He’d successfully distracted himself with such minutiae, as he had many times before. And so it rather surprised him as they entered their tent, and he started packing his gear, to hear Alexander press on anyway, “Do you mind if I read the letters before you burn them? If there’s information in there that Caesarion should know, I’d like to be able to pass that on before he leaves.”
Tiberius looked up from where he’d just tossed armor brushes and clothes into a cloth sack. “Go ahead,” he told Alexander, shrugging. “Just don’t go reading excerpts to me. I find my mind is much more at ease when I can’t hear her voice.”
Alexander retrieved the letters from the tinderbox and took a moment to light their small oil lamp, perched on the rough new table that served as both desk and dining surface for them. He settled on a short bench on one side as Tiberius continued packing, but didn’t crack the seals yet. “All anyone has to do is say her name, and you tense like a beaten dog,” his friend said quietly. “It’s unhealthy to let someone else have that much power over you, Ti.”
“You’ve told me that before. Quite a few times in Hellas.” A razor and strigil found their way into the sack now. He could have shouted for one of the communally-owned slaves—even one of the Cantabri captives who’d been put to work in the camp—to do this small task, but he didn’t feel like having anyone else in the tent at the moment. Not when he was teetering between elation at his sudden promotion, fear of letting Caesarion and Alexander down by being an unworthy commander, and the black depression that thinking of his family, other than his brother, invariably produced.
“You should try listening to me.” Alexander broke the seal on the first letter, and started to unroll the scroll. “Even in Hellas, I never asked,” he said suddenly. “I never asked what they did to you, beyond what the slave did.” He looked up, catching Tiberius’ eyes. “Was there anything else?”
Tiberius looked at the writing kit in his hands, wanting to throw it across the tent. But it had been a gift from his brother, and he didn’t want ink all over the place. So he put it aside carefully, and sat on the edge of his camp bed. Rubbed the back of his head and stared at the ground, trying to formulate the words. Finally, in the face of Alexander’s silence, they started to flow, haltingly at first. “We were probably no worse than many other Roman families,” Tiberius began, grudgingly, then stopped. Took a breath, and started again. “You probably won’t understand this,” he told Alexander. “On one side, you’re descended from kings that go back to the dawn of time. Half of that side of your family served Alexander the Great. And on the other side, you have the Julii. Descended from Venus and Aeneas, who fought in the Trojan War. And thanks to your brother, that ancestry isn’t in doubt. Your nobility isn’t something that you have to have a poet cobble together out of hearsay and rumor and a fair number of outright lies.”
Alexander’s eyebrow rose. “Your father was as patrician as the Julii—”
“The Claudii have held close to thirty consulships, a handful of dictatorships, and my ancestors have been accorded triumphs and ovations, yes.” Tiberius replied tightly. “Standing in the shadow cast by the mountain of my family’s accomplishments, it’s daunting to think what I could do to achieve even a tenth of what any of them did. But that’s not my point.” He stared at the hard-packed dirt under his feet for a moment. “Octavian’s father, Gaius Octavius,” he grated out, “was a plebeian. Oh, a wealthy, landed plebeian. With ancestors who fought the Carthaginians in Sicily. But they weren’t noble until your father raised them to the patrician class, and gave Gaius his own niece, Atia, in marriage. Gaius Octavius was one of the ‘new men.’ Like Cicero. And Octavian, for all that he was a great-nephew of Caesar on his mother’s side, never forgot that. Not even for an instant.” Tiberius’ lips tightened. “My brother and I came to live with them, and the first thing he told me was that no matter who I’d been born to, that he stood as my father now, and that I’d best toe the line. There was no ‘My, how you’ve grown since your mother’s wedding to me! It’ll be good to be a family!’ No. He wanted to ensure that we understood that he was in charge.”
Silence for a moment. “Many men, on finding themselves with new stepsons, might have said similar things, but perhaps less harshly,” Alexander finally offered.
