Their mother sighed. “And it’s very noble of both Alexander and you to offer her a place in your homes,” Cleopatra murmured, shaking her head. “But it leaves out one important element. She’d never get on with her own life. Always be an adjunct to one of you. Which is why she really must marry. And before you leave for Egypt.”
“Mother, you treat your daughters in such a fashion as you would never permit someone to treat you,” Eurydice snapped.
But Selene just shook her head rapidly, and without asking for permission to leave, turned and ran out of the room. Leaving Gaius, who’d just grabbed her arm to get her to look at what he’d been drawing, to wail indignantly in her wake. No, Selene thought, reaching her own tiny cubicula, and throwing herself down on the sleeping couch there. I won’t. I won’t. She can’t make me.
______________
Eurydice watched her sister leave, but couldn’t go after her immediately. Not with a full-fledged argument now broiling between all the remaining adult siblings and their mother. Cleopatra picked up Gaius, bouncing him on her hip as she glared at Eurydice now. “I treat you in exactly the ways that your behavior merits and reality dictates, daughter.”
“There is no reason to push her into a marriage when she’s not ready,” Eurydice returned flatly. “She can come with me to Egypt. And when she decides she’s ready—“
“And when will that be?” Cleopatra returned acidly. “When you’ve given in to her fears and protected and sheltered her for the next five years? The next ten? When you’ve allowed her to wish her entire youth away, dreaming of the perfect man, I’m sure. One who’ll never actually ask her to do more than play her damned lyre.” Cleopatra’s lips thinned.
And for a blistering instant, Eurydice understood her mother. Saw right down to the core of her. “Good gods,” she muttered, putting a hand on a scroll rack to steady herself at the insight.
“Antyllus is on your guest list for dinner tonight,” Cleopatra reminded Eurydice, as her daughter stood there, dazed. “Do seat them beside each other. Selene must grow up at some point, and continuously allowing her to wallow in whatever sea of self-pity she’s sunk herself in, does no one any good.” A glance of asperity at Alexander. “Also, I’m sure you’ll have Octavia seated beside her betrothed, as usual.”
“I know my duties to Octavia,” Alexander growled, his face still dark. “I’m reminded of them daily.”
Cleopatra nodded, still bouncing Gaius on her hip. And then swept out of the room, still regal as a queen.
In her wake, Tiberius shook his head. “She’s less draining than my mother, but gods, she’s demanding,” he muttered. “I don’t envy any of you.”
“She’s jealous,” Eurydice said, still shaken, which got all the men’s heads to turn towards her. “She’s jealous. And of Selene, of all people.” She sat down on one of the chairs, feeling Caesarion move up behind her, his warm hand caressing the nape of her neck.
“How do you mean?” he asked quietly.
“Selene’s . . . protected.” Eurydice replied, shaking her head. “The way no one ever protected our mother. By the time she was Selene’s age. . .” They all knew the grim reality of Cleopatra’s youth. She’d been taken to Rome as a refugee by her father, during a rebellion by her sisters. When her sisters had been overthrown with Rome’s aid, she had, when a year younger than Selene was now, watched her own sisters executed, and then, as her father’s queen, had been raped nightly for three years until his death. Then another civil war, between her and her last remaining siblings, resulting in her alliance with Caesar . . . which had led to the births of her first four children. All before the age of twenty. Eurydice swallowed, and added, quietly, “Each of us was protected, yes, but . . . Caesarion and I are both god-born. Alexander protects himself. Selene can’t protect herself—she’s never been forced to. She’s skilled in all the things Mother has no talent for.” She shrugged a little now, and added, “And I wonder if the push to have her marry Antyllus might be an urge to . . . rewrite history a little, on Mother’s part.” Wed the son of the man she could have loved in her youth, but didn’t, to her own daughter.
“Well, she and Antony would get a grandchild together out of it, without having to wait for Gaius to grow up,” Caesarion muttered, clearly seeing the pattern as she did. “I’ll talk to Antyllus before dinner. And make it clear that no matter what Mother and Antony think, I won’t let Selene be forced into anything that she doesn’t want. She has to give consent in this before I will.” Eurydice looked up at him, seeing the grim lines on his face. “And I don’t care if Mother thinks we’re overprotecting her.”
