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

by Deborah Davitt

  He dropped his pen and stood, moving around the desk to take her hands in his, his face immediately concerned. “I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

  “Alexander mentioned it once, in Hispania.” She looked up into his eyes gravely. “He said that he didn’t know how ruthless he could be, until he came back from death. He wondered if it was something already in him, something caused by his realization that he wanted his life to have meaning, or some unintentional gift from Octavian.” Which would make his fun with Tiberius that much more problematic, from the little I know about Tiberius’ relationship with his step-father.

  Caesarion’s hands tightened on hers. “Have you had any cause to wonder, yourself?” he asked, his eyes locked with hers.

  “Not until tonight,” she admitted, wetting her lips unconsciously. “I’ve been angry before. But never like this. I expected some of the things they said about me—behind my back, or so they thought. But I wasn’t expecting Livia’s hypocrisy to be on display. Or the willful ignorance of the Vestals, who’ve forgotten who Rome’s true mother is—”

  He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t tell me. You’ve sworn sacred oaths about that ritual. Don’t break them for me.”

  She kissed his finger lightly. “Poor debased ceremony that it is, all meaning torn out of it by well-meaning hands,” she returned, sighing. “If I’m truly to be stuck holding the ritual next year—and if they’ll let me, after everything I said to them tonight—” rueful self-awareness in her tone now, “—things will change, brother.”

  Caesarion leaned down and kissed her. Sweetly. “I can taste wine on your lips,” he murmured as he lifted his own. “And you’re delightfully fierce tonight. How much did you have?”

  “Just one cup.”

  “Good. There are two cups and a jug of the best Falernian I could find waiting for us in the bathhouse, beloved. Though we’ll both be drinking it heavily watered, I think. I’d like to enjoy tonight, and not lose half of it to a stupor.” He met her eyes steadily. “I don’t know that I’ve ever said this directly, but . . . you know that between us, there’s no ruler and ruled, yes? Because we’re the same.”

  “I know,” she whispered, amazed as always by that simple truth. Theirs was a society in which women were tightly controlled by men—fathers, brothers, and husbands. And yet he exerted no more control over her than advice and love, and she always returned to his hand, like her hawks returned to hers.

  “Good.” He kissed her throat. “I was hoping that between the wine and the warm water of the baths, you’d be very relaxed tonight.” He raised his head, exhaling. “Did anything happen that I need to know about for political reasons?”

  “Probably. That can wait until morning, though.” She leaned into him. “Is there anything else waiting for us in the bathhouse?”

  “Cloths. Cushions so that the tile won’t be quite so hard.” Caesarion caught her hand and kissed it lightly. “Just so we don’t have any more distractions later . . . you asked about the spirits of the dead resting in those I raise? You think Aucissa’s ghost is in you?”

  “How else can I explain shouting at every other patrician woman in Rome that Venus must be terribly disappointed in them, and that they have not an ounce of sisterhood between them?” Eurydice pulled away a little, her concerns suddenly looming large within her once more. The kissing had set the worry to flight for a moment, but now . . . . “Gods, I hated them. I hate them. I hate their smug self-satisfaction, their constant chivying for status and political gain. How the people who help govern the greatest empire on earth can be so small-minded and provincial—brother, beloved, is this me, or is this the spirit of that barbarian woman, who hated Rome so?”

  Another kiss. Not sweet this time; searing. “No, Accipitra,” Caesarion said a moment later, when she was gasping for air. “Because in this, you and I are again the same. There are days when I hate them, too. For all those same reasons.”

  Relief, pure and simple. “Then it’s still me who wants to do this.” She ran her hand down his chest, feeling the muscle under the wool of his tunic. Then lower. And lower still. Stroked what she found, feeling him come alive at her touch He closed his eyes. Let himself go still, almost passive, as she continued to touch and stroke him through his clothes.