“That’s why I said at first that our family wasn’t necessarily all that different from others in Rome,” Tiberius said between his teeth, still looking at the ground. “Let me finish.” He exhaled. “He’d come back from the Senate, where as the great-nephew of Caesar, his voice was heard, but not even Caesar heeded his council all the time. The worse the day had gone, the more likely it was that Drusus or I would be called to his study if any infractions had been reported by our mother or the pedagogues. Any hint of disrespect—and that could and did include looking at him in a way that he didn’t like—and there would be a beating.” Tiberius paused, his voice dull as he added, “Nothing that you wouldn’t expect from a centurion in the legions. Disrespect and a lack of discipline can’t be tolerated. And quite a few people in Rome would say that this is a father’s right. The father of a family is as a king within his own walls.”
“I got the stick once myself,” Alexander replied quietly. “Father had caught me re-arranging the statues of the lares. In a less than respectful manner, I must admit.” A pause. “I take it that this went a bit further in your household?”
“About once a week, for a while. He wouldn’t do it himself. He’d call in a slave. Have them administer the beating, mostly to make the humiliation worse, I think.” Tiberius hadn’t looked up from the ground yet. “I used to get the brunt of it. I was older. I was the eldest son of a Claudius. A family that had been noble since the dawn of the Republic. With all those consuls and dictators and triumphs and ovations I mentioned earlier. All the things that he hadn’t been able to achieve, himself. And I’d lie, too” he admitted quietly. “Even if Drusus had been at fault for something, I’d say I’d been the one who did it. He was so much younger, and he didn’t need to spend the next week nursing bruises from the stick. After a while, I didn’t need to lie. He’d be telling Drusus how disappointed in him he was, and all I needed to do was step forward and give him the look that he hated so much. The look that said exactly what I thought of him. That jumped-up son of a rope-maker who thought he was the lord of all creation.” Tiberius grimaced, turning his hands over and over, looking at the shape of them. “He was certainly lord of his household. I paid for my ancestors. I paid for not being his flesh and blood.” And then, when I thought I might have enough leverage to get out of that house and take Drusus with me, he set another slave on me. Just another way. Tried to rob me of my self-worth. Tried to drown me in shame when beating the pride out of me clearly hadn’t worked.
“And your mother?” Alexander asked, sounding mildly horrified. “She never said a word to him?”
“She told me I’d deserved it. For a while, I almost believed that. I certainly heard it enough. I never did stop giving him the look he hated, though.” Tiberius let his hands catch the edge of the bed. “As far as my mother was concerned, the best possible thing for me to do would be to follow every one of Octavian’s commands as my step-father. Never object. And when I came of age, throw every ounce of my abilities into accomplishing his goals. She wanted me to be his slave, not his son. And I wanted to be neither of those things.” He sighed. “All in all, it’s . . . probably no different than any other family in Rome,” Tiberius summarized once again, feeling empty. “Octavian was the paterfamilias. He demanded respect. At first, he didn’t feel I accorded it to him adequately. Whether or not that was true, I . . . don’t know. I couldn’t treat him with the love I felt for my own father. But when I first entered his house, I did try to show him respect. I swear that I did.”
“He was threatened by you,” Alexander said suddenly. “He was threatened by a nine-year-old boy.”
Tiberius shrugged. “I don’t know about that,” he replied. “I think that after day
s and weeks and months of being quietly laughed at behind the hands of those who weren’t ‘new blood,’ he came home to find two boys who were the epitome of all those old families who shut him out or told him no. And regardless of what was actually in my eyes to start with, he saw those people in my face.” His shoulders tightened. “By the end, of course, my lack of respect was quite real.” Tiberius turned his head to look directly at Alexander now. “Is there any wonder I don’t want to let your brother down? He freed me, Alexander. He manumitted me. The only way that could be clearer is if I took the damned Julii name as one of my own, to show who took me out of slavery and made me a free man again.”
