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

by Deborah Davitt

  Wake up, Venus whispered. Awaken, daughter of mine, and of Isis and Horus.

  Eurydice snapped upright on the bed, jerking the blankets up to her neck—and then turned and stared at their visitors, before scrambling out of the bed with undignified haste to kneel on the floor before the gods, her breath coming in rapid pants.

  “Horus?” Caesarion managed to ask.

  Venus waved a dismissive hand. Isis can hardly join her essence with Osiris anymore, now can she? she murmured. He has been dead—truly dead, and beyond recovery, for over a thousand years. So she turns to her son, distilled from what little remained of Osiris, and they comfort each other, in part. It hardly signifies. Are not Mars and I brother and sister, as well? Humans make so much of their rules. And perhaps rightly, for their life-essences are so easily distorted. But that does not pertain to gods. Or to our children.

  Caesarion tried not to swallow his tongue. “All our books say that Mars is the son of Juno. And that Venus was born from the seed of Uranus, spread upon the waves of the sea.” Except there are also legends that say that Mars, like all the other Olympians, was born of Saturn, and swallowed by him, to be released by Jupiter from his father’s belly when Jupiter slew Saturn. And there are legends that say that Jupiter did not dare sire children on his sister-wife Juno, for fear that he would have a son that would overcome him, just as he overcome Saturn, and Saturn overthrew Uranus. And though Vulcan is Juno’s son, no legend names his father . . . . He was suddenly acutely aware of the gaps in stories he’d taken for granted all his life. He’d applied a critical eye to Egyptian legends many times, but the lapses and lacunae in the stories of his father’s gods? He’d glossed over them in his own mind.

  Mars snorted outright. All the different tales, distorted by this poet or that priest, he replied with a certain grim humor. No. You call me Mars Pater, because while Jupiter and Juno and Pluto and the rest all came with us to this world, from our own—what many mortals call the Veil—Venus and I were the first to find your people. To be warmed by your love, and give our love to you in turn. Jupiter only became our king when we made our . . . alliance . . . with the Hellene gods. His lips curled down in what could only be annoyance.

  I am still not entirely sure that this was a good bargain, Venus murmured. Juno is a cold queen. She tends to the mothers, brides, and wives, but has no children of her own, save Vulcan. Whom she clawed out of her own essence to diminish her loneliness. And to whom Jupiter decided I must be given, in emulation of the Olympians. Sorrow in her voice, plangent and true, and she looked up at her erstwhile lover with longing in her eyes.

  The alliance with Olympus has allowed us to grow strong. Mars’ voice was curt. Our people’s consuls have stepped down from power willingly for generations. Could we do less? Our personal desires do not matter, for the moment. No matter how much I detest Ares. He waved a dismissive hand, looking back at the two mortals. But such matters do not concern you. And attempting to reform the beliefs of your people will only cause confusion and pain to them. Let them come to understanding gradually. They will. In time.

  Confusion was, in fact, the uppermost feeling in Caesarion’s heart. So many questions swirled through him in that moment, he nearly choked. Came to this world from their own—but didn’t the gods make this world? Mars and Venus were the mother and father of our people, but they’ve . . . abdicated that position. For now. Forever, perhaps. How can parents stop being parents to their children, however?

  We can’t, Venus murmured in response to that silent question. We will always be dearer to the hearts of Rome than Jupiter. Which makes our lord jealous and suspicious. Giving our power to the two of you was, however, a necessary risk.

  Mars frowned at them now, his lover leaning her head against his armored chest as if he were a shady arbor. Do you understand your purpose now? Do you understand why we made you what you are? And are you prepared to do your duty?

  Caesarion’s mind cleared rapidly. “We’re supposed to unify Egypt and Rome,” he replied immediately. “Give the Egyptian gods their required rituals, so that Egypt remains strong and fertile. And while it remains so, no famine or starvation for Rome.”

  It hardly seems like a sacrifice, Venus murmured. Giving in to your heart’s desire. But you know that the path ahead of you will be a hard one. Filled with divisions and sorrows. But also joy. Never forget that.

