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

by Deborah Davitt

  She sat up on one elbow beside him, her eyes flickering over his face in distress. “You could give up being Emperor of Rome,” Eurydice pointed out softly. “It’s just an office. You could step down. And we could go to Egypt. And just . . . be together.” Flout prophecy. “Alexander made me see the issues of the pacts with the gods,” she added. “People of our family have maintained those for . . . thousands of years.” For a moment, wild hope spun in her heart like a bird spiraling on the wind. An hour ago I didn’t dare hope that it could be true. That there could be a future that included more than keeping his house and following the legions. And now all I hope is that we can just . . . have what we want.

  Caesarion had put a hand over his eyes, and now snorted, a bitter sound. “Do you really think that Rome would let us?” he asked, uncovering his eyes. “Let us split off the breadbasket from the Empire? And they wouldn’t try to conquer us again, with fire and iron?” He exhaled. “Would they really let people with the blood of the Julii and claims to our father’s offices just wander off, so that in a generation or two, our children can try to take it all back again? And even if they did let us go, what happens then?” He stared at the ceiling. “The Empire’s already divided with two rebel factions, neither of whom like me. They’re each sitting on a province of their own. They won’t work together in the long run, though. They’ll split off. The Parthians will invade Syria. Take it and Judea. And Rome will fall, and everything that it stands for, falls with it. And then Parthia will invade Egypt, and we’ll be standing on our own, with maybe parts of Carthage as allies.”

  Seeing it all so clearly laid out made her stomach churn, and she set her head on his chest, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her into his side. “So what do we do?” Eurydice asked, anguish bubbling up from under her breastbone. “Do I just stay at your side forever? Always loving, never touching?”

  “If we do that, then Egypt’s compact with the gods fails. The fields go dry. Egypt starves and Rome does, too.” Caesarion’s fingers found her hair. “The only way out is through. But I hate it. And I hate Rome for making me choose this way.” He rolled to his side, his red eyes almost black in the dim light of the lamp. “Marry me, beloved.”

  Her eyes went wide as he leaned down and kissed her again. Thoroughly. When he raised his lips, she whispered, “But we can’t—”

  “Just . . . say yes for now.” He fumbled on the bed, and found the leather pouch he’d tossed there a few minutes ago. And found the other item he’d purchased at the goldsmith’s—a golden betrothal ring. Not the traditional iron. He hadn’t known when he’d give it to her. But he’d wanted, desperately, to be able to do so. This kind of passion was unmanly, Romans thought. Giving another person so much power over one’s thoughts and emotions was the place of women and boys, not of an adult man. And yet, though he should be ashamed of his emotions, his needs, he was not.

  He caught her left hand, kissed the palm, and slid the ring onto the fourth finger, where it fit remarkably well. “It can’t be public. You can tell . . . hah. You can tell anyone who asks, that you’re betrothed to the Eagle of Rome till the wars are done.” He kissed her again, lightly.

  She laughed against his mouth. “It’s even the truth.”

  “I just . . . ” He sighed. “I’m tired of fielding requests that I look into your marriage prospects. And I want you to know how I feel. Every time you look down at your hands.”

  Eurydice stroked his face. “I don’t need a ring to know that. Not now.”

  He kissed her again. “Reminders . . . never . . . hurt. Gods.” Caesarion pulled away, and this time managed to get up from the bed, leaving her feeling cold and bereft, though he caught her hands and knelt beside the couch now. “I’m going to treat you like my betrothed ought to be treated,” he promised tightly. “With honor and love. Hold me to it, beloved.”

  Eurydice leaned down and kissed his forehead. “After working Mother’s love-spell for you every night for over a year,” she whispered, “this hardly feels real.”

  He turned his head just enough to meet her eyes. “What is the love-spell, anyway? Did you bewitch me against my will?” No accusation in his voice as he kissed her hand once more.