Alexander set the unread scroll aside. “I wondered,” he said quietly. “In Hellas, with Procula Valeria—”
Tiberius looked away again. Their trip to Hellas had been conducted for many reasons, and one of those had been information-gathering. They’d spent the nights in so many noble villas, he’d lost track of them all. But in the house of a wealthy plebeian named Secundus Sedatia, who had suspected ties to the Servilii rebellion in Dalmatia, Alexander had been going about his usual routine, buttering up Sedatia, chuckling politely at the wealthy merchant’s bad jokes, and paying polite, carefully distant compliments to the man’s wife, Procula.
Tiberius had seen the fear in her eyes every time Alexander had bowed over her hand. And had known that Alexander couldn’t see it. How could he? He’s never wanted for anything in his life. He’s known fear in battle, but never the clutching fear that you might not live long enough to escape the house that’s supposed to be a home. Or the fear that, when you do leave, someone else will be left behind to face the onslaught alone. Tiberius had bowed, slightly and very correctly, over Procula’s hand. Paid her no overt attention, but had squeezed her fingers gently. I understand, he’d wanted to tell her. There are no bruises on your face. But I see them in your eyes. You’re safe with me. I won’t draw attention to you. He won’t think for an instant that I’m flirting with you—because I’m not.
He’d been astounded when the young, married woman had come to his room that night. And had been even more stunned when wiping her eyes free of tears had led her to lean up and kiss him. He hadn’t known what to do with that at first. His previous sexual encounters with women had all been with prostitutes, bought and paid for. No hint of emotion. And what he and Alexander did in bed seemed a different thing, entirely. Raw need, most of the time. No other acceptable outlets. Too many horrors experienced, and a desperate need to forget them for a while. So he’d taken her gently in his arms, and returned her kiss. And then had pressed her towards the door. “You shouldn’t be here,” he’d told her. “A man like Secundus doesn’t need any reason for suspicion. He finds cause for jealousy in the flicker of lamplight over your face. You should go.”
“I’ve been married to him for two years,” she’d replied wearily. “I gave him a son in the first year, when I was sixteen. Last year, I got pregnant again. He didn’t think it was his, but it was. He beat me, and I lost the child.” Her voice had been dull. “I want something for myself.” Procula looked up at him. “You.”
He’d fought a short battle with his honor, and lost. Alexander had been delighted to hear about it all, since he’d despised the merchant. And Procula, when Tiberius asked her gently, had turned over the keys to the house to Alexander. Who’d spent the remaining nights of their stay in Secundus’ study, reading the merchant’s correspondence, and finding that yes, he had indeed been supplying the Servilii with food, supplies, and even weapons. And Alexander had made arrangements, on leaving the villa, to have Secundus arrested once they were well on their way. He’d undoubtedly been executed by now for treason.
Tiberius didn’t know what had happened to Procula or her infant son. He still thought of her on occasion. Hoped that she was well. And wondered, now and again, if he’d left a child in her womb. Part of him hoped that he had—a fitting revenge on her part against her husband. The more pragmatic part of him hoped that he hadn’t. She didn’t need any additional burdens. Though, in truth, her family had probably already betrothed her to someone else. Her widowhood would be a brief one, in all likelihood.
With an effort of will, he shoved all the memories he’d just evoked, back into their proper places in the furthest reaches of his mind. Closed the door on them, and raised his head. “I could see fear and pain and desperation in Procula.” I could see myself. And it’s never going to happen to me again. Nor anyone I love. Not Drusus, my brother. No one. “But that’s neither here nor there.” He pointed at the letter. “Anything of note in that?”
Alexander, his eyes dark, picked up the scroll once more, and started reading it. “Your mother’s writing looks like she used a poker and not a pen,” he muttered irritably.
“I can’t think of a single woman who’s trained as a scribe. And most don’t write anything besides notes in a household ledger after leaving off their studies.” Tiberius paused. “Well, other than Eurydice.”
“Eurydice’s handwriting is improving. This is almost illegible.” Alexander tilted the letter towards the light.
“So?”
“You said you didn’t want me to read excerpts to you.”
“You can give me the gist.”