  “Eurydice, sister . . . beloved . . . if you don’t stop, we won’t make it to the bath,” he admitted after another moment or two. He opened his eyes and caught her hands in his, lifting them to kiss them. Then he settled a cover over the brazier to douse the coals, and pulled her out of the study, heading for the bathhouse. “Don’t hate them all the time,” he added as they finally reached the bathhouse. “That seems to be the trick. Remember to love them, occasionally, too.”

  “I’ll try. But gods do they make it difficult.”

  “I know. Gods, how I know.” His voice held weariness.

  Caesarion had clearly had the servants build up the fires in the hypocaust under the bathhouse, as the tiles were warm underfoot, even through her sandals. Steam rose from the water, making the air filmy and milky. And now, he shut the door behind them, and started kissing her again. “I love it when you’re fierce,” he whispered against her hair. “I want to see this more often. You’re a hawk. Let them see the talons and the beak, beloved.”

  Then they stepped into the warm water, still kissing. Sensation of the cool tile against her back, the roughness of his face against hers. Then being lifted out of the water to sit at the edge of the pool, and she opened herself for him. Felt as much as heard his low groan as they came together. And then, just to tease him a little, she whispered in his ear, “Remember when you were worried that the ground would be too hard for me in Hispania?”

  “You want to conquer me again tonight, do you?” He looked up from where he still stood in the pool, beads of water flecking his skin. “That’s the kind of war that I like best, beloved. One in which both sides win.”

  And then nothing but the echoes of each others’ voices, and the rippling splash of water.

  Quite some time later, as they curled up among the cushions, sipping a little wine and simply relaxing together, Caesarion murmured, “I don’t want this to end.”

  Eurydice looked up from where her head was pillowed on his chest. “Perhaps it doesn’t have to,” she ventured.

  “How can it not?”

  She swallowed. “I didn’t want to say anything,” she whispered. “But the dream’s changed of late.”

  He half-sat, almost spilling his wine. “It has?” Caesarion said sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Eurydice made a face. “For the first six months after the gods put our hands together, I didn’t dream it at all,” she admitted. “At first, I thought that with the campaign, and being so busy, that perhaps I just wasn’t remembering it when I woke. And the last three months . . . .” She shook her head a little. “It’s different.”

  “How?” His voice was urgent. “Beloved, how is it different?”

  “A little more confusing. The ravens set on the hawk, as before. Bloodying her and tearing at her. One of the ravens winds up poisoning a snake, which . . . you’d think that would be the other way around. No idea what or who the snake is, I might add. And the eagle takes the hawk far away to make her nest.” She looked up. “I never understood that before. But he’s trying to keep her safe. Alive.” She felt his arms tighten around her. “But the other birds, the corbie and the vulture and the wren? They’re all gone.” A little wonder in her voice. “The ravens try to get the eagle to take other mates, but he refuses, even though it means war among the kingdom of the birds—”

  “You’re damned right I refuse,” he muttered. “Roman law doesn’t recognize bigamy. The Emperor of the Seres—Qin, whatever they call themselves—might have ten thousand wives and concubines—”

  “That number goes up every time you and Alexander mention it—”

  “The mind balks at even a thousand wives, love. I’m not sure that inflating the number even more grossly
can make it more ludicrous.” He gave her a kiss to steal her retort. “As I was saying,” Caesarion went on when his lips rose, “Roman law doesn’t recognize bigamy. Marrying anyone else would be tacitly admitting that my marriage to you is invalid and that any children we might have would be illegitimate. I’ve got enough of a stain on me from being Father’s ‘bastard,’ though he’d long since put his third wife aside before bedding our mother. The Senate just wouldn’t grant him another divorce for political reasons.”

  “Mostly to do with not wanting him to have a legitimate heir.” Her voice was tart.

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t want that same mess for any children we might have. They’ll have enough to fight through, as is.” Caesarion nuzzled her hair as he let himself recline once more. “I wonder what changed.”

  Eurydice yawned a little. “The gods intervened,” she said, sitting up on one elbow to look down at him. “We wouldn’t have announced our relationship until our hands were forced, would we?”