  Eurydice swallowed. “I’d have to show you what’s involved,” she told him, meeting his eyes. “And given that she says it’s far more effective when the man sees it, and hears his name whispered in his ears, and you just told me to hold you to your word . . . ” She closed her eyes, wanting to throw caution and decorum to the wind. “ . . . it might be best to wait.”

  “That’s my wise love.” One more urgent kiss, and then he stood, backing away from her, until their clasped hands had been reduced to the mere touch of fingertips. “Since we’ve agreed that you’re my wife in every way that matters but one,” he added, his voice dark, “take Mother’s old rooms. You need more space than this tiny cubiculum. And with a suite of your own, you can make one of the rooms your own study. With a desk, so you’re not forced to read on your bed.”

  Eurydice’s eyes went wide. “You’re sure? The servants will talk.”

  “There’s a connecting door between my rooms and those. Yes. I’m sure that when I want to talk to you or kiss you, that I don’t want to have to sneak down the hall in my own damned house.” He sighed. “At least for the next two weeks. And then it’s tents in the field.” Caesarion raised her fingertips, kissing them lightly. “Goodnight, Accipitra.”

  And then he was gone, leaving the room to feel small and empty. But if she had any thoughts that the last half hour had been a dream, all she had to do was look down at her hand to see a reminder that it had all been very real indeed. And now our feet are on the path, Eurydice thought, caught between joy and terror. A path that’s made me weep for us every time I’ve seen it.

  The Provinces and Tribes of Hispania

  Chapter XI: The Long March

  Martius 2, 17 AC

  Outside the city, off the sacred soil of Rome, the men of the legions began to gather. While Caesar had moved towards keeping a standing army at all times, some of the men did receive periods of leave during the winter months, and had to be called back to their cohorts. The rest, if not assigned to garrisons along the borders, had spent the winter training. Conducting drills. Keeping their sword, shield, and pila skills sharp—usually by using wicker swords and armor twice as heavy as what they’d carry in actual combat. Training new recruits—including throwing some of those new recruits bodily into chilly streams to ensure that every man knew how to swim. Officers practiced horsemanship.

  And the men, who’d been in various smaller garrisons for training, began to assemble in massive camps outside the city—far enough away that they could be legally issued their arms once more. It took time to muster a legion of six thousand men. It took logistics to feed them all. And it would take hundreds of ships to shuttle them across the Mediterranean. Even with stopovers on islands loyal to Caesarion, like Sardinia, where they’d take on fresh water and supplies, it was a massive undertaking.

  The local Iberian and Basque tribes of eastern Hispania had no love for their Roman overlords. And the Celtiberians of the northern mountains, who didn’t even share a common language with their Iberian neighbors who dwelled near the sea, remained unyoked. And the legions loyal to the Tillius family had discovered, to their cost, that rebelling and taking refuge in only partially pacified lands with a sullen, rebellious populace was not always the course of wisdom. Claiming to the locals that the new Imperator in far-off Rome was their true enemy, and that they, the local lords who had been milking the populace for coin, goods, and slaves, were in the right? Had somehow not garnered as much support as the Tillii family had thought. Hence why they and their forces had been driven out of Carthago Nova in the south, and had retreated north past Valentia, all the way to Emporion, where they’d found more sympathetic allies for the time being.

  Which was why Caesarion had sent the Fourth Legion to Valentia last year, where they’d retaken the
city from the local rebels, and were holding that port firmly in Rome’s fist. A precarious toehold on lands that had already been partially conquered decades ago, and which had been farmed for taxes by rapacious governors in years past. We’ll re-secure the west once we kick the Tillii in the teeth, Caesarion had assessed, trying not to enjoy the trouble that the locals had given his enemies too much.

  The ambassadors from the land of the Seres rode into Rome—unarmed, at the insistence of their guides, including Alexander—and appeared struck by the enormous size of the city, and the white marble buildings. They murmured to each other in their own language, but Alexander couldn’t read their expressions or their eyes.

  Reaching the Julii villa, Alexander slid down from his saddle, and servants appeared immediately to catch his reins, and those of his companions. Yes, much better not to have brought them here on Matronalia, if our goal is to impress them, Alexander thought dryly.

