Children of Tiber and Nile (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  This simple attack, bolstered by her own inner flame, had served her well through two years in Hispania. She’d swathed men in flame from head to toe before. Shuddered at their screams, and prayed for them to die quickly. Mercifully. She expected nothing else from the bull-creature, reverse minotaur that it was.

  She heard a roar that shook the ground. But when the flames dissipated, the creature stood, shaking sparks from its long hair, beard, and horns. Completely unscathed. “Oh, shit,” Eurydice whispered, the barracks word falling unbidden from her lips. Felt Lurio grab her by the shoulders as Caesarion once more shouted for the man to get her out of here. Her sandals skidded over the floor as Lurio pushed her right for one of the rear doors of the sanctum. Fleeting glimpse of Antony picking Cleopatra up bodily over his shoulder. Antyllus hurrying Selene in the same direction. Tiberius drawing his sword and, lacking a shield, turning to face the threat. Malleolus letting Caesarion take the gladius from his side.

  Saw the creature lower its head, as if preparing to charge, like a bull. Pause. And then it did race forward, with all the speed of inevitability. Heard one centurion bellow, “Get those fucking pila forward, lads! Hold! Hold, gods damn you!”

  Feel of the creature’s hooves on the stone floor, reverberating up through her body like an iron gong. The scream, horribly cut off, as the first man hit by the impact of that huge body was crushed, but the man behind him somehow managed to keep his feet. The incongruous twang as a pilum, bent under impact, snapped.

  And then tumbling through the door, still staring back, desperate to help, but for once in her life, at a loss for how to do so. Selene, shoved through after her by Antyllus, who snapped at the Praetorian holding the door, “Go with her! Keep her safe!” before drawing his own sword and turning to run back towards the altar. Antony dropping her mother at the door and shoving her through, with no deference or respect for her royal person at all. “Get your ass back to the palace,” Antony snarled. “Get as many guards on the doors as you can, and prepare a ship. With luck, that thing can’t swim.”

  And then, he, too, turned back to the fight, drawing his own sword. That he was fifty-nine this year seemed not to make a jot of difference to him as he hastened forward to join the rest of the men. And of all of them, only Caesarion wasn’t wearing armor.

  Eurydice tried to strain past Lurio’s barring arm. Tried to shout out the door, “Caesarion! Aquilus!” as her mind raced, trying to find options. Fire didn’t work. Fire always works. I don’t see more than a scratch on it so far—maybe stone . . . no, if I bring one of the pillars down—even if I could move them, huge things that they are—I’d just bring the roof down on all these people—

  “Domina, go!” Lurio finally shouted at her, and, tears streaking down her face, Eurydice let him shove her forward, deeper into the temple. Allowed herself to flee, with one final image burning in her mind—Caesarion, wearing nothing but a kilt, having stripped off his jewelry and crown, and holding a borrowed sword in his hand, forming a last line of defense behind the Praetorians, who had moved to surround and engulf the creature.

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  Caesarion, mind now eased by knowing that his pregnant wife was being escorted out of danger’s way—hopefully—hefted Mal’s gladius, feeling the weight of the tempered iron. Malleolus flanked his right; Tiberius, his left, both men in full formal armor, though Tiberius lacked a shield. Aware of his Imperator’s nearly naked state, Malleolus offered his own scutum, but Caesarion shook his head tightly, feeling, more than seeing as Antyllus and Antony run back to form the end of their line. A handful of remaining dignitaries ran out of the way, and then he finally had a clear line of sight to where the bull-creature rampaged in the center of a knot of Praetorians, in the midst of a sea of fallen chairs. Caesarion sucked air around his teeth, fury building in him steadily.

  The Praetorians, thanks to their training, had pressed in so closely, shields first, that the bull-creature couldn’t get a solid swing in with his oversized sword. But as they jabbed with their pila or gladii, the creature inevitably lashed out with a kick or a punch, creating space, if only for an instant. And then raised its sword into that gap to swing. “Make a hole!” Caesarion roared over the cries of fear and grunts of effort, the dull thud of metal on hide-wrapped wood. “If he wants me, he can come get me!”

  “Dominus!” Malleolus hissed.

