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

by Deborah Davitt

  Caesarion was fairly sure that it took iron self-control for Eurydice not to collapse into a small heap and put her head down on the table. She did close her eyes and flush even more crimson, but her shoulders stayed straight, which he silently applauded. Cicero’s eyebrows quirked, and he added, mildly, “Normal rules regarding women seem to have been suspended, with regard to your, ah, lady wife, dominus. Striking now, the men would agree, I think. And your marriage to your sister, with the memory of her power quite fresh in everyone’s minds, should look . . . practically normal, in the face of women with the teeth of wolves making men fall dead at the sound of their screams. Humans riding monsters out of legend. Trees coming alive to battle us. And a group of men making a mountain fall.” He shuddered. “I have many apologies to speak to my uncle Quintus when I return to Rome,” Cicero added. “I never quite believed his tales of what you all encountered in Germania.”

  “And now you do?” Alexander asked, tearing a loaf of bread in half with his fingers.

  “Now, I wonder how much he undersold the story to ensure that he was believed even in part,” the older legate replied, occasioning mild laughter from everyone at the table besides his wife, Fabia, who’d been darting glances back and forth the whole time that her husband spoke. “So,” Cicero added, looking back at Caesarion. “Announce it now? Give the men a day’s liberty to celebrate? Answer what I can only assume will be pressing questions as to how in the gods’ names the headquarters building has been swamped in greenery?”

  Caesarion turned towards Eurydice, and murmured ruefully, “I thought we’d have between two to four years to make this public, beloved. A more gradual introduction of you to the Roman public, so they would get used to seeing you beside me at the games. The theater. Other social events, like the dinners you’ve already handled at the villa. And of course, being in the field with me.” He caught the glances darting around the table, but ignored the others for the moment.

  ‘The gods do seem to favor directness over subtlety,” Alexander muttered off to his left, through a mouthful of food.

  Eurydice’s fingers found his under the table, tightening convulsively. “Cicero’s reasoning all seems entirely valid,” she replied, her voice tight. “And I’m sure you’ll say that the men, many of whom are recovering from wounds, need something to celebrate.”

  “Excellent grasp of the concept of morale,” Cicero said, taking a sip of watered vinegar.

  Caesarion switched languages into Egyptian. “Are you all right?” he murmured quietly.

  “I am absolutely terrified,” she admitted. “The legions love us today. They may not tomorrow. And everyone here is staring at me. Wondering.”

  Caesarion glanced around the table. “Staring at us, beloved.” He switched languages back to Latin, so that no one would think that they were keeping secrets. “Tearing off the bandage has a certain direct charm that avoids years of whispers and suppositions making it all so much worse when it’s finally disclosed.”

  Beside them, Alexander gave him a look. Caesarion met it blandly. “Yes, but I thought I was going to have the privilege of acting as much like a horse’s ass in public as I could, as often as I could, in order to distract people from you,” Alexander said, his voice mock-aggrieved. “I would have thrown myself in the path of those sling-bullets for you. Happily.”

  Across the table, Antyllus choked on his drink. “Ah,” the son of Antony said, recovering. “So all your wilder antics in Rome and the rumors which you seem to court, all have to do with family loyalty.”

  Alexander smiled innocently, spreading his hands. Antyllus shook his head. “I’m not sure that there is any rhetorician I could find who’s better at justification than you,” he told Alexander without rancor. “I must ask for lessons.”

  “Excuse me,” Fabia interposed, her voice concerned and confused. “But . . . you said a moment ago, my lord, that you thought you’d have years in which to introduce this, ah—” she floundered. Seeing the face of her gods hadn’t done the officious, if kindly woman, much good. “To the public?” she finished weakly. “It sounds as if you’ve had time to think about this before this morning . . . I mean, you surely only entered into this . . . arrangement because they ordered it?”

  Cicero regarded her, murmuring, “We have Mars’ and Venus’ testimony, my dear. I think that you may safely call it a marriage and not an arrangement.”