  A quick conference between the visitors and translator with them. A Parthian who spoke both the language of Seres and Hellene, and of course, every educated Roman spoke Hellene. “What are they asking?” Alexander inquired in that language.

  The Parthian rubbed his thin moustache. “Ah, my lord,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “They ask how this can be the palace of the man who rules over so much land. Everything from where we took ship in Lydia to here, and beyond.” He gestured at the marble-faced villa, which, with its arches and pillars had an impressive entrance facing the street, and had a pool with a fountain and statues of Venus and Mars set in the square in front of it. He paused, conferring again, and added, nervously, “The palace of their king is a quarter of a mile in length, they say, though not nearly so wide.”

  Ostentatious, Alexander thought, but did not say. He assembled his thoughts, and then, in perfect Hellene, he explained, “Long ago, Rome had kings. For centuries, however, we have been a Republic, in which different men of many different families have been selected to rule for a few years, and then retire.” He waited for that translation to pass through Persian and into Seres, and then a question came back the other direction.

  “They say that their emperor is the divine connection to their gods. Their highest priest. How can a man, selected by other men, be the voice of the gods?”

  “That is a really excellent question,” Alexander muttered in Latin, and then switched back to Hellene. “Most of our priests also serve by election, and can be dismissed from their posts. However, my brother is born of the gods. He is the high priest of Mars, our war-god, and technically our Pontifex Maximus, high priest of all the gods, as well. And our father, who was elected to the position of leader for life, passed down his offices to my brother.”

  This explanation seemed to cause some initial confusion, which finally passed. And the Parthian, in a polite sort of way, added, “Ah. And were no titles and honors passed down to you?”

  Do you ask that for yourself, Persian, or do you ask that for them? Alexander wondered, and put on a smile. “None,” he replied, not smiling. “I will earn my own titles. And my own name.”

  At which point, the doors opened, and the servants ushered them inside. Again, a swirl of questions in Hellene, “Why do you have so few servants? Our Emperor has hundreds of slaves to attend him!”

  Alexander cleared his throat, and was grateful indeed that on entering the atrium, the questions faltered. The fountains were in good order today, and Caesarion had chosen to greet the deputation out here, sitting in a simple, backless chair, but in his most formal tunic and toga—a white tunic with an entirely purple-dyed toga atop it, with embroidery in gold along the hem. No crown; not that he needed one. His red eyes conveyed all the power that lesser men attempted to substitute with gold.

  In a chair to his left, Eurydice sat, in a stola and tunic of pure white silk, cross-tied with red ribbons. A new necklace gleamed at her throat—Alexander had never seen it before. And, quite likely at Caesarion’s direction, her eyes gleamed hawk-gold at the moment. Stage-dressing, Caesarion? Alexander thought with affection. Showing these ambassadors a little of our strength beyond the armies massing outside the city?

  Off to the side, Selene played a lyre softly, her eyes wide and curious as she peered at the people of the Seres. And no wonder—their eyes were dark, and heavy-lidded, their skin more golden than olive, and their clothing—while made of good, solid wool—held odd shapes for those accustomed to the draping folds of a tunic or stola. Long sleeves encased their arms, and they wore trews under their long tunics, as well as oddly-shaped boots and hats in bright colors.

  Neither Caesarion or Eurydice rose at the entrance of the ambassadors, but Caesarion raised a hand in welcome. And in perfectly fluent Hellene, he told the translator directly, “Please convey my greetings to the ambassadors who come from the land of silk. Subject to approval by the Senate and the people of Rome, I would be quite interested in further trade with their nation.”

  Direct trade, Alexander thought. Somehow. Instead of the flow of silk and other goods being strangled deep inside Persian-Parthian territory. Our ships can reach India, but Seres . . . not yet.