“Just don’t let her become a damned Vestal,” Tiberius said with a surprising scowl. “They do make exceptions for older girls now and again. A thirty-year vow of marriage to the whole of Rome shouldn’t be taken just because she’s frightened of marriage to a man.”
“I don’t think she’s frightened,” Alexander said slowly. “I don’t know what she is. She does like men, yes?” He glanced at Eurydice.
“She hasn’t confided in me since, well. . . .” Eurydice tapped beside one eyelid. “You’d be better off asking Octavia. They used to giggle together incessantly, mostly about men, I think.” Eurydice thought about that. If she had to put a date to it, the giggling had diminished sharply after the Bona Dea rites of three years ago. They had a falling out of some sort, perhaps? I thought it was just a question of Selene growing up more quickly than Octavia, but . . . .
“Why is everyone telling me to talk to my betrothed today?” Alexander complained.
“You’re due. Every man should speak to his wife or betrothed at least once a week,” Caesarion replied, dead-pan, his hand still on the back of Eurydice’s neck. And then he looked down at her and smiled. “Or more often, in some cases.”
Tiberius stood. “I’ll go get cleaned up before dinner,” he added, asking Caesarion, “By your leave? I’d offer to go talk to your sister, but. . .” he shrugged, “I doubt there’s anything I could say that would comfort her at the moment.”
Caesarion flipped a hand at him in dismissal. “Go on. Eurydice can deal with her later. For the moment, can we get back on the topic of the representatives from the Gallic provinces and their complaints about the temples before dinner?”
And Eurydice, Caesarion, and Alexander sat back down to discuss the thorny issues that the policies that they’d inherited now presented.
______________
Marcus Antonius Antyllus had spent the afternoon, not at the baths, where his brother Jullus had invited him to join him and his friends, but rather at a series of archery butts located behind his father’s villa. He stepped on the end of the Scythian recurved bow he’d purchased years ago during his service in Illyria—now the incorporated province of Illyricum, which his father had finished pacifying last year—and slipped a fresh string into place.
The peculiar double curve of the bow’s design meant that the limbs only required a very slight deflection to string it, and it always retained its curvature, even when unstrung. . . but the draw-weight of this weapon was like nothing else he’d ever seen. Over a hundred and sixty librae. Archery demanded exceptional muscular strength in the arms, chest, and back—anyone could fire off a quick trick shot from a mostly slack bow, at ten or twenty feet. War archery, however, the kind that punched arrows through armor at a hundred feet, required far more skill and strength. He’d already been an exceptional archer before finding this bow, but he’d needed to develop even more strength and control to use it, and use it well.
The peculiar double curve of the laminated wood and horn intensified as the string slipped home, and Antyllus chuckled to himself; it had always looked to him like the outline of half of a smiling female mouth. Thus, in his mind, his bow was the Scythian maiden, and he definitely liked to see her smile. The hum of the string, as he plucked it lightly, was the maiden’s laughter. And he went over his arrows with the same methodical care he’d applied to the bow itself. Strong arrows wit
h heavier pine shafts and murderous narrow points, for penetrating shields and cuirasses, had their place. Lighter arrows, made of reed, with points shaped like fishtails, for taking birds on the wing. The lighter the arrow, the more likely that it needed extra weight—stone or metal—at the tip to give it penetrating force when it reached its target. A light arrow couldn’t carry the force of this kind of bow. It would just flutter at the end of its trajectory, uselessly.
And each of these arrows had been fletched to measure. The length of his arm. The strength of his draw. The power of this particular bow. He selected medium-weight arrows, and got to work, finding the calm center of his spirit and exhaling partially as he fired. Steady hands. Even flow of motion. Using a bow too strong for the arm tended to make a man’s hands and arms shake with the strain, but he’d been making this particular maiden smile for over three years. They knew each other very well. Accuracy shots, first. Then, once he’d warmed up, he aimed for speed. Between twelve and twenty shots, taken in a minute. Not thinking, and not particularly aiming. Just telling the maiden where he wanted the arrows to go, and letting her smile.