  Fabia flushed, as rebuked as if she’d been Eurydice’s age, and not twice it. Caesarion paused a moment, and replied coolly, “I was informed of the likely necessity several months ago, yes.” He watched as Fabia’s brow crinkled, and Tiberius turned towards him, frowning slightly.

  “So it’s symbolic?” Fabia ventured cautiously after a moment, clearly trying not to invoke any thunderbolts that might be hurled in her direction, yet compelled to speak, somehow. “A, ah, representation of the alliance between Rome and the province of Egypt?” Her eyes begged for confirmation. “I mean, I understand that it’s a marriage,” she added quickly, glancing at her husband. “But if you don’t marry someone else, you’ll . . . have to make Alexander your heir, won’t you? I mean, not that he isn’t already. But it’s not as if there are going to be children, yes?” A quick, light, breathy rattle of uncomfortable words.

  At least she’s direct. And it’s no more than everyone else in Rome will be asking, directly or not. “I will not entertain any questions on the subject at this time,” Caesarion replied repressively, and felt Eurydice relax beside him.

  When the others had left, Alexander stretched in the chair beside them, and said quietly, “Get used to that.” A quick smile, half-whimsical, half-sorrowful. “I wasn’t joking earlier. I’d already half-formed notions of public wrestling exhibitions any time Rumor began to spread her venom about the two of you.” He waved a hand as Caesarion turned towards him, brows knitting. “Yes, I had more than an inkling. You both looked entirely too happy and content of late, and knowing perfectly well that you were falling in love with each other, it wasn’t a great stretch of imagination to understand why.” A little shrug. “But now, I’ll have to come up with an entirely different way of keeping the two of you safe from rumor and spite.”

  “You don’t have to protect us,” Caesarion objected.

  “Yes, I do. You’re my family.” Their younger brother smiled wistfully. “I’m very happy for both of you,” Alexander added. “I hope my own marriage is somewhat less fraught, but I doubt I’ll find so much amity of spirit with Octavia as you have with each other.” He stood, offering Caesarion a wrist-clasp and giving Eurydice a kiss on the cheek. “I’m off to go help Malleolus make the announcement and pass out coin from our dwindling stores of it to the men. Cicero and Tiberius have that responsibility for the Seventh. And our poor prefect shouldn’t be the only one subjected to the incredulous questions from the Tenth.” A chuckle, and out the door he went.

  Caesarion turned and pulled Eurydice to him, and felt her quake. “You did well,” he muttered into her hair. “Met it all head-on and chin up. Like a queen.”

  “I don’t know if I can keep doing that,” she whispered, her voice tight.

  “We have to. We’re on the path now.” He kissed her forehead. “And we have Venus’ personal assurance that it won’t all be bad.”

  ____________________

  Hours later, Caesarion went through his practice session as if nothing at all had occurred that was of note—and ignored the sidelong glances of the legionnaires who couldn’t break discipline to ask the questions that clearly burned in their minds. Most of the men were on light duty, in observance of the celebration of their commander’s wedding—this meant that guards remained on the walls and cooks and medici still did their jobs, but that the majority of the men were excused from drill and other exercises for the day. At Cicero’s recommendation, Caesarion had also provided a day’s extra ration of wine for everyone not on guard duty, which much heartened everyone’s cheer. A handful of soldiers remained on the practice field anyway, out
of boredom, perhaps, but the rest took the opportunity to lounge about, inside or outside their barracks, partaking of the wine. Laughing, talking, and watching everyone around them. Soldiers gossiped just as much as women around a loom, loathe though they’d be to admit it. It was simply that their gossip took a slightly different shape and tone.

  Aware that he’d more than done his part to add to the fund of gossip at the castra, and stripped to his subligaria and sweating, Caesarion worked his heavy practice sword and shield, aiming at the wooden post that had been driven into the ground. Keeping his own sword from striking the edges of his shield as he attacked. Immediately pulling the sword back into a guard position after each strike, protecting his vulnerable eyes, and stepping past the target. Not close-formation fighting practice this, but one-on-one, where speed and getting to where the enemy couldn’t protect themselves was key. Reset, lancing his blade in, throat-high on the enemy, and, while they’d be focused on parrying or blocking that, aimed a kick knee-height on the pole, timing that and the sword-strike simultaneously. Destroy their balance, defeat the enemy.

