Eurydice, desperate for any distraction from her nerves, looked up, not able to place the name of the older woman at first. And then, in a rush, she remembered. “Caesarion, isn’t that the poetess? Her uncle’s put some of her poems in with that collection of Tibullus that’s been copied so often.”
Caesarion beckoned, and Malleolus and the other guards stepped out of the young woman’s way. She entered the box, looking a little wide-eyed, and offered a light obeisance to Caesarion, and to Cleopatra, too.
“What a lovely necklace, my dear,” Cleopatra told her, handing off her son to one of the servants, now that he’d finally fallen asleep in her arms. “So . . . unusual a choice for a Roman girl. Scarabs aren’t much in fashion this year.”
Sulpicia smiled suddenly. “I think you might be surprised, my lady,” she told Cleopatra, and then turned to Eurydice. “I’m so sorry that we didn’t have a chance to meet or speak on Bona Dea, my lady. I just wanted to tell you that everything you said that night? Were things I’ve felt needed saying since the moment I was old enough to put on a stola.” She lowered her head, and then raised it once more, to Eurydice’s surprise. “And I decided then and there, that in the face of people like Livia, with her morality that has no more to do with Rome or the Republic than a flea’s backside in Tarsus, that perhaps the best way to be a good Roman, was to be at least a little Egyptian.” Her tawny eyes sparkled merrily. “And the more artificial mortality Livia attempts to spread, I think the more Egyptian I may become. Gods grant she stops before I have to buy a barge on which to float languidly up and down the Tiber.” She considered that for a moment. “And enough perfume to drown the smells of the Tiber while I’m afloat. My father would not be amused by that expense.”
Eurydice laughed. She couldn’t help it, and she could hear Cleopatra chuckling as well. “That is perhaps the kindest thing anyone has said to me since I returned to Rome,” Eurydice told Sulpicia. “Will you not come to dinner at our house soon? And would you recite some of your poetry for us?”
“My twiddlings? In front of people like Horace and Virgil?” Sulpicia laughed. “Oh, gods. I would love to come to your house, assuming my father allows me to attend. But recite my poetry in front of such a crowd of old men—”
“Virgil is my age, and Horace just a handful of years younger,” Cleopatra called over. “Surely, I am not so ancient as all that, my dear?”
Sulpicia clearly thought very quickly on her feet. “Oh, but you are ageless, my lady. Everyone says so. They, on the other hand, are most definitely old men.”
“I’ll invite Tibullus when you come,” Eurydice offered. “He’s only ten years your elder, not twenty or more. And surely you’ve met him?”
Sulpicia’s smile emerged once more. “He’s a dear. He puts on that he’s entirely hung up on both his darling Delia and his little boy-toy, Marathus, but I think it’s mostly for show. Yes, if he’s there, I won’t be too terrified to recite my latest lines.” She looked up at the heavens. “I only hope you won’t be disappointed. You’re accustomed to the best.”
Caesarion took Eurydice’s hand lightly. “It’s sunset,” he warned her. “Are you ready?”
Eurydice swallowed, seeing the concern in his eyes. “As I am ever likely to be.” She glanced at Sulpicia. “If you’d like to stay in our box for this next part, you certainly may,” she invited. Finding someone who had both wit and a friendly spirit was rare enough that she wanted to fan that flame of incipient friendship. Though in a few moments, that may well die, depending on her reaction. And the rest of Rome’s.
Looking intrigued, Sulpicia took a seat beside Selene and Octavia, introducing herself pleasantly to the younger girls. And then Eurydice couldn’t give her new guest so much as another thought, as she took several deep breaths to calm and center herself.
“The crowd’s in a good mood,” Caesarion murmured encouragingly. “They’ve eaten well, drunk well, been entertained, and got their wish when the Gaul was manumitted. They’re feeling happy and relaxed.” His expression tightened a bit. “And now, like that gladiator before us? Our lives are about to be in their hands. Their decision, love. Not the Senate’s.” He smiled and stood, offering her his hand. “And Romans do love a good show. Give them one.”