After a half hour, he took a break to let his arms rest, and stretched, wishing that Ianuarius would hasten past, bringing warmer weather to Rome. “Not bad,” he heard his father’s voice, and turned, catching Mark Antony’s quirked glance at the targets. Most of which had a dozen fletchings decorating their centers.
“Eh, I’ll never be able to sail one arrow through the holes at the back of twelve axeheads, all lined up,” Antyllus said, remembering the part of the Odyssey he’d loved best as a child. “But the Cretans I usually command have told me that I shouldn’t have been born a Roman. There’s word that they might want to adopt me.” He nodded soberly, watching his father’s grizzled eyebrows rise.
“I trust you’ve no desire to accept?”
“No, no, I was born right here in Rome. I’d say that if you cut me, I’d bleed water from the Tiber, except that then you’d ask me if I were full of shit, too.” Antyllus grinned at his father, winning a hearty guffaw from his elder, and a slap on the back. “To what do I owe the pleasure of company during my practice session?” he asked over his shoulder, heading to the targets to retrieve his arrows.
“You’ll be going to dinner with the Julii tonight.” It wasn’t quite a question.
Antyllus nodded, frowning slightly in puzzlement. “I visit once or twice a month outside the campaign season,” he said simply, returning his arrows to his quiver. “Caesarion asked me this winter to help assess some land for an additional port—something to supplement Ostia.” He paused. “Is something amiss?” Antony hadn’t asked about Antyllus’ comings and goings since he was eighteen. Much in contrast to Father’s own earliest years, where he apparently wandered the streets of Rome at will from about the age of twelve on. He didn’t have a strong father at hand. I did. Even if we spent the first eight years of my life going from battlefield to battlefield during Caesar’s civil wars, he was always there.
“Nothing’s amiss,” Antony returned. “In fact, something might even go right for once. My wife went over earlier to discuss her youngest daughter’s marriage prospects with her son.”
Antyllus blinked. “I thought that was off the table till Selene was older.”
“She is older. Fifteen. Perfectly suitable age for marriage.” Antony patted his son on the shoulder. “Give her some of the family charm. I’d like to have grandchildren at some point.”
Antyllus drew, aimed, and loosed at the furthest target. “I don’t see you trying to marry off Jullus.”
“Your brother is a cinaedus.” Antony grimaced. “Apparently writes some decent poetry, but . . . .”
“Women still seem to flock to him.” It was true. Jullus had the same faintly androgynous facial qualities of a statue of Cupid. The sort of face that women swooned over, and Jullus, by all accounts, took full advantage of that fact. When he wasn’t spending time with other men, anyway. Antyllus made a point of not asking his brother how many lovers he had—or of which gender they were. There were strong rumors about both Jullus and Gaius Cornelius Dolabella, one of Cicero’s grandsons by his daughter Tullia. Son of the same Dolabella who’d slept with Antony’s first wife, whom he’d divorced after producing the eldest of Antyllus’ three sisters, Antonia the Elder.
Of course, the difference between a cinaedus and any other man with male lovers was subtle. The word suggested not only that he was on the receiving end on occasion, but that he lacked the essential qualities of a man—virtue. Excellence in war, courage, integrity, honor. A man’s worth was known by these things, and could only be truly measured in combat. And after demonstrating that worth in battle, a man could continue to demonstrate it in public life, through a political career. The military, political, and social were therefore inextricably entwined. A man who demonstrated virtue could be excused any number of lovers of the same sex. Assuming he never allowed himself to be penetrated, of course. That way led to infamio.
All of which constituted Antyllus’ reasons for turning down Jullus’ perfectly cordial suggestion that they go to the baths together today to meet his friends. If the elder brother did that, he suspected that he might find out more than he really wanted to know, and would be obliged to say something pungent along the lines of family honor and dignitas. It was therefore better if he did not know. “Marry him off, and I’m fairly sure you’ll get grandchildren,” he said now, loosing another arrow.