Alexander looked up at him. “She complains that you haven’t written to her. She suggests that you need to distinguish yourself among the staff officers. She laments that Octavia has taken to wearing her hair dyed as if she’s Hellene, and blames Cleopatra’s influence on an impressionable young girl, who now looks like a . . . ah—”
“Two-sestertii tart, I’m sure is the phrase you’re trying not to read.”
“Broadly, yes. This letter’s old. It must have been sitting in a courier’s satchel at Gravidus for a while before getting here.” Alexander put that letter down, and picked up the second. After a few moments, he sighed. “Here we go. This one’s dated more recently. She notes that Agrippa has made her an offer of marriage and she’s accepted—”
“Poor fool,” Tiberius muttered. “He’ll never have the joy of sexual relations in the marriage bed again.”
Alexander blinked. “Oh?”
“The miscarriage. I didn’t want to know the particulars when it happened, but the doctor needed a large cup of wine when he was done, and I heard more than I wanted to in the kitchen that day. He used forceps to try to pull the baby out of her. Tore her in places a woman shouldn’t be torn. He stitched her up, but to the best of my knowledge, she and Octavian never shared a bed again after that.” Tiberius shrugged. Another reason I somewhat hope that Procula didn’t have a child of mine. I hate the thought of being responsible for that.
Alexander shook his head. “She notes that Agrippa is a little low-born for her tastes, but then, her dear Octavian’s father was a plebeian once, too, and Agrippa was his dearest friend, and has all of Octavian’s best principles locked in his heart.” Alexander made a face. “Oh, here we go. She writes with some urgency to ask if you can confirm that Caesarion has committed incest with his younger sister, or has gone so far as to . . . gods, she’s not mincing words here—”
Tiberius stood to continue packing. “Just read it.”
“ . . . it’s just going to make you angry.”
“I’m already angry. Just read what she says.”
Alexander sighed. “’Please write directly to inform me as to whether Caesar’s half-breed bastard, shame of all Rome, has actually gone so far as to trump up some sort of marriage ceremony so that he can satisfy himself between his sister’s legs. Such a travesty might hoodwink the common soldiers, who lack the education to comprehend the law, but certainly, anyone with a proper understanding would realize that any such ceremony would be illegal, immoral, and illegitimate—and any children born of this incestuous affair would be equally illegitimate, totally unable to inherit his lands and titles. Please confirm or deny this sorry state of affairs immediately, for much that is good can come of it for you and your brother.’” Alexander l
ooked up. “She goes on in a similar vein for the next two uncia,” he added, laying a finger on the scroll to measure out the words. “I can’t decide if she’s aflame with rage, or delighted that Caesarion’s made such a huge mistake.” Alexander raised his eyebrows.
Tiberius stared at him. “You’re actually amused, aren’t you?”
Alexander squinted for a moment. “Yes and no,” he replied. “It’s such a Roman reaction. ‘Oh, how dreadful. How can I make use of this?’” His smile faded. “And on the other hand, I wish to the gods that I were going with my brother and sister back to Rome tomorrow, because I can’t help them from here.” He sighed. “I’ll let Caesarion know before he leaves that yes, Livia’s likely already marshalling resources with Agrippa to whip up all of Rome against him. Of course, we suspected that already.” He held out the letter. “You want to answer this?”
Tiberius tied off his sack of belongings. “I think silence is a very good response.”
Alexander smiled faintly. “You could let me write your reply for you. I’d make it a wondrous work of fiction. Hispania would be populated with lamia and cyclopses—”
“Lamia supposedly eat shipwrecked sailors in Carthage. She wouldn’t believe that one.”
“Men with mouths in their stomachs and faces where their asses should be? Rivers of wine?” Engaging tone, raised eyebrows.
Tiberius smiled faintly. “I know what you’re trying to do. Thank you. I won’t brood all night, I swear.”
“I’d better get over there before Caesarion retires for the evening,” Alexander added, quietly, offering his hand for a wrist-clasp—and looked mildly surprised as Tiberius used the contact to pull him closer for a quick kiss on the cheek, in gratitude.
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