“I couldn’t exactly run out behind you and her,” Tiberius replied tightly. “The whole thing smacked of farce enough already without making it look like something out of Plautus.” He grimaced. “I assume I need to start packing my belongings, and that I’m to leave this house?”
“Yes, but not for the reason you think,” Alexander said, crossing to sit beside his friend on the bed and giving him a friendly nudge with an elbow to get him to move over. “Caesarion’s sending us both to Athens. Information gathering.”
Tiberius’ head came up, and his gray eyes thawed a little with tentative relief. “Really?”
“Not alone. Some Praetorians with us as bodyguards. And, knowing how Caesarion thinks, they’ll actually be information-gatherers, too.” He smiled faintly. “Both to keep an eye on how discreet we are, and to see how good I actually am at getting information out of people. And when we get back? Seventh Legion. Both of us, so not posted separately. And not right under my brother’s nose, either.”
A flicker of deep concern across Tiberius’ face. “Discreet—she did tell him then. Damn her—”
Alexander held up a hand. “No. No, she didn’t. Ti, he already knew.”
His friend’s head jerked back as if punched. “Oh, shit.”
Alexander shook his head, still a little dazed himself. “No, it’s all right. He . . . he doesn’t seem to care.” Relief coursed through him then, easing the tightness in his chest. “I thought he would. But he just told Eurydice we were practicing wrestling—”
“She can’t possibly believe that—”
“She doesn’t. But it’s a polite lie we can all attempt to say with a straight face.” Alexander’s heart wrenched now. “And I need to talk with her. But I doubt she’ll say anything to anyone.”
Tiberius caught his shoulder in a tight grip. “If she does, we’ll be the laughingstocks of Rome. Perhaps not infames, but a blight on both our careers—”
Alexander turned, catching his hand. “You and your brother Drusus are close, right? You grew up together. You and him against the world, right?”
Tiberius nodded. Alexander swallowed. “That’s Eurydice and me, at least until the moment Caesarion asked me to come north into Germania with him. A year earlier than I could have joined the legions anyway. And I jumped at the chance. But before that? I grew up knowing, because Mother told me this early, that I could be asked to go to Egypt and rule there for Caesarion. And that I might have to marry one of my sisters to do that.” He tightened his fingers at Tiberius’ grimace. “Don’t be so Roman. What we do is more accepted in Hellas and in Egypt than here, isn’t it? Brothers and sisters of the royal house marrying? Also accepted in Egypt. I’m sure Caesarion was told the same thing at some point, but he’s embraced his Roman heritage so thoroughly, that I expect he forgot it. He’s had to, after all.” He smiled faintly. “I’ve always looked at her in a special way because of it, though. Selene, not so much, since she’s so young. But Eurydice and I used to tell each other all our secrets. We even shared a cot in the nursery till I was six, and was deemed too old for that. But we haven’t talked—really talked . . . not since Germania. All that teasing at the play and at dinner to make her blush doesn’t count.” Not since Germania. And not since Octavian’s men murdered me, and Caesarion brought me back from the dead. She sobbed when she saw the blood all over me that day. Tried to embrace me. And I pushed her away. He grimaced. “I’ve been too busy trying to be a grown man, I suppose.”
A flicker of concern crossed Tiberius’ face. “She’s not jealous, is she?”
Alexander shook his head. He’s misread the expressions on her face at dinner as she watches Caesarion talking to everyone. Missed the hurt in her eyes every time Caesarion treats her like a stranger. Gods, let everyone else in Rome be just as blind. She looks at Caesarion like a new-wed wife stares at her husband. “No, Ti. I think her heart was given to someone else long ago.” A little quirk of his eyebrows. “But I suspect her feelings are a bit injured at the moment, yes.” He sighed. “I thought I might talk to her after dinner. People think better once they’ve put food on their stomachs, I find.”
Tiberius shook his head. “No,” he told Alexander. “Go now. Be direct about it, and don’t let the wound fester.” He grimaced. “I’m not sure I can eat at the couch across from her and Caesarion tonight as is. I have no idea how I’m going to meet their eyes.”