  Mars looked at Caesarion grimly. There’s more, he stated bluntly. Would you like to see what Rome’s future would have been, had your father died sixteen years ago? Or if you’d allowed Octavian to live?

  A bare nod, and then visions flooded across their minds. All the laws Octavian would have passed, had he become Emperor—turning the state into a god. Legislating morality—his morality, not the actual traditions of the Republic. Eventually being declared a god himself. With no issue, and an ambitious extended family—not to mention, other ambitious families in Rome—the next hundred years were a bloodbath. Poisonings, stabbings, mysterious boating accidents, and Tiberius—reserved but decent Tiberius!—becoming a tyrant who ordered the execution of hundreds in treason trials, and even ordered the murder of his own brother’s son—before being smothered in his bed by his own guards. More murders, more conniving, and his sons were displaced by other faces. Crazy, inept, horrific rulers. Kicking a pregnant wife down the stairs. Making a horse into a Senator. Burning down Rome to make room for a new and better pleasure palace.

  And while five generations of men and women, warped by the touch of Octavian and Livia, suckled blood from the heart of Rome, the legions marched on, conquering the world. Were defeated in Germania, and then took the region back. Conquered most of Britannia, besides the damnable Caledoni and their ilk. A few hundred years of uneven, chaotic rule, veering between good men, proven leaders, and spoiled, insane children.

  And then hordes of Goths came from the north, reaving through Germania and Gaul, and sacked Rome. The light of the western world flickered. And Rome—any Rome that was recognizable as Rome, anyway—died. The gods of the north had their revenge at last.

  Caesarion covered his eyes, trying not to see it. Trying not to see the selfishness and avarice and naked ambition that caused hundreds of years of misery. And cleared his throat. “So our job,” he said, his voice uneven, “is not to allow that to come to pass.” He raised his head. “A stable dynasty. One not founded on selfishness and greed and a desire to force everyone into the same mold.” He paused. “Part of the strength of Rome has always been our discipline. Our uniformity. Our ability to put the self aside, and follow a damned command—”

  “But,” Eurydice whispered, her voice breaking, “we can’t make everyone in the world into a copy of us. We can’t force our beliefs on others.”

  Caesarion’s throat tightened. Then how in the name of all the gods am I going to get Rome to accept our marriage as valid? He wanted to shout it to the ceiling.

  Mars lifted a finger. You already know how, Caesarion. You are their father now. If a young one. Your laws are your laws. They must abide by them. He paused. But rather than being a tyrant, and whipping your sons and daughters for disobedience, you may find that a battle between equals holds more savor. Let the Senate object. Let them fight you. Convince them over time. It’s a harder road. But you’ll win in the end.

  Except that in achieving that victory, I’ll be separated from the woman I love for most of our lives, Caesarion thought.

  “Will I really die alone?” Eurydice whispered, and he closed his eyes in torment at the words.

  Venus’ voice held sympathy. Everyone does, my daughter. Even gods. But if you’re diligent and intelligent enough . . . you may find a window, even when the door is barred.

  Caesarion found that statement singularly unhelpful. He reached down and caught Eurydice’s shaking hands in his, pulling her to her feet. Wiped the tears of pain and fear from her face. And wrapped the blanket around her to give her a modicum of dignity. “We’ll do our duty,” Caesarion told the gods, his voice le
aden. “We never had a choice in it, after all.”

  Of course you did, Mars told him. But for you not to choose as you have, would mean that you aren’t who you are.

  Venus’ smile warmed him against his will. It’s not all bad, she promised. And I foresee that the end may not be as bad as you think. She paused. But we are here for a happier duty. Call for your brother and his brother. Call for the son of Cicero, his wife, and the son of Antony, and any five others that you choose. They must bear witness.