  “That was the plan,” Caesarion acknowledged, closing his eyes. “I didn’t like the deception of it, but declaring to the whole empire that, still fighting a war for control of it, I was going to break with centuries of Roman tradition and wed my own sister, didn’t sound like a better option.” He opened his eyes again. “I do like not having to sneak around, though.”

  She nodded. “You’re inherently an honest person,” she murmured, running a finger along the line of his jaw. “I love that in you.”

  “So, the gods intervened, and now the future looks different.” Caesarion raised his eyebrows. “Same number of children?” he asked tentatively. “And does the hawk die alone in the desert?”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide. “Half eagles and half hawks now,” Eurydice told him. “And I keep waking up before the dream ends. It’s rather pleasant not to know. I don’t feel so much like weeping when I wake.” She paused. “I’m actually more interested in how it’s possible for the future to change,” she said, her mind starting to churn once more.

  “If this is going to be a discussion about Heraclitus and Parmenides and the nature of time, be it known that you will be holding both sides of it, and that I am going to sleep,” Caesarion warned, closing his eyes again. “Though, in fairness, we should likely get up and go back to our rooms. If we fall asleep here, there’s a chance neither of us will be able to move in the morning.”

  “Then I won’t talk philosophy at your head, thus forcing you into a stupor from which you cannot wake. You’re quite heavy, and I cannot carry you back into the house. And calling for the servants to help me carry your dozing, naked form will simply give rise to stories of wild bacchanals.” She paused. “Ones in which I would, by virtue of Dame Rumor’s tongue, be accused of sapping your vitality and virility through my vile magics.” She wiggled her fingers.

  “Oh, but you do,” Caesarion replied in a long-suffering tone, his eyes still closed. “You work witchery on me, and I enjoy every minute of it.” His eyes snapped open, and he rolled, trapping her under him as cushions and blankets went flying everywhere. “Fortunately for the honor of our house and the glory of Rome, I usually make a quick recovery.” And he caught her mouth under his, muffling her laughter.

  Chapter XVII: Games

  December 21, 17 AC

  The Amphitheater of Statilus Taurus was a vast structure built specifically for the games, and to supplement the creaky wooden amphitheater that had been built by Gaius Scribonius Curio before Caesarion had been born. The Curio amphitheater remained somewhat in use—largely because, due to the curious mechanisms under it, its two halves split apart and could be rotated, allowing them to be used as two separate theaters before being brought back together again. The mechanisms that allowed this rotation, however, were under repair. Largely because spectators enjoyed the novelty of sitting in the stands while the world seemed to spin around them, and their extra weight had devastated the wooden gears that allowed the whole thing to work, over the years.

  The new venue was barely two years old, and Taurus, a legate under Caesar, had used his own funds to build it—and had funded the first games there personally, two months before Caesar’s death.

  The structure towered above many others in Rome at the present, being three stories in height, with stone cladding over its wooden support structure. Gleaming bronze statues occupied thousands of niches, both inside and out, depicting gods, mortals declared divine heroes after their deaths, nymphs, tritons, and figures out of legend. Achilles and Patroclus occupied one niche, while in another, Odysseus was bound to the mast of his ship so as to hear the song of the sirens, and in yet another, Perseus tamed the Pegasus. No hint of verdigris had yet tainted those statues, which reflected the westering sun almost blindingly.

  And yet, for all that the building could seat eighty thousand people, it had provoked a constant litany of complaints for being too small. Thousands of people crowded outside the gates, and ticket scalpers made a busy trade, inflating prices for the games enormously. Caesarion had made sure to leave a block of free tickets open for the worthy poor, and had positioned his own servants outside, to give bread and spiced wine to those who’d been left out in the light chill.

  In a sense, the munera, the gladiatorial form of the games, were one of the most democratic parts of Roman life. Anyone could attend—male, female, freeborn, freed. Even slaves attended, with their masters. And today, almost everyone in Rome had turned out for these particular games.

