Put that way, there wasn’t much Padubast could say in the way of protest. He lowered his head in deep homage, and rasped, “I will reach out to my brethren at the temples of Karnak and Luxor. You will have their full-throated support, my lady. My lord.”
The queen flicked two fingers at the tent flap, and, dismissed, Padubast and Riei stumbled out. “They wouldn’t,” Riei whispered furiously as Padubast settled himself in his litter once more. “They can’t.”
“In less than a year, I think, you will be on your own to make that determination,” Padubast told him, coughing into yet another linen square. “I will be in the afterlife, beyond the reach of peasants and pharaohs alike. Though I’d prefer not to have my mummy dug up and burned by an angry mob.” He closed his eyes as the bearers lifted him up. “You may take your chances then, Riei, my old friend. For now? I believe them. I believe that they will do what they say. I even believe her, when she says that change may be . . . what is best . . . for our people. And it may even be the will of our gods. Thoth doesn’t speak to me often. But I noticed no flickering of the lamps in their tent. No . . . sudden storms have appeared. No packs of lions have emerged to roar at the walls of the camp.” He sighed.
______________
In the command tent, Eurydice allowed her expression to relax. Inhaled and exhaled deeply, then yelped a little as Caesarion leaned over, lifted her bodily from her chair, and pulled her into his lap, startling the eagle into flapping wildly back to its perch. “What are you doing—“ She blinked rapidly as he stood, propping her backside on the table in front of them, and kissed her. Fervently.
“Accipitra,” he murmured against her lips. “You played the role perfectly. You showed them the beak and the talons. And I love it when you do that.” He laughed, a rare sound indeed from Caesarion, and rested his forehead against hers. “The threat is the bribe. The bribe is the threat. Either way, you promised them that the truth’s coming out . . . and the only thing they get to choose is whether it comes out fast and bloody, or slow and controlled. Beautiful, my beloved. Simply beautiful.”
She swallowed, letting the fear she’d felt recede. “I thought for a few minutes there that I’d have to do it the bloody way. I might still have to. I’ve never tried so hard to imitate Mother before in my life—“
“Don’t spoil it,” Caesarion told her, and pushed her back onto the table, gently pressing his weight along her body.
A tiny, muffled laugh in reaction, and then a light tease as she ran her nails along one of his shoulders. “You know, I was looking forward to just after the investiture ceremony. You in this same kilt, me in that ridiculous dress—“
He bit her gently under her ear, cutting off her words as she gasped. “Want me to speak Egyptian while I take you?”
“Gods, yes, but not in here, the servants are going to walk in at any moment—“ Her voice was dazed suddenly.
“The bed’s not that far away.” He picked her up, whirled her around in a quick, exultant circle, and carried her the fifteen feet or so to the private area of the tent. “You proved that you can rule them,” Caesarion told her, settling her down on the bed. “Never forget that.”
Martius 24, 20 AC
They spent the better part of a week in Thebes, making sure that the various priests took Eurydice very seriously indeed, and then instructed the priests of the sprawling Egyptian pantheon to send delegates north to Alexandria, with lists of the names of major spirits who’d escaped the purges of a thousand years ago . . . and lists of major temples that were dedicated to dead gods, which could be easily merged with the worship of existing living ones. “Nothing that Egypt hasn’t really done before,” Eurydice pointed out in private. “How often have gods like Amun and Re seemed to be combined, anyway? And in fifty or a hundred years, the names of the dead ones can be gently eased out of living memory.” She shrugged. “The most conservative elements of society will protest, of course. But they won’t be much interested in truth. Just in maintaining their own power.”
“Just keep your Praetorians around you at all times. And work with Damkina on protections.” Caesarion had told her, his fingers tightening on her hand. “I won’t be here to, ah, provide you with masking from spirits. And once the child’s born. . . .”
“Once the child’s born, I should be able to go back to protecting myself, at least in part,” Eurydice reminded him. “I do feel annoyingly like a glass goblet, packed in straw and cotton, lest I fall and break myself.”
On the journey back, they did take the opportunity to explore the pyramids on the Giza Plateau. Eurydice was faintly surprised, and a little dismayed, to discover how small the passageways inside the great structures were. She had to drop to a crouch, and Caesarion needed to fold to his knees. And the spaces inside? One was a tomb, certainly, but many of the rest were simply engineering necessities. Open places to relieve the weight of the structure, lest it fall in on itself.