  Swallowing, Caesarion obeyed, sticking his head out into the main office, and finding a startled junior officer there, straightening the maps. A few quick orders, and the young man left at a run. Turning back, Caesarion was startled to see Venus move forward, touching Eurydice’s face. And the blanket shrouding his sister’s form turned to pure, flame-red silk, a wedding stola embroidered heavily in gold. Her hair lifted up, to be caught in an Egyptian diadem, and kohl wreathed her eyes. And looking down at himself, Caesarion realized that he’d suddenly been swathed in the heavy purple folds of his most formal toga. Outside the confines of Rome, and in a military camp, I wear the garment that’s reserved for times of peace?

  Would you really marry under arms? Venus chided him, and lightly propelled them both out into the office, where their friends and family stood.

  Marry? Caesarion thought, a little stunned, but glad. He managed to exchange one quick, harried glance with Eurydice. I thought we had time before the whole world knew of this, and came crashing down around our ears.

  The sound of feet in the hall, and then the door to the office opened. “What’s so important that wounded, like Cicero, and those of us who had the mid-watch had to be rousted out of bed?” Alexander started to ask, with the familiarity of a brother—and then his words died in his mouth, on seeing how they were dressed. And on seeing who stood behind them.

  Tiberius, beside him, dropped to one knee, bringing his fist to his heart instantly, his gray eyes alight with devotion as he took in the face of Mars. Alexander wasn’t more than a second behind him. Cicero tried to kneel, but his leg wound troubled him so much that Antyllus moved up to help him, while Cicero’s wife, Fabia, looked close to fainting. And Malleolus—good-hearted, stern-faced Malleolus, still wearing the red scars left on his face from the wolf-teeth of the Briton woman—lowered himself to his knees, and did not look up at all.

  Good. You recognize us. Mars’ voice held what Caesarion had started to suspect was a habitual note of grim humor. That saves on time and formalities. He walked around the room, and Caesarion pitied, from his heart, the very young officers who’d been pulled into this tableaux—until he realized that at least three of these junior officers were older than he was, himself.

  Rome asks a stern price of her people, Venus said simply. She demands that men put aside their personal interests, and come to serve in the army. She demands that men put aside personal interest, and serve in public office.

  Of course, many don’t put aside their personal interests. Since the time of Marius, men have come to serve in the legions in the expectation of plunder. There is no shame in seeking to raise yourself and your condition in life, Mars added. There is no shame in expecting service to be rewarded. But more and more, I see greed in the hearts of those who enter the military to assure their later political careers. And use the political wars to fill their own coffers.

  Caesarion could see the others’ eyes flicking back and forth, as if trying to determine if these words happened to apply to them, personally. It didn’t, he knew. Cicero Minor was career military, with so little interest in politics, he’d abandoned the fine education his father had outlined for him with the philosophers of Hellas in favor of joining the legions.

  Rome also demands obedience, Venus went on, softly. You shackle your children in loveless arranged marriages, and wonder when men and women both stray. Marriage is the concern of Juno. Love, my concern. And never the two may meet, or so you think.

  And yet, Mars put in coldly, Rome will resist a marriage between itself and Egypt. But this arranged marriage is vital to the health of our greater family. The bride that is Egypt brings a marvelous dowry. Grain and magic and gold enough to feed our people for generations.

  But Rome only wishes to keep Egypt as a concubine. Venus snorted. Her gods, however, are older than we are. And still have their power. They will have nothing less than a marriage.

  Many men of the Senate will resist the idea that they, like children, must obey the demands of their parents. Mars’ tone turned grim now. Which is why you are here today as witnesses to the will of the gods. Most of you won’t be believed, he added dryly. Our children have hard heads, and resist revelation.

  Venus now stepped between Eurydice and Caesarion. Caught his left hand in hers, and then took Eurydice’s right hand, and placed it in Caesarion’s. So simple a gesture, but unmistakable in its import. This daughter of mine, who is also daughter to Isis, I give to this man, her brother, who is son to both Mars and Osiris, she said as more vines crept in through the windows, and grapes began to swell under the large leaves. And so they are wed.

  Rome will doubt what you witnesses tell them, Mars said, his voice like echoes of iron. Our people cling to the superstitions of the past that comfort them, and reinforce what they wish to believe. They will fight you and force you, and protest mightily. But this is our gift to you, Eagle and Hawk, he continued, not smiling. The truth. That rare and precious commodity, usually hoarded by those who think themselves wise, and withheld from those who need it most.