  The Parthian looked uncomfortable at those words, but rallied, and translated the return greeting, “These people call themselves the Han,” he replied carefully. “And the name of their empire is Qin, and they call your lands here Da Qin. They greet you and your wife and queen, whose beauty quite outshines the sun, and . . . a variety of other poetic compliments that I can translate if you wish—on behalf of Emperor Cheng of the Han, Lord of all Qin.”

  Alexander opened his mouth to correct the translator as to Eurydice’s status, but Caesarion beat him to it. “My beloved and I return the greetings of Emperor Cheng, and in the interest of friendly exchange, I would like to know more about your august ruler.”

  Alexander held his face completely still. Caesarion hadn’t even blinked over the word beloved. The Parthian turned and relayed the words, and then translated, “Their Emperor was, when they left, in the middle of battles that they feel he must surely have won. He alone has the right to appoint all officials who make more than six hundred dan a year—” A series of quick looks around the atrium as even the Parthian clearly had no idea what that meant in western coinage. “He is the ultimate judge, providing justice on the highest cases in the land. And he is the highest priest in their Empire, and the direct intermediary to the gods. As such, he must live a life of perfect morality, governed at all times by what his wise men see in the paths of the stars in the heavens. To ensure that the world stays in balance, he must only sleep with his Empress, wives, and his hundreds of concubines when the court astrologers say that the time is propitious for the birth of children—”

  Selene’s fingers fumbled on the strings. Eurydice’s golden eyes blinked, and she tilted her head like a bird’s. Caesarion’s eyebrows rose. Alexander coughed into his hand. “Hundreds?” he repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Are they perhaps exaggerating for effect?”

  The Parthian inquired politely. “I misunderstood,” he confessed. “They said thousands, not hundreds. I beg your pardon for my grievous error.” He paused. “They ask where all of your concubines are kept, Emperor of Rome. They say that surely the hundreds—thousands—of women that the man who rules such a great land may keep in comfort, so that they might bear him sons, cannot be kept in such a . . . comparatively modest domicile.”

  The smirk that crossed the Parthian’s face made Alexander want to punch the man in the teeth, but that wouldn’t have been diplomatic at all. Caesarion stared directly at the translator, for so long that the man began to fidget. “Tell them that we of Rome take but one wife at a time. And that my beloved will give me all the sons that I need.”

  Selene stopped playing for a moment—and as if to cover the awkward pause, Eurydice raised her left hand, and a hawk arrowed down from the sky to land on her fingers as lightly as a butterfly. Another stir from the delegates, and the Parthian translated, “Ah, your people, like the hordes to our west, have ta
med birds for hunting. How interesting! Though the ambassadors say they have never seen someone risk it without gloves before.”

  The hawk turned its head towards the ambassadors, and only then did Eurydice do the same. “The bird is not tame,” Eurydice corrected gently. “It is wild, and it is free to leave whenever it wishes. I merely borrow its eyes from time to time.” She paused. “Please ask the ambassadors why they have come so far to the west to offer their greetings. Do they wish to exchange knowledge? Are they merely explorers? Or is trade their goal?”

  The bird lifted off once more, and Alexander caught a flash of gold on her finger. A betrothal ring, he realized with a bit of shock. And then Caesarion reached over and caught her right hand in his, lightly, and without looking at her. No change in expression. More stage-dressing? To what end?

  A hurried conference, and the translator replied, sounding bewildered, “Their legends state that immortality may be sought in the lands of the Queen Mother of the West. They say that while ascetics in their lands search for immortality in elixirs and sexual rituals, they have preferred to try to find the Mother Goddess of the West, and to beg of her the secret of everlasting life.” His eyebrows worked. “They ask if you know where her lands might be.”

  Now Caesarion did lean towards Eurydice and murmured for a moment. Then he straightened and replied, firmly, “We have never heard this legend. To the west of our lands, there is a great ocean. There may be lands beyond it, but no ships we have ever built have been able to cross it. Great explorers have traveled so far north that they have reached lands where the sun never sets, but never have we heard this legend. Please give them my regrets . . . and reiterate my interest in trade.”