Gods, please let it be so. Eurydice accepted his hand and rose from her seat. And with her left, she caught the torch that had been flickering in the Imperial box all afternoon. It was the only one lit in the entire arena, and for a very specific reason.
At the edge of the marble-faced balcony, garlanded with evergreens and winter roses, Caesarion raised his right hand for silence. And after a moment, the crowd, in the growing dimness, obeyed, restive. Fractious. Uncertain of what was to follow. A beast with thousands of hungry maws, waiting to be fed once more. The last light of the sun gilding some of their faces; the rest, lost in darkness. Eurydice stood there, back straight, feeling the heat radiating from the torch in her hand. Letting herself understand the flames.
“Good citizens of Rome,” Caesarion called, once again letting his voice roll forth so that he could be heard even in the furthest reaches of the amphitheater, “You think that you know my sister. But you do not. Today, I would like to present her to you more formally: Eurydice Julia Accipitra. Called the Hawk by the men of the Fourth, Seventh, and Tenth Legions. God-born of Venus, Isis, and Horus.” He paused, letting the crowd’s voices rise and then fall once more. “You’ve all seen her call birds down from the heavens before. But tonight, we wish to demonstrate why it is that she is the only woman ever to be awarded the grass crown by troops in the field. To confirm who and what she is, and put to rest any doubts in the minds of Rome as to her abilities, her loyalties, or her place in my family.”
Caesarion had re-written his speech five times in the past two weeks. She’d listened to various drafts, and Cleopatra had adjusted some of the phrases with exacting care. And now, as Caesarion stepped back, still standing behind her, but in a distinctly secondary position, Eurydice was on her own. “This torch,” she called, knowing that her own voice, higher and thinner than Caesarion’s, couldn’t reach nearly as many ears, “I brought today from my family’s hearth. You all know that I was betrothed to the Eagle of Rome before I left on the campaign in Hispania. The gods themselves have confirmed that bond. But today, I complete that ritual before all of you. This arena is our atrium. All the lands of Rome are our bed. And I bring the fire of my family’s hearth . . . to the hearth of he who is my beloved, and give it to the waters of his home.”
Careful, careful wording. Jut vague enough not to reveal the whole game at once. Just true enough to sing when everything was revealed at last. Eurydice took one last deep breath, and caught the fire from the torch in her right hand, letting it float above and around her fingers, and gave the still-lit touch to Caesarion, gravely. Every movement slow and precise. Weighted with drama and ritual, and done so that everyone might see, no matter how far away their seats were.
She lifted both hands, letting fire flow from one palm to the other, like a pet snake, kept for luck in so many Roman houses. Close enough to her bare skin that she could feel the heat, but not close enough to burn. Feeding it with her own internal flame.
Fire was integral to every Roman home, from the highest to the lowest. The fire in the hearth of the Vestals could never be allowed to burn out, and embers carried from that hearth were thought to have special virtue to them. And in ancient times, before the invention of fire-strikers, starting a new fire, afresh, had been so labor-intensive that most homes never allowed their fires to go out, either—no matter the temperature outside. Stirring the coals, feeding them, keeping them alive, so that meals could be cooked and the darkness of night could be kept at bay, was not just a matter of pragmatism, but one of spirituality, deeply ingrained into every Roman heart.
She expected a few gasps, but this wasn’t enough to impress hard-headed Roman plebes. They saw charlatans and sleight-of-hand artists in the markets all the time. So after a pause to
let them see, Eurydice held up her hand, and began to weave the fire, as her sister wove cloth.
Strands of flame, feeding not on fuel, but on her own internal power, radiated out from her hand, ghostly, ethereal fingers stretching out from the marble balcony like the feathers of the fabled phoenix. Serpent-like, they reached the closest torches on the arena floor, two stories down, and then leaped, rippling like waves, spreading out from torch to torch to torch, all the way around the wide circle of the field. But the flame that connected them, each to each, like a ribbon or a garland, never died. Just undulated, until the circle became complete.