  But the Praetorians, hearing that note of command, parted ranks, as ordered. And presented with a straight line of attack, right at Caesarion. . . the creature strode forward, faster than its lumbering gait would suggest that it could move—and then hesitated. Swung its head back and forth, as if looking for its target.

  And then raced for the door through which Eurydice, Selene, and Cleopatra had just exited, scattering still more by-standers out of its path, and trampling one Carthaginian completely under its hooves. The man screamed on the ground, a liquid, gurgling sound, as all his ribs were crushed. Antony managed to thrust with a sword as the creature bowled him over, scoring a hit on its shoulder, leaving a thin line of red to join dozens of other nicks and scratches that were the only wounds that the swords and spears of the Pratorians had left. I’m not the target, Caesarion realized with a sudden chill. Eurydice is. She and our child.

  With that surge of cold fear, and without further conscious thought, Caesarion raced after the creature, feeling Tiberius and Malleolus move with him. Mal’s sword became an extension of his arm, and Caesarion jabbed, hard, right for the creature’s armpit, where a great vein ran, on humans, anyway. The iron sword, held in his god-born hand, didn’t bounce. Skin separated, and the blade tasted flesh.

  The bull-creature slid to a halt and spun back to face him, its sword coming in a mighty arc that Caesarion ducked just in time, and Malleolus threw himself out of the way of. Tiberius, shorter to begin with, and the most skilled man with a sword that Caesarion had seen, other than himself, lunged in, aiming not for the armored chest, but for the exposed and hairy knees. “Iron isn’t working,” Tiberius snarled.

  Malleolus managed to roll back to his feet, now behind and beside the minotaur-like creature, and jabbed with his odd, curving dagger—which bit deeply into the creature’s arm. “Silver works!” the prefect shouted, his blue eyes glittering in the low light.

  “Great, let me throw my coin purse at it!” Antony snapped, pulling himself up off the floor.

  “The braziers are silver!” Antyllus shouted, already moving towards the now-dead firebowls beside the altar.

  “Go grab one and beat this piece of shit over the head with it!” Tiberius called back, throwing himself out of the way as the creature directed an absent kick at him, bringing its arm around for another backhanded slash at Caesarion.

  This time, Caesarion didn’t duck. He moved in, dropping his own sword to seize his opponent’s arm, twice the length of his own, and tried to stop the blow entirely. He could feel the weight of the creature, at least as massive as a horse, and growled, pitting every ounce of his own god-born strength against its weight and power. And he held it, locking its elbow in place with one hand. Feeling his feet skid back over the slick stone of the floor, meeting its enraged golden stare with his own. “Hurry up!” Caesarion snapped, feeling his Praetorians swarm now, moving up around him to once more engulf the creature. “Can’t . . . hold it . . . for long. . . .”

  And then his sliding feet picked up speed, and he found himself shoved out into the open. Both of his hands were tied up, keeping that blade from being used; the creature’s other arm was trapped behind its sword arm, off-line from any attacks. But it still had hooves, and one of those huge legs came forward now in a kick that threw Caesarion into the air. Made him sail over the heads of the fleeing by-standards. Then hit the stone floor, his head cracking into the stone. Dim awareness of still sliding, impelled by momentum, several more feet. And then he could see one of the massive pillars looming above and behind him. Impact.

  And then, for a moment, blackness.

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  The brazier was only twenty-five feet away, but looked as distant as Crete as Antyllus ran towards it. Grabbed it by the legs, feeling heat still in the bowl from the fires that Eurydice had snuffed moments before. He swung around, seeing his father back on his feet, Tiberius trying to keep the damned creature’s attention, Malleolus and the rest of the Praetorians trying to swarm it, and Caesarion—across the room. Unconscious on the floor. Gods. We have no chance at all if he’s out of the fight. Wasn’t expecting to die today.

  And with that blank, numb thought, Antyllus charged back into the fight, coming at the creature on its right, and swung the still-smoking brazier at it, aiming for its head at the length of his own arms. The brazier hit—hard enough that he saw the softened silver deform. Two of the legs came off in his hands with the impact, leaving him holding two jagged pieces of silver, one in each hand, while the bowl itself now had formed to the demon’s head, like some sort of demented cap.

