans judge a man’s worthiness to command by the amount of control he’s able to exert over his own family. As you’re quite aware.”

  Caesarion’s eyes flew open, and he dropped his scroll as he stood, crossing the garden in three strides. He pulled open the door beside which his mother stood and bellowed, “Malleolus! Bring my brother to me! By the scruff of his neck, if necessary! And when I’m done speaking with him, I’ll be speaking with you.” If the Praetorians are ‘keeping it quiet,’ that means that they know, and haven’t told me. I should not have to rely on my mother for such details!

  Malleolus, being on guard duty in the room beyond, had appeared bored until the moment that the door crashed open. Now he saluted hastily, and, leaving a fellow guard on duty in the antechamber, didn’t quite run, but he did exhibit a remarkably fast walking pace as he strode from the room in search of Alexander.

  For his part, Alexander wasn’t sure which had been more terrifying: the rare occasions on which he’d been brought before his father, the general and statesman, to account for his small misdeeds as a child—which had all, somehow, been to the shame of the House of the Julii—or standing before his brother when Caesarion’s usually temperate humor turned to anger. He had been desperate not to disappoint his father; and now, he felt much the same way about Caesarion. “I can explain,” Alexander began on leaving the stuffy heat of the house for the less-oppressive shade of the garden.

  “Keep it behind your teeth, Alexander,” Caesarion snarled, leaning on his knuckles on the stone table where he’d been working all morning. “If you had explanations to give that were valid at all, you’d have given them to me before I had to hear about your escapades from a third party.”

  Alexander struggled to control his expression. “That’s . . . true,” he admitted. “But if you’d let me speak—my intention has not been to shame the family in any way!”

  Caesarion stared at him, a muscle in his jaw working. “So, you’ve just been a courteous host to the young man who just joined our household weeks ago, is what you’re saying?” he asked.

  Alexander felt himself flush a little, and hated himself for not being able to control the reaction. “Something of that, but that’s not—”

  “Perhaps you’d like to ask him which of our household slaves he’d like to warm his bed while you’re at it? After all, a courteous host ensures the comfort of his guests—”

  “Brother! Please listen!” Alexander realized he’d raised his voice the moment he heard his voice echo back off the walls, and closed his eyes in chagrin. One did not shout at the head of one’s family. Neither did one shout at the Imperator of Rome.

  He risked opening his eyes and found Caesarion looming directly in front of him. Just inches from his face. Alexander had hit his growth spurt in the last year, but knew he’d never be as tall as his brother. He’d managed to gain a whole inch over Eurydice’s height, but Eurydice was amazingly tall for a woman of Egypt or Rome. “I’m listening,” Caesarion said in a terribly quiet voice after the silence had stretched on too long. “Dazzle me with the reasons for your trips all across Rome to bawdy houses.”

  Alexander swallowed. “First,” he managed unsteadily, “Father took you to a brothel when you turned thirteen. He did the same for me.”

  Caesarion’s lips thinned. “Yes. An upscale, clean place. His exact words to me were that I needed to know where everyone’s bits went.” He paused. “I have no problem with your finding pleasure so every once in a while, Alexander.” His expression remained tight. “However, going out every night to carouse will deplete your funds rapidly, and I will not offer you any advances on your allowance from the estates or from your pay as a member of my staff. Further, your lack of restraint makes me look as if I cannot govern my family, and finally, the places that you’ve chosen to visit have been in areas where even a Praetorian escort might not be able to keep you safe—”

  Alexander glanced at Malleolus, who didn’t change expressions. He must have questioned some of the other guards. Mal and two others have followed us every night we’ve gone out. The young man held up his hands. “I wasn’t finished speaking, brother,” he told Caesarion, trying to keep his voice steady. “The first night Tiberius and I went out, yes, it was to celebrate the end of the campaign. And it was the same house that Father took me to about a year and a half ago. Ask the Praetorians.” Alexander swallowed again. Not having someone older present—and in the case of his father, so very much older—had removed quite a bit of the discomfort in the proceedings that he’d previously experienced. This time, he’d actually gotten to enjoy himself, for most of an evening. And Tiberius, a few months his junior, had been so hemmed in in Octavius’ house that he’d had his first experience with a woman this past week. First time with a woman. But that was a private confidence, so I have to speak carefully here. “Over our cups, Tiberius and I got to talking. He grew up in Hellas. He misses it most days. And he mentioned that Octavian, that great believer in the morals of the Republic, and who’d divorced his pregnant wife to marry Livia, the great love of his life . . . had found himself a special slave in the past two years of his life. A Hellene named Sarmentus, purchased from the estate of Favonius, after Favonius drank himself to death.” Alexander caught the shift in Caesarion’s expression. “You know what Sarmentus was to Favonius, then?”

  “His catamite, by all accounts,” Caesarion replied, stepping back and frowning slightly. Homosexuality wasn’t necessarily disapproved of by Romans. It was winked at between young men, thought of as part of the growing-up process, but once they married, they were expected to leave childish thing
s behind, for the good of their families.

  An adult male could also enjoy a younger man, according to the Hellene ideal of active lover and passive beloved. And of course, the actual physical details were important; a man was only a man if he was the active partner in bed. There were even separate words to describe different types of intercourse. Futuō meant fucking. Penetration, thrusting, the male portion of the act. Crīsō, as Alexander had found on a brothel sign earlier this week, meant the woman’s motion if she happened to be on top—grinding. Most Roman men found the notion of a woman on top to be suspiciously close to emasculating. Certainly, close to being conquered or ruled. And cēveō was a vulgarity reserved solely to describe similar motions made by the receiving partner in anal sex. There was a clear and definitive order of preference even to the words, delineating which activities were more or less socially acceptable. The most socially acceptable form of intercourse between two men involved no penetration, but instead grinding between one another’s thighs—again, a very Hellene thing. But it was still . . . not entirely acceptable in polite society.

  “Octavian insisted publicly that he’d purchased Sarmentus as an additional scribe for his growing body of Senatorial duties,” Caesarion said now, quietly. “This wasn’t the case?”

  Alexander shook his head. “Not according to Tiberius. He walked in on Octavian and Sarmentus at least once. It seems to have started after his mother’s miscarriage.” And then he told me that the slave was sent to him to give him his first hint of pleasure, but tainted. Held down and forced, to ensure that he wouldn’t talk about his step-father’s tastes in public. Because then, he was equally compromised. Blackmail, pure and simple. Or at least, that was as far as Alexander understood the matter, for the moment.