  He focused on being as visibly Roman as he could be. Took a dipper from the communal bucket of water and drank half, before pouring the other half over his sweating head and neck. Sparred with Malleolus, who clearly hadn’t regained all his strength yet after damned near bleeding himself out. And gradually watched the men around him ease. I’m still your Eagle, he wanted to tell them, but the message had to come without words. I’m still one of you, still a legionnaire. There have always been divisions between us. Social rank. Military rank. Command. And god-born blood. One more layer—an Egyptian marriage, and not a Roman one—shouldn’t make that much of a difference, should it?

  And he half-smiled as a hawk landed on the short fence that marked out the border of the practice yard. Eurydice always seemed to find a moment or two to watch the drills when he was at them. “What’s the plan, dominus?” Malleolus wheezed, out of breath, finally lowering his sword. The half-Gallic man had pushed himself to the limits of his strength, and it showed. “How much longer do we stay penned up in this castra?”

  “Long enough for most of the wounded to recover,” Caesarion replied easily, setting the practice weapons aside, so another soldier could use them. “I sent a courier to Emporion to take one of the naval ships lying off the coast back to Rome. We should be getting fresh troops inside three months to bring the Fourth back up to strength. And extra officers, so Antyllus won’t be commanding the Fourth for long. He’s too junior. The Senate will take one look at his appointment and load a new legate into a ballista to ensure more rapid transport of an experienced commander.”

  Malleolus snorted, and then warned, “Other than the officers, the new troops will be green as new-felled logs, dominus.”

  Caesarion nodded. “The Fourth can drill them when they get here. This is a good site for a city, even if it weren’t something of a holy place now.” He jerked his head at the river flowing past the fortifications. “But we won’t be sitting on our asses, waiting for reinforcements. Once the Tenth and Seventh recover, we’ll take the men of the Tillii who surrendered.”

  “You’re pleased to jest?” Malleolus sounded appalled. “They’re traitors—”

  “They’re Romans. They also just saw their former allies do their best to murder them, which tends to make a man re-evaluate his loyalties.” Caesarion couldn’t help the dry note in his voice. “They’ll serve to make up our numbers, but will be organized under a separate legion name and number, to be filled to full at a later date. If they’re as loyal to the person who saved their life as they were to the people who put those lives at risk? They’ll make a fine legion, in time.” And I want at least six thousand men around Eurydice. Whenever I send her to Egypt. He paused. “When we’re ready? We’ll push through into Cantabri territory. Give it a few weeks, though, Mal.” A shrug as he toweled the sweat from his limbs. “I’ll use the men hard, but never stupidly. And seeking out a fight right now, with scores still in the hospital, or recovering in their tents? Would be stupid.”

  He knew that the men around them were listening. “And the enemy prisoners?” Mal asked, his voice emotionless.

  Caesarion paused. “You don’t mean the ones slated to be sold.”

  “No. The . . . druids. It’s been several days, dominus. The guards have done their best to keep them awake at all times, as you directed. Loud noises at erratic times, so they’ve had no sleep. Eyes covered, so they can’t see to focus their magic—if that does any good at all.” Malleolus clearly had doubts on that score. “Bound and gagged—except when they’re given water and gruel once a day. They’re ripe to be questioned. If you’ve any questions that you think are worth having answered.”

  Damnation. “Till today, I couldn’t trust myself in the same room with them, while Eurydice remained unconscious,” Caesarion admitted. “All I could picture doing was taking a knife and gutting them slowly. Which will get you answers, admittedly, but it tends to be a conversation of limited duration.”

  A ripple of laughter from a couple of men who’d taken a water break themselves.

  Malleolus raised his eyebrows. “Don’t know about that, dominus. You could always heal them and start over.”