The keepers of the regional temples seemed happy to tell them that the Sphinx itself had been lost to the sands at least once before, and had been dug up at the command of Thutmose IV. That the statue had to be repainted once every five years, to keep its colors bright. “All this effort,” Eurydice murmured to Caesarion, looking up at the greatest of the pyramids, “all the preservation required to keep the limestone and gold shining, in spite of the sand tearing at it, year after year, century after century. And it’s all just for one man’s tomb. It’s not even a building, really. It can never be used for anything, other than to be a . . . symbol.”
“You have to admit, they’re damned impressive symbols,” Caesarion commented, staring at the face of the Sphinx, with its noble nose and impassive eyes. “I wonder what a Roman version of a pyramid would look like.”
She chuckled, subtly elbowing him as they turned away. “It would be functional,” Eurydice informed him loftily. “And there would be arches and pillars and statuary.”
“So, basically, square levels, stepped, with rooms inside?”
“And stairs that people can actually walk up and down. And it wouldn’t just be one man’s grave. Romans wouldn’t stand for that.” She looked up at him, smiling. “Maybe a tomb on the very top floor. With a good view of the sky.”
“And below that?” he asked, chuckling.
“Temples. Libraries. Places of learning. If you’re going to devote that much space to something, let it be for something that matters.”
The words sank into the back of his mind, and lingered there. It would be a good thing, to build a kind of symbol of unity in Rome. Not quite Egyptian, not quite Roman. But the engineering needed for it would be quite difficult. And costly. Will have to wait to see if those gold mines in Hispania pan out. Building us a new villa on the scale we really need to entertain diplomats and governors and everyone else is going to be expensive enough—and that’s with Alexander insisting that the Senate pay for half.
A slew of letters awaited them in Alexandria. A half-dozen from Alexander alone, including one in the hieratic code that only he and Eurydice used. Eurydice translated it, and gave it to Caesarion. Caesarion dictated a reply, grim-faced. Giving their brother permission for what he needed to do. But neither of them felt good about the decision. Nor did they feel clean.
Neither of them slept the night before he left. Caesarion spent a good portion of the evening wondering what it would be like just to . . . stay here. Somehow. But in the end, I sent men to Britannia. The war season began two weeks ago, and the salii leaped and danced in Rome, and I wasn’t there to watch. It’s time I lead my men, damn it. “Write to me,” Eurydice told him quietly, just before dawn, as he started dressing to leave for the ship.
“I will. Every day.” He gave her a faint smile. “Did you know that Father wrote several books of poetry?”
“Mother’s mentioned it. I’ve never had the courage to read any of it.”
“He was just as good at it as he was at oratory and history. I don’t think I inherited any of those skills. But I’ll
send you maudlin poems in my letters, how’s that?”
As he expected, she burst out laughing at the mere thought, and he came over to the bed. Leaned down and kissed her as she laughed. And, as she stilled, he spread a hand across her belly, wondering if he’d feel anything there. He didn’t, of course; it was too early in the pregnancy. “I keep telling myself that thousands of legionnaires miss their wives every year,” Caesarion told Eurydice quietly. “Thousands of men don’t get to hold their children just after they’re born. There’s . . . nothing special about us, in that respect.” He sighed, and gave her one last, tight embrace.
“Stay alive, and be victorious,” Eurydice whispered, her voice tight.
“I’ll try to do both those things. And the instant I get the men into winter camp, I will cross that narrow bit of sea and take a horse relay from Gaul to Rome. My backside won’t love me, but I’ll be here before the year ends, if Fortuna smiles.” He kissed her hand, and picked up the bag that held his armor and weapons; he wouldn’t suffer anyone else to carry it for him. “Goodbye, Accipitra. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Aquilus.” Her eyes were suspiciously bright, but he knew she was holding back the tears as best she could, not wanting to weep before him.
Nothing more than that. He left quietly, and looked back once he’d reached the docks below. Caught sight of a single figure in white up on the headland, looking down at the ships below. . . and a particularly persistent gull landed on the ship’s deck beside him. Caesarion chuckled under his breath, though his heart wasn’t really in it. “You’ll see me off, then. As far as you can reach.”