  Wearing a purple toga stiff with embroidery, Caesarion entered the Imperial box, built originally with his father in mind, and raised his arm to the crowd in greeting. The roar that returned to him sounded like a wild beast. It shook the structure under his feet, and resonated in his chest, under his sternum. This is the voice of the mob, he thought, acknowledging the people. The mob that Antony says will kill and eat a man, if he so much as slips. But they love a good show. They love victory. They love a story that they can claim as their own. So . . . let’s hope that we give them a good show today. Or else they’re going to tear us apart.

  He’d stood there just long enough. The legionnaires in the crowd had begun to shout, not Caesarion, but Aquilus, over and over again. Caesarion waved one more time, and turned back to the stairs, offering his hand to Eurydice, who emerged from the stone throat of the arched passage, accepting his hand, and allowing him to draw her to the two seats they’d be occupying for the next several hours.

  The crowd went frighteningly still. Her outfit today had been the result of quite a bit of conversation between them and Cleopatra. A vivid red stola, similar to that worn by a bride, embroidered with gold, and a matching palla. No bridal wreath—that would have been putting too much of a pin on the point, but one of Cleopatra’s less-extravagant crowns, and the elegant necklace Caesarion had given her on Matronalia. And kohl around her eyes.

  Caesarion presented her to the crowd, whispering, “Courage,” to her. She nodded, all color having drained from her face, and made her own wave now. Much more scattered applause; not unexpected. The whispers of improper sexual practices had spread through the city—the hint was on the wind that infamio could be declared by the Senate, if the whispers were proven true. A declaration that would strip them of both their citizenship and property.

  But to declare Caesarion or Eurydice infamio would be to start another rebellion, and no one was quite ready to do that. Caesarion’s personal popularity remained high with the plebes—two solid military victories in as many years had a tendency to do that. And while even his father had been tainted with infamio now and again, a man’s sexual proclivities, so long as he was the one actively doing the fucking, tended to be more easily ignored. A woman’s, however? Far less so. And so, public opinion had come to bear against not Caesarion, but against Eurydice. As the daughter of the sorceress queen of Egypt, she surely took after Cleopatra, who’d ensorcelled the last Emperor of Rome, as well.

  The older matrons of Rome had been vocal in their disapproval of he
r since Bona Dea, but Eurydice’s words at the mysterious ritual had borne some unexpected fruit, too. Dozens of younger women had come to the Julii manor, usually in pairs, and had asked to make themselves reacquainted with her and her sister. Of course, some of those had to be there out of curiosity, Caesarion thought.

  And out of the crowd, a single voice shouted, “Accipitra! Accipitra!” And Eurydice looked up and smiled, which changed her whole face.

  One more light wave, and then Caesarion helped his sister to the seat that had been designed with Cleopatra in mind—it had a Horus hawk perched atop the back, and even had crocodile sculptures for the arms. “Taurus was all taste, I see,” he murmured.

  “So long as there’s a cushion, I don’t care if he carved gorgons on it. Marble makes an uncomfortable seat over time,” she murmured, and Caesarion laughed, taking the seat on the right, which was far plainer, with only an eagle of Rome carved into the back.

  The rest of their guests came in now—Selene, Drusus, Octavia. Cleopatra, holding her young son, Gaius Antonius, over her shoulder, and waving lightly to the crowd, who awarded her a more hearty welcome than it had accorded to her daughter. Matru appeared, and was shown to one of the rear seats in the box. The druid stared at the vast crowd, and Caesarion called back to him, “What do you think of Rome so far?”

  “Your river-god must be angry with you, for fouling his waters as you do. Your houses feel like tombs, and the water that comes from the walls takes . . . some getting used to,” Matru replied gruffly, and then gestured at the people milling through the stands. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen so many people all in one place before.” He sounded deeply uneasy. “And this building is very impressive. We have nothing like it.”

  The priests on the field below went to work. Since this was Divalia, a day dedicated to respite from sorrow and pain, there were sacrifices to be made to Angerona, Ceres, and even to Hercules. Caesarion leaned over and asked Eurydice, “Did you know, the first Ptolemy claimed that he was a descendant of Hercules?”