Gasps started to echo through the arena, as people began to understand that this wasn’t something that a festival conjurer could do. Rapid murmurs and whispers as the practical Roman plebiscite tried to figure out what device she was using to create this effect. Because, surely, it had to be the work of a machine.
Eurydice felt a trickle of sweat roll down the back of her neck. She’d worked hard the past three weeks, practicing the precision needed for this—and the range. She usually had her best control within sixty-one pesi, more or less. The width of the arena field below was over one hundred and eighty-five pesi. According to Tahut’s books, no mage-priest of Thoth had ever been able to cast spells with any reliable accuracy outside of about forty pesi.
She lifted both hands now—the gesture wasn’t necessary, but she needed people to see that this was her work, her doing. And gestures added to the drama. Like an actor on the stage. Except my goal today is to escape infamio.
And as she raised her hands, the interweaving flames racing between the torches receded back to their sources, and then blazed up higher. And higher. Became pillars of flame that extended up through the three stories of the open-air amphitheater, and then further still, into the heavens and the first stars. Eurydice fixed her eyes on the light of Venus, and whispered a prayer in her heart. Mother, let them believe. Just once, let the mix of superstition and pragmatism that marks the Roman soul transmute into something finer.
Working her fingers now, the gestures genuinely assisting this time, Eurydice incanted, aware vaguely that the torch in Caesarion’s hand behind her cast her face into shadow and mystery, while illuminating her whole frame, through the thin silk of her stola. Not that she thought many people would look at her at the moment. Why would they, as she braided sixty columns of flame in the skies above them into a single plait, reaching into the heavens? Released them again, and began to move and bend them once more into this or that geometric configuration. Made them into a tent of flame, curtaining the sky.
And then cut them away from the torches entirely, leaving the iron cages filled with flame on their stands to light the arena floor. Allowed the flames in the sky, detached from any fuel but her own power, to coalesce into a single blazing ball. And then brought it down like a comet, streaking across the sky like a portent, down into the pool of water that she’d so carefully told the servants to fill with oil, too.
The entertainment held after the gladiators’ combat and her own display had taken just enough time for the oil to rise to the surface. And in the only moment of device, the water seemed to catch fire, a roaring inferno that slowly died as the oil was consumed.
Absolute silence filled the arena, and Eurydice swayed there, quailing in her heart. They see a witch. They see a sorceress. They see a foreigner. They’re terrified, and they’re going to tear me limb from limb any moment now. But she reached out her arms to either side, as if to embrace them all, and her destiny, anyway.
And then Caesarion, who’d set the torch aside at some point, stepped up beside her, taking her hand in his, and the crowd suddenly came to life. Roared like a mad creature, eighty thousand people standing all at once to shout and scream. Eurydice kept her face absolutely still as Caesarion turned her towards him, and with his free hand, caught her face. “The die is cast,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear him.
And then he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, as his wife, in front of the wild mob.
She closed her eyes and shook. The roar of the voices made the ground tremble at least as much as the avalanche spawned by the druids had. But this wasn’t the fury of nature unleashed. This was more primal. But equally terrifying. At least if we die here tonight, we die together. And Alexander is safe enough off in Hispania. One of us will go on . . . .
And then she finally heard what the crowd was shouting, and her heart stuttered as Caesarion pulled his lips away from hers.
Aquilus. Aquilus. Aquilus. Accipitra. Accipitra. Accipitra. Aquilus i Accipitra . . . .
She exhaled, and looked up at her brother, husband, and beloved. “They chose life for us!” she shouted over the din of the crowd. “We don’t die today!”
Caesarion nodded, and turned back to the crowd, holding up his hand for silence, which they finally gave him after several more moments. “You know her now,” he shouted into the slightly quieter din. “You know her name. You know her face. You know that she is my sister, and by the rites of both Egypt and Rome, she is my wife. She is the uncrowned queen of Egypt, and the only Empress I will ever acknowledge. She is married to the Eagle of Rome. I am your Eagle. And she is my Hawk.” The sudden ferocity in his voice, the delighted pride—not superbia, which was negative, but gratification—filled her with joy.