Alexander leaned over and gave his friend a kiss. And then told him, bluntly, “The same way I did just ten minutes ago. It wasn’t pleasant, but I didn’t get raked over the coals, either.”
“You’re their brother. You’re family. I’m not.”
“Caesarion doesn’t care. And at a guess, Eurydice’s probably more embarrassed than anything else. For god’s sake, she blushes at love poetry, Ti.” Another kiss, and then Alexander, realizing that they’d both started to breathe a little more heavily, pulled away. “Probably should give this a rest till we’re safely in Athens, though.”
Tiberius nodded, looking grim. “Yes. Though, for the record? When she walked in, I was so damned close—”
“You and me both.” Alexander grimaced. “I’ll see her after dinner. And dinner won’t be uncomfortable. I’ll see to that.”
It was, and it wasn’t. Eurydice pleaded a headache, and remained upstairs. Selene, Octavia, and Drusus added to the dinner conversation, each of them trying desperately to emulate adult manners. Caesarion, alone on his couch, ate almost nothing, and made little in the way of conversation. Perhaps I should have approached her before dinner after all, Alexander thought grimly, bowing over Octavia’s hand and complimenting his betrothed’s appearance politely before wishing her a good evening after the meal dragged interminably to its conclusion. And then headed straight upstairs and pointedly knocked on Eurydice’s door. Loudly.
“Go away,” Eurydice’s voice came back through the door’s wood. “I’m busy, and I’ll eat when I’m hungry, Nesa.”
Our one-time wet-nurse has been nagging her already. “It’s me,” he said, just loudly enough to be heard on the other side. “May I come in? I need to talk to you, Eury.” The old pet name, unused for years in the rush to adulthood, fell from his lips without thinking. Damn. Here’s hoping she doesn’t find that blatantly manipulative.
A long pause, and then the lock rattled and the door clicked and swung open. Unnervingly, she didn’t stand behind the open door; rather, his sister huddled on her sleeping couch, several blankets wrapped around her against the chill, and a stack of wax tablets sat at the foot of the bed, while her hands held one of their mates, and a stylus. And while her head turned slightly towards him, Alexander knew she couldn’t see him. Her eyes were golden and unfocused. “Close the door,” Eurydice told him. “You’re letting all the cold air in.”
He complied, looking around in confusion. “No brazier? Selene said you’d told her and Octavia to share a bed till the snow melts, to keep warm.” I’d been planning to do something similar myself, till this afternoon, anyway.
“Didn’t think I’d need one. I was keeping the cold away until I started borrowing the birds’ eyes.” Her voice remained distant. “Turns out, it’s very hard doing two things at once.” She blinked, and her eyes went dark again as she lowered her head to scratch on the tablet’s surface.
He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, and felt her edge very slightly away from him. Which hurt. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Tiberius that they’d shared a nursery cot for the first years of their lives. “Sister—”
“I found out why the door unlocked under my fingers,” she interrupted, not looking up from the tablet. “The lares did it.”
His eyebrows rose. A year ago, he’d have put that down with nursery excuses. However, since she and Caesarion both claimed to see them . . . . “They’re really real?” he asked, very quietly. “And you can talk to them?”
“Yes. They consider me the lady of the house. I make sure all the little sacrifices don’t get forgotten. T
hey like me for that.” Her tone held a forlorn note. “So one of them noticed that the door was locked, and in her opinion, no door in the house should be barred to the master and mistress, so she unlocked it for me.” Scratch, scratch as the stylus carved words in the wax. “I asked her to respect your privacy. It took a little effort to explain what privacy was, but I think they’ve got it now.”
Alexander swallowed, not knowing what to say to that. After a moment, he asked, “And penates?”
“I haven’t seen Father’s ghost. Caesarion asked that, too.” Scritch, scratch.
“It’s a valid concern. I really don’t want him haunting me out of disappointment.” Alexander reached out and plucked the stylus from her fingers. “Eury, can’t you even look at me?” The hurt in his voice was real, welling up from his chest.