  The creature roared in pain and spun towards Antyllus, ignoring the pinpricks of Malleolus’ dagger at its back. Ripped the brazier away from its face with its free hand, and swung that enormous sword at Antony’s son. Antyllus threw himself back out of range, feeling the wind of the blade’s passage, and shouted, “Tiberius! Catch!” before throwing one of the brazier legs to the younger man, who was already moving in beside the creature.

  Tiberius caught the improvised weapon in his left hand, sheathed his sword, switched it to his right, and proceeded to stab at the beast. Always aiming for the armpit if it raised its arm to swing the sword, or ducking down low to jab at its legs, or shifting to cut the angle, and aim for the groin. Vicious, fast stabs, but while the silver clearly hurt the creature, there simply wasn’t enough of a cutting surface to the broken legs. A sharp elbow from the creature caught Tiberius, sending him tumbling, but Antyllus saw him roll right back up again. Felt his father moving in beside him, trying to help him defend himself.

  And then the beast was on him, still clearly furious about the brazier strike to its face. The great sword swung back, and Antyllus once again backed up out of range—and found the damned altar right behind his knees. Caught unaware of his surroundings, Antyllus slipped, falling back over the altar—which, ironically, saved him, as the great blade swung in. He felt it catch his chain mail, worn for the ceremony today as part of the honor guard. Felt it slide right through the metal. No pain at first as he tumbled backwards, head hitting the stone, wrenching his neck, and then slamming down with all his weight on his spine, before rolling to a halt against the statue of Isis. Dazed and bloodied, he groped for the silver brazier leg, dimly knowing it was stupid and futile. And watched the creature loom over the altar, bringing its blade back—

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  Tiberius swore, grabbing a shield from the ground where a fallen Praetorian had dropped it, and ran forward, the silver leg still in his other hand. And managed, somehow, to leap atop the altar, the iron nails of his boots sliding on the slick marble surface. Shitty footing. Sorry, Isis. Don’t smite me for profaning it. He ducked down behind the shield, taking the hit meant for Antyllus—and promptly slid right off the altar, propelled backwards, and nearly fell onto Antyllus himself. Only by pure luck did he land, shield still up, and one foot braced on either side of the older man. Nothing in him at this moment besides the gray haze of combat. The tight bond of brotherhood that linked him to every other man who wore the same armor, and the need to defeat this enemy—or at least, to buy them all enough time for Caesarion to recover.

  “Get up!” Tiberius rapped out, and his shield shook with another hit. He couldn’t feel his left arm anymore, and suspected that the bones there had just been broken by the force of the impact. “On your fucking feet, Antyllus!”

  On their left, Antony darted in, surprisingly fast for a man his age. Jabbing with his iron sword and dancing back. Trying to buy them time. “Get up!” he roared at his son, and Antyllus responded, managing to slide back and away from Tiberius. Rolled to his feet, and wobbled there, blood creeping down his legs from a wound higher on his body.

  “Too bad we don’t have rope,” Antyllus said, his tone dazed. “We could trip the damned thing—“

  “Would take a ship’s anchor chain. Come on, stay with me. Circle,” Tiberius said tightly, pressing to their left. Watching Antony cede the space to them, and circle to his left, too. While Malleolus once more raced in from behind, stabbing again and again.

  This time, the Praetorian wasn’t as lucky. The creature, enraged by the bites of this particularly persistent gnat, swung all the way to its right, and, not bothering with the blade of its sword, slammed the pommel of the huge blade into Malleolus’ chest, sending the man flying into the crowd of his sworn brothers, knocking several other Praetorians over and back. Come on, Caesarion, Tiberius thought, not having the breath to say anything out loud. We can’t hold out much longer here.

  Over his head, though he didn’t realize it consciously, the eyes of the statue of Isis had begun to glow, bathing everything around him in a soft luminescence that he put down to the heightened awareness he always experienced in battle.

  And that was the moment Caesarion hit the creature from behind at a full charge, driving his sword deep into the back of its right knee.