  And then they were gone, leaving the smell of iron and perfume in their wake, in a rough headquarters building made of simple wood, that had been filled with flowers and grape vines and abundance. “This place can never be torn down,” Caesarion managed after a moment. “It’s holy ground now.”

  Alexander was the first to make it back to his feet, and he came forward to embrace both of them. No tears in his eyes, but a kind of fierce pride and joy. And he whispered in Caesarion’s ear, slyly, “No more discretion for the two of you, I take it?”

  “Discretion,” Caesarion replied, his heart and mind reeling, “but not hiding, either.” And thank the gods for that. Who knows what years of deception and concealment might have turned us into? “Though I have no idea how I’m going to get the Senate to recognize any of this,” he muttered.

  “Bring them victories,” Tiberius said, rising from the floor, his eyes still filled with awe. “Solidify what we already hold.”

  “You’ve spoken of wanting to bring people to Rome without conquering them,” Antyllus said, helping Cicero to stand, and then assisting Fabia, as well.

  “Make prosperity and abundance so compelling an argument that they can’t argue against you,” Alexander chimed in.

  Yes, but how do I do all that? Caesarion wondered, and then looked down at Eurydice, before bringing her into his arms for a quick, tight embrace. No. How do we do that?

  Chapter XIV: Normalcy

  Iunius 10, 17 AC

  Somehow, going about the business of reading the daily reports that trickled up the line from the centurions and optios seemed a little bland and prosaic after meeting two gods face-to-face. And having their entire relationship exposed in the cool light of dawn, before many eyes. Eurydice hadn’t let go of Caesarion’s hand for the better part of an hour after the ceremony, her eyes dazed and her mien deeply embarrassed every time one of their witnesses spoke to her. He could understand why. He’d already fielded a few speculative glances from Antyllus. Who clearly already had intimations before this. He’s not stupid, and I’m not a good actor. And saying she was betrothed to the Eagle was nowhere near as clever as I thought it was at first, given that he called me Aquilus while she was recuperating.

  And just like that, his mind started to operate on a level with which he was more comfortable and familiar than the rarefied air in which he’d so recently flown. Politics was a welcome refuge from realms in which all the myths of his people concealed different,
and more troubling truths. Caesarion hitched up the stiff folds of his purple toga and welcomed the servants in, who’d brought enough food for this very plain wedding breakfast. Round loaves of yesterday’s bread from the canteen, just starting to go stale around the edges. Leftover lentil stew, bowls of tiny green berries harvested from the fields near the castra, and slabs of cold roast boar. Some of the men had managed to go hunting, apparently. And it all needed to be eaten, or else it would spoil.

  Antyllus was one thing, Caesarion reflected as he and the others chewed in a silence that was as unusual as it was profound. Meals here in the office tended to be quick, and taken over work. Politically, the young officer showed signs of being a more refined version of his father, Antony. Less of the crass populist, a little more polish—but most of the same savvy mind. Their families were already linked by marriage, and he’d made a point of requesting further union. I’m going to have to talk to Selene about him, Caesarion decided. He wouldn’t mind having Antyllus as a brother-in-law, but his sister might not be enthusiastic. And then he glanced to his right, where Eurydice sat, still in the red stola of a bride, and caught his breath at the wonder of being able to call her his wife in front of everyone in this room.

  A careful clearing of the throat, and Cicero Minor asked cautiously, “My lord, do you want this announced to all the men?” He glanced between the two of them as Eurydice visibly winced. “At any other time, it might . . . cause some consternation.” This was an understatement. Incest was grounds in Rome for being declared infamis. Being stripped of all rank and social titles, even stripped of citizenship, and cast to the lowest order of society—a rank held by slaves, gladiators, actors, and passive-partner male homosexuals. Cicero cleared his throat. “But we’re just a few days away from our young hawk having saved the asses of most of the men out there.” A faint smile flickered over his lips. “Right at this moment, if you told them that she walked on water, I think they’d all just nod and agree.”