“Yes, but will they be mine?” Antony asked dryly.
“The first one or two, I assure you.” Antyllus’ voice was light. “Then he’ll get bored of his wife and find another bed. And she’ll probably get bored, too, and find affection elsewhere, and in and around a divorce, there might be a bastard or two that slips in.”
“I definitely understand boredom, but I’d like to avoid some of the drama,” Antony replied, his tone still dry. Antyllus shot his father a wry glance; Antony’s love-life had been full of exactly that, for decades. Now, the older man ran a hand over his curly, graying hair. “I blame myself. I was rather busy trying to fit myself inside an amphora of wine when you two were boys. I missed your mother. There was an . . . incident with Cleopatra that resulted in my banishment from Caesar’s inner circle. And then I married Octavia. The wine jar became even more appealing from that moment on.” He grimaced. “It was unmanly of me. And Jullus pays the price of my failings.”
“You were there for us, Father,” Antyllus replied, lowering his bow and regarding his father for a moment. “Jullus just reacted to Octavia’s moralism differently than I did. That’s all. He might someday decide that he doesn’t have to throw it in her face anymore. Now that she’s been dead five years or so.” He shrugged. Moralism and coldness. Moralism for us. Coldness for Father. Then again, I got away from the house two years before Jullus did, and I had Tincomarus, our Gallic hostage, for company many days. Three years older or not, he was still almost as good as another brother. Then my fourteenth birthday came, and I joined the legions the instant I could.
Lifting his bow again, and aiming to distract his father, he added now, lightly, “And on the subject of grandchildren . . . given the number of half-brothers and half-sisters I have running around,” a sly note entered Antyllus’ voice as he gave his father a look, “aren’t the odds of there being grandchildren already in the mix pretty good?” Another shot. His father’s reputation as the world’s greatest lover was sometimes a burden, but it was often also highly amusing. Or at least it had been, when prune-faced Octavia had been alive to be shocked when yet another woman had turned up with a ten-year-old bastard, petitioning Antony for apprenticeship fees, or whatever else.
Antony gave his first-born son a look. “Yes, but those don’t carry my name. Mind your tongue, son.”
“Oh, I do. But taking the safest course never brought anyone victory . . . or adventure.” Antyllus grinned outright, and loosed another arrow. He had his rhythm now.
“But we were speaking of
you. As I was saying, apply the family charm. Your brother can’t have inherited all of mine. Cleopatra told me that Caesarion’s still reluctant, mostly because the girl says she doesn’t want to marry at all.”
Antyllus blinked, relaxing his hold on the string without loosing the arrow, and turned to stare at his father. “Just so we’re clear, are you ordering me to seduce the sister of the Emperor—who is, by the way, my friend?”
Antony grunted. “Not in any physical sense, though it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you got her into bed.” He shrugged. “Talk her around before we lose the only opportunity this generation for forging a lasting alliance with the Julii. Gaius is the light of my old age, but he’s the son of an Egyptian queen. Not of a daughter of the Julii.”
Another arrow aimed, then loosed. “I’ll do my best, but every time I’ve so much as smiled at that girl, she vanishes.” Not that I have quite my father’s way with women—no one on earth could possibly live up to that—but I’ve rarely had them flee my presence outright.
A snicker from his father. “I thought you were a better hunter than that.”
“Some prey doesn’t come to the stream or the salt lick, Father, and takes flight at the faintest sound in the underbrush. After a certain point, you stop hunting for unicorns when you get tired and hungry, and there are deer in plenty all around.” His fingers released the next arrow.
“Well, the unicorn will be brought to bay tonight. Do try to catch her.”
“As my father commands.” He brought his fist to his chest in an ironic salute, and got a light cuff across the back of his neck for his impudence—which only made him grin. Well, looks as if I have to try to get a different maiden to smile, he told his bow silently. Don’t be jealous. And unstrung it to carry it and his arrows back into the house.
Children of Tiber and Nile (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 2) Page 6