  Tiberius couldn’t even see him behind the creature’s broad body. His first indication was the creature’s flinch, followed by a snapping sound as metal splintered. Then it sagged forward, trying to hold itself upright with only one functioning leg, and Caesarion kicked its other leg out from under it. The beast toppled to its knees, and Tiberius and Antyllus both lunged in at the same time. Both their initial strikes barely scored the creature’s face—but the second time, Antyllus managed to drive his brazier leg into the join between neck and throat, and Tiberius felt a shock of triumph as his slid into one of the creature’s wide, golden eyes. It screamed in agony, thrashing like a wild thing.

  Their moment of triumph was short-lived, as once again, its sword lashed out, this time from a lower angle, and they once more scrambled backwards, slipping on the slick floor. Then sliding backwards like crabs, on their hands and feet, trying to stay out of range, even as the beast tried to regain its feet.

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  Caesarion hadn’t had a coherent thought since regaining consciousness. He only knew that this creature threatened his wife, and everyone around him. Therefore, it needed to die. Still dazed, he watched as the creature tried once more to regain its footing. Stepped in. Caught its huge arm at wrist and just above the elbow, before it could move its sword into position for any further attacks. Swung the arm back and down in a calculated arc. And brought his knee up into that braced joint.

  Without the strength of Mars in him, it wouldn’t have worked. But he felt the elbow shatter. Heard the creature, already bleeding from terrible wounds, scream once more. But Caesarion was already moving forward, stripping the green-tinged sword from the creature’s limp hand. Too large and unwieldy for a mortal man’s hands, it must have weighed over fifty pounds, and once in motion, couldn’t be stopped.

  Two steps. A pivot. And Caesarion brought the blade around in an arc that made the air hum as he removed the creature’s head from its shoulders.

  As he watched the head topple away, he saw a look of peace cross its features, and stood, befuddled, as Malleolus staggered forward. The Praetorian was battered, sufficiently dazed that he stabbed the slumping, dead body repeatedly, before his fellows caught his arms to make him stop.

  And then the great body simply faded away into nothingness. Leaving behind only its sword, still in Caesarion’s hands. Breathing hard, he swung around. Checked on the condition of his friends—Malleolus, bruised and battered. Tiberius’ arm shield arm hung limp at his side now. Antyllus, bleeding as his father, Antony, helped him remove his armor to inspect the wound. Antony himself, untouched. He has the gods’ own luck, Caesarion thought, and glanced up, seeing the eyes of Isis continuing to glow. Or perhaps we all did, this time.
“How many . . . how many did we lose?” he panted, looking around.

  “I make it four Praetorians and four dignitaries,” Antony said, his tones sharp and precise as he mopped blood away from Antyllus’ chest. “Quite a few more wounded, however. And gods only know how many of the guests trampled each other.”

  Tiberius raised a hand. “Dominus, I hate to say this, but there could be other attacks. If I were the one who set this up, I’d have had fallbacks in place—“

  Caesarion’s mind went blank once more, and he headed straight for the door through which he’d last seen Eurydice—and Antony started calling out orders behind him, rapidly. “Some of you stay here, look after the civilians,” he rapped out. “Get medici in here—some of these priests must be good for something. The rest of you, form up and follow. You’re soldiers of Rome, not a band of deflowered vestals. Get those shields up and move.”

  Vaguely aware that someone was at least thinking, and grateful for it, Caesarion ignored the pain of his own head, spine, and ribs as he jogged through the temple, still holding a five-foot sword in one hand. Finding cowering dignitaries and priests in every nook and cranny, until he and his men burst from the temple’s rear exit, out into the bright light and sea breezes, and found Eurydice, Cleopatra, Selene, and their escort boarding a barge that would have taken them back across to the palace.

  Caesarion never remembered taking the steps that brought him to Eurydice. He was only vaguely aware that she’d somehow flown to him, and landed against his aching ribs with a thud that would have been more objectionable if it had been anyone else. And then, shaking a little, he just held onto her while Selene yelped at the sight of all the blood on Antyllus, and immediately ripped the hem of her gown to make bandages for him and the other men, and Cleopatra went to Antony, murmuring one soft word: “Indestructible.”

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