Her head turned, and he could see tears in her eyes as they went dark once more. “What do you want me to say?” Eurydice asked. “That I’m sorry? I’ve already apologized.” She gestured down at the tablets on the bed. “And I’m doing what you asked me to do. You’ll have a full report in the morning on what people do when it snows in Rome. The answer is ‘more than you might think,’ but it mostly seems to involve getting very drunk and trying to stay warm.”
He’d have laughed, if she’d only put a smile with those words. Instead, they sounded empty. “Eury, I’m the one who’s sorry. I would never have let you see that—”
She turned her face away. “It was my fault. I should have knocked and waited. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
“I would, but you’re angry with me. I can see it in your eyes. So I’m not leaving till we’ve made peace. Long sea voyage ahead, after all.” He stretched his shoulders.
“Does Octavia know?” she asked simply, after a moment.
Alexander blinked, horrified. “Of course not! She’s eleven. And even if she were older, it wouldn’t be her business what I did before we were married. Or even, under Roman law, while we’re married.” He grimaced. “Marriage isn’t about love, Eurydice. Tiberius said that to Caesarion months ago, remember? Marriage is about children and family. Not love.” He shrugged, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. “Eventually, she and I will have children, and the family goes on. In the meantime, I’m not begetting bastards all over the place, like some young nobles I could name.” He shrugged again. “We’re having fun until we have to get married. He and I are not about love.” I might be laying it on a little thick.
Her eyes met his then. “So, marriage isn’t about love. Having fun isn’t about love. What a loveless life you’ve outlined for yourself—”
“Not at all,” Alexander returned mildly. “I love Caesarion. And I love you. You’re my family.”
That rattled her for a moment. “And having fun is perfectly fine so long as you’re not having children,” Eurydice summarized slowly. “And only till you get married—except Tiberius won’t be able to get married until long after you and Octavia are.” She bit her lower lip. “So I’d expect fun to go on after your marriage then. Because it wouldn’t be fair for him not to . . . have fun . . . when you’re otherwise engaged?”
Alexander went still. “I haven’t actually thought about it in any long-term way,” he told her. “We’re having fun now. What does it matter what we’re doing in five or ten years? And again, even then, under Roman law, it’s not adultery. And we still wouldn’t be spreading bastards around—”
Eurydice shook her head. “So by that reasoning, if your wife did with another woman what you were doing with Tiberius—” A pause and a frown, “if that’s even possible—”
Alexander fought the desire to laugh, and lost. “Oh, it’s possible. It’s actually quite pretty to watch, I find.”
Her faced crinkled into incomprehension like crumpled parchment, which just made him laugh harder. And then her irritation burned through the confusion, and she snapped, “So if Octavia were to do that with a woman after you were married, you wouldn’t have a problem with it at all? Seeing as there would be no chance of children?”
Alexander considered that for a moment. “I don’t know. Do I get to watch?”
She choked, and then tried to shove him off the edge of her bed. Without magic, she didn’t have a chance of doing it; he outweighed her by nearly forty librae at this point. Chuckling, Alexander caught her hands and stilled them in his, feeling the resistance in her arms. “I don’t actually know. Honestly. I think I might be irked if it was done behind my back, yes.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine, though. She’s nice enough. I’ll probably enjoy being married to her. Assuming she puts more than feathers between her ears in the next few years, anyway.”
She shook her head. “And if she finds out after you’re married,” Eurydice told him, “I suspect that you’ll deeply regret being dishonest with her.”
“Then she won’t find out.” Alexander shrugged. “You’re not planning on telling her, are you?”
Eurydice managed to pull her hands away from him to make an exasperated gesture. “No! Nor will I tell Drusus or anyone else. I would never betray you or Caesarion.” Hurt in her eyes now, and he had the next piece of his puzzle. She put me on a pedestal, he realized numbly. Perhaps not as high a one as Caesarion’s, but still . . . I’ve fallen off it.
“I’m still me, Eurydice,” he told her, desperately hoping she’d understand what he meant. “I’m still Alexander. Your brother. And you’re still my sister, and I still love you. A little different now, yes, but I’m still me.”