  Caesarion’s jaw clamped shut and he looked away. “The past few nights? The thought did pass through my mind,” he admitted. “And given the twelve thousand lives lost? I can’t even say that they don’t deserve to be tortured nearly to death and brought back, just to find it starting all over again. But . . . I don’t think that the gods gave me my powers to make me a particularly excellent torturer. I wouldn’t want to sully the gift.” That, and once you start down that path, how do you know when to stop cutting? “As for the rest,” he told Malleolus, a little more lightly, “my dear prefect, you were one of my witnesses not four hours ago. Today’s my wedding day, and you want me to work. Slaver.”

  Another ripple of laughter, louder this time. Malleolus spread his hands and looked around the practice yard. “It’s your wedding day, and yet, you’re here, my lord.”

  “Well, yes. I wouldn’t want to get an unwarranted reputation as a slothful and uxorious commander, unable to rise from bed while chained there by his wife’s arms.” Caesarion put virtue into his voice, but this didn’t get quite the hearty set of guffaws he’d hoped to receive. They’re still on edge about it. Little steps. The path of patience. I could just use a hammer and break them, but water wears away stone, too.

  He held up his hands as if surrendering, and then found his tunic where he’d draped it over the fence. “I’ll go deal with the prisoners now, prefect. And then address the stack of reports and dispatches sitting on my desk.” Or not. Since Venus’s appearance, all it’s taken has been a light breeze under my tunic, and all I can think of is finding Eurydice and discovering if it feels different now that we’re married. Sparring and practice were marvelous distractions, but damn it.

  The moment he turned to walk away, the hawk leaped from the fence into a light glide, landing gently on his shoulder as he moved off.

  Back at the headquarters building, he poked his head into their room and asked, “Did you enjoy your own private view of the gladiatorial school?”

  She’d been sitting on her camp bed with its not-quite-smoothed frame and rough woolen blanket, a scroll loosely unrolled in her hands. She didn’t quite jump at his abrupt entrance, but did give him a half-dreamy, half-embarrassed smile. “Yes,” Eurydice replied. “I was keeping an eye on the perimeter, but got a little distracted.” Her flush deepened. “I always like watching you practice, but today—” Hunger in her voice. Hunger identical to his own.

  A rapid set of calculations ran through his head, and Caesarion sighed. “I know precisely what you mean, but if we disappear in here at midday and stay here for the next . . . three hours . . . .”

  “Only three?” Her own teasing words made her flush even more.

  “We have to eat at some point,” he reminded her. “At any
rate, we need to look like good, restrained Romans today.”

  “Not hedonistic Egyptians.” A glance from under her eyelashes.

  Caesarion put a hand on the doorframe to remind himself not to step through it. No matter the temptation. “Precisely. Actually, come along. I’m going to,” and he sighed, “question our Gallic prisoners. I’ll want Alexander along as our scribe—plus he worked with our information gatherers in Valentia. It’ll be good experience for him.”

  “Why do you need me there?” Eurydice asked, her face paling as she sat up, setting her scroll aside.

  “Because they’re sorcerers of some kind. And I need a way to stop them from casting spells.” A way that doesn’t involve me punching them so hard that their brains come out through their noses.

  She’d slipped off the bed and approached him as he spoke. And now put her hand right over his sternum. Caesarion caught her fingers with his, and leaned down to kiss her. Openly. In the middle of his office. “You know, I think that does feel different now that we’re married,” he commented.

  “Better or worse?” Her words sounded breathless.

  “Better. Definitely better.” He exhaled. “Come on. Questioning the men who killed so many Romans will be an admirable distraction.”

  ____________________

  Matru of the Caledoni had endured for the past several days, with his hands chained above his head to a post, positioned high enough up that even he had to stand on his tip-toes to keep any slack at all in the chains. The instant he relaxed, his arms, which alternated between numbness and screaming agony, took the weight of his body, increasing his pain. A sack of rough cloth had been thrown over his head, and he’d been gagged as well. The gag was only removed and the hood only lifted when his captors poured water into his mouth from skin bags, or, similarly, used horn spoons to feed him gruel. He’d tried to bite their fingers at first when they stuffed the gag back into place, but that had resulted in ringing blows to temple and jaw.