And then he pulled her close once more, and muttered into her ear, “Fuck the Senate. Let them come for us now, if they dare.”
End of Book I
Notes
Edda-Earth's history diverged from that of Real-Earth thousands of years ago, both in and around the time of Akhenaten, and, most notably, in and around the failed assassination of Julius Caesar. All dates in Edda are presented as AC, after the ascension of Caesar, and are thus offset 44 years from the BCE/CE system we use in our world today. All dates are thus given as “AC,” or “after the Ascension of Caesar.”
Glossary
Accipiter, Accipitra, Accipitris — Accipiter is the term for a hawk; Accipitris is the plural. The female ending of Accipitra is non-standard.
Aediles — Elected officials in charge of putting on games, festivals, and renovating public works.
Alaude — The Larks. Nickname for the Fifth Legion.
Annona — Measures of wheat and bread granted by the government to the poor of Rome. A dole, effectively.
Armilustrium — October 19; the end of the war season, and the day on which weapons are ceremonially cleaned, anointed, and put up for the year.
Aquilus — Eagle.
Atrium — One of the two open-air sections of a Roman villa. Where the atrium was the formal area, and more traditional, being officially the ‘bedroom of the mother of the house,’ (not that any woman slept there) the peristylium was seen by some as a Hellene affectation. The atrium was generally located closer to the entrance, it’s the more formal of the two areas. Think of it as an outdoor parlor with fountains, possibly open-air, possibly with only a small oculus open to the sky, and the peristylium was the outdoor living room, and you’ll be close.
Ballistae – Siege weapons that hurled carefully-shaped stone bullets. Specialized siege weapons that could hurl arrows also existed, but ballistae far more commonly used stones.
Bona Dea — The “Good Goddess,” whose secret name was never spoken to men. Her ritual, held in early December of each year, was the only day on which patrician women could leave their houses unattended, conduct blood sacrifices on their own, and drink unwatered wine. These observances were eyed with some anxiety by Roman men, who felt their wives and daughters required their constant supervision and control. Only one man every entered into their ceremonies, in disguise as a woman; at which point the ceremonies of that year were considered completely desecrated.
Bulla — hollow golden amulet worn by boys until adulthood; contains many small charms, including phallic images, meant to tie the boy to his household lares and ward off bad luck, jealousy, and magic. Set aside when the toga virilis is given, s
uch amulets are kept in the house so that the amulet can be worn during adulthood during times of magical danger, or to ward off jealousy.
Caligae — Boots made up of dozens of straps of leather, with iron nails in the soles, worn by legionnaires. These boots were almost as much a symbol of citizenship as the toga, though not quite. Many men serving as auxiliaries affiliated with the legions, in order to attain citizenship and its rights and privileges (including immunity to torture) wore caligae in the course of normal duty before earning their togas.
Carruca — an early closed carriage used by Roman noblewomen, the invalids, and the infirm who could not ride, or who were prohibited from doing so by cultural reasons.
Circumvallation – a line of fortifications built around a besieged location, to block the defenders in, and protect a field camp against sorties from the defenders. Romans saw little point in pitched battles when they could let their engineering defeat the enemy for them.
Clementia — Clemency. Mercy, but in a sense that says “You live, but only because I, in my power, have permitted you to do so.”
Collegia — Groups of colleagues, usually men of equivalent rank or profession, or those who lived in the same neighborhood. Collegia served a number of purposes, including, but not limited to: providing a social circle of drinking brothers/lodge brothers; providing a neighborhood watch; providing a place where money could be held in trust for religious observances; overseeing civic/religious duties on holidays.
Conditum paradoxum — Heavily sweetened and spiced wine, served at major events such as funerals, homecomings, welcomes, and holy days. Almost all wine was served watered, and was frequently flavored with condensed fruit syrups, effectively making the favorite beverage of ancient Rome a wine cooler. Unwatered wine was generally reserved for sacrifice to the gods, and men could drink it unwatered if they chose, but usually did not. Women could only drink wine unwatered on Bona Dea.
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