Eurydice’s eyes flickered up, and she set the tablet aside with a sigh to hunch under her blankets. She looked surprisingly old as she did so. “And the river looks like the same river, but different water flows through it, and it’s not the same at all,” she told him, looking back down at the weave of the blankets. “It’s my fault. I’ve made the mistake of seeing you for the past year as the boy I grew up with. And he’s gone, leaving just the man. And I don’t know you.”
Alexander swallowed. Hard. And reached out and took her hand. No resistance from her this time as she went on, doggedly, “To be honest? I don’t know who or what I am. God-born of Isis or sorceress or witch or whatever word they want to hang on me today.” Her voice was wretched now. “It probably shouldn’t surprise me that I don’t know who or what anyone else is, either. I’m so sorry. I’ll try to know the man, and not the boy.”
Alexander pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m still me. Mostly.” He sighed. “I should probably apologize for . . . more or less ignoring you since Caesarion and I got back from Germania.” A thread of guilt at that. “But as soon as you put on the toga, you’re a man, and you’re expected to go about men’s business,” he added. “You’re supposed to put away your childhood.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have put you aside with it.” A swallow. “And of course, there was the whole dying thing.”
She stirred in protest. “You don’t have to talk about that—”
“I owe you that much. I came home covered in blood from the Forum, and you screamed when you saw me, and I pushed you away.” Alexander stared at the wall now himself. “Dying hurt, Eury. The knives cut deep, and I could feel my heart starting to tear inside of me—”
“Don’t—”
“Listen, because I’m only going to be able to say this once. I don’t like remembering it.” He kissed the top of her head, and went on with grim determination. “I remember Caesarion hauling me to the Forum. Telling me to hold on.” He looked down at her now. “And then I don’t remember a damned thing until I woke up, healed. I don’t remember dying, besides feeling like I was going to sleep. I remember the fear. I remember holding on to the scraps of my consciousness. But I don’t remember a damned thing that happened in between.” He paused. “For all I know, there’s nothing after death, Eury. Oh, there are gods. That’s a given. Caesarion couldn’t have pulled me back without the gods’ power in him. But as far as I know, we have exactly one life. And since coming back to it? I’ve been determined to make mine matter.” He exh
aled. “And yes, I’ve been quite a bit more interested in what makes life enjoyable since then, too. Maybe Caesarion didn’t quite get all my pieces back in the same order, or maybe it’s just . . . that a life without pleasure in it, only duty, seems like such a waste of time.”
“How Epicurean of you,” she murmured. “Don’t tell Caesarion. He’s such a Stoic.”
“I think he’s already gotten the impression,” Alexander replied. “So . . . yes. The boy that was Alexander did die that day. But I’m here, and as far as I can tell, I’m still me. Mostly. Biggest difference, really, is that I’d do absolutely anything for Caesarion now. Someone has to save him from his own sense of duty and honor.” He snorted. “He still loves Rome and its people. I don’t. They killed me. And there are days that I hate them for it. But I won’t let them kill him, too.” A pause, and then he added, ruefully, “Come to think of it, I love in Tiberius exactly what I love in Caesarion. All that duty and honor, and all those other principles that I probably lack in myself.”
Eurydice’s head came up. “I thought you said that you and Tiberius weren’t about love. Just fun.”
Alexander rapidly re-evaluated his last words, and swore. “You would make an unwholesomely good magistrate.”
Eurydice raised her head, her lips curled down. “So?”
“No. I’m not in love. I don’t have time to be in love. I’ve got work to do.” Alexander ran a hand over his hair distractedly. “There are qualities that they both share, and I love in both of them. That’s all.” He gave her a quick, embarrassed smile. “And, of course, the aforementioned fun.”
Her downturned lips quirked up a little. “Alexander, I don’t know much at all about fun. But that certainly sounds like love to me.”
He leaned over. “Does it?” Should I pull on this dangling rope and see what it does? “How do you know, sister? What name do you whisper with Mother’s love-spell at night?”
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