Chapter XI: Blood
Februarius 15-20, 20 AC
Octavia Thurina wandered the grounds of the Julii villa, bored and discontent. She’d long since found herself drifting out of her friendship with Selene Julia, though they lived in the same house, and Eurydice Julia was powerful and frightening—and usually incredibly busy. The Empress of Rome had delegated household oversight to Selene quite willingly over the past three years, but between constantly meeting with ambassadors, studying magic, conversing with priestesses of Venus for whatever reason, and periodically riding off on campaign with Caesarion, she never seemed to have time to sit down and talk. There were always injunctions for Octavia to concentrate more on her studies, to improve her mind, to read more. But never a moment to chit-chat about the latest fashions—for all that Eurydice seemed to be setting the style among younger Roman women, with her tendency to wear Egyptian bracelets and Roman stolae, and whatever else. And certainly never a chance to talk about what they’d seen at the last games, or who’d been betrothed of late, and everything else.
If Octavia had been a little more aware and intelligent, she could have parleyed gossip into a more political awareness—who was betrothed to whom was one of the most important weathervanes for shifting politics among wealthy plebeians and patricians in Rome. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t particularly feel the lack. Being relatively inclined towards kind-heartedness, her gossip never tended towards the malicious. But she was starved for conversation at this point. Since the rest of the household had left, Alexander, her betrothed, occasionally ate dinner at the house with her. Politely nodded through her conversational sallies, but had an air of preoccupation through every meal, as if he were reading as they ate—even if there wasn’t a single scroll in front of him at all!
Midway through Februarius, he’d come down with some fever or another, that had resulted in him being pale and ill for several days—though he’d insisted on going out and about throughout the illness as if nothing at all was wrong. “Just ate something that didn’t agree with me,” he’d assured her blithely at the door, and had mounted up to leave. “Much to do.”
“I’d really like to speak with you about our wedding!” Octavia had called after him, and, as the servants closed the door between them, had stomped her foot on the tile floor of the lobby, hurting her heel in her vexation.
Stalking through the villa in her agitation, she’d blundered along through the chilly peristylium garden, where she’d not ventured since winter began. And had noticed, to her surprise, that on the upper story, where there were a half-dozen usually unused rooms, there were guards on duty along the balcony. In curiosity, she’d gone upstairs to find out what was going on, to be firmly rebuffed by men twice her age, but surely with half her social standing. “I live here,” she told them, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m Lord Alexander’s betrothed, and in the absence of the Empress and Selene Julia, I am the lady of this house.”
It . . . wasn’t strictly true. No one had handed her the keys, to her chagrin. She remained precisely what she’d been before the general exodus of the Julii; an honored house-guest.
And these men, with their unshaven faces and hard eyes, seemed to know it, too. They exchanged glances, shrugged at one another, and simply wouldn’t let her pass. In exasperation, Octavia stood on her tiptoes, trying to look over their shoulders, and caught sight of a male slave she didn’t recognize—relatively tall, with short, curly, golden hair—assisting a woman out the door of one of these upstairs bedrooms. Octavia couldn’t see her face, only the red-gold hair, and the fact that she wore only a thin tunic, exposing most of her legs. Octavia’s eyes widened; the slave assisting the woman caught sight of her, and he immediately hustled the woman back into her room, closing the door behind them.
“It might be for the best if you were to go now, domina,” one of the men said pointedly.
Bristling with indignation, Octavia did precisely that. At a loss for anything else she could do, she waited until Alexander came home, and tried to brace him on the subject at dinner. “Why are there guards around one of the bedrooms? Who is our guest, Alexander? I have a right to know who’s . . . who’s living under this roof.” She tried to put firmness in her voice, but Alexander, who was sharing the same eating couch with her, but hardly doing justice to the meal before them, looked as if she’d jerked him back from a thousand miles away.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Who is staying in the guarded room?” Octavia’s mind teemed with sudden suspicions. She’d seen how he looked at that horrible Sulpicia months ago. Her with her obviously dyed red-gold hair. While mine is dyed, it’s at least blond to start with, she fumed to herself now. Mine’s tasteful. Hers is not. And then the suspicion, already forming, fermented completely: “It’s Servia Sulpicia, isn’t it?” Octavia accused, watching Alexander’s eyes widen slightly. “You’re having an affair with her, right under the same roof where I live. Well, I won’t have it!” She sat up, bristling now. “You may make every excuse there is to put off our wedding, but I won’t have you keeping a mistress in the same house as me!”
Alexander stared at her for a long moment, and then laughed. Uproariously. Octavia felt herself dwindling under that laughter, like a pig’s bladder, inflated with air, and then popped with a pin. “No,” he said, picking up a knife and peeling an apple with it. “My guest is not Sulpicia. You’ll note that she hasn’t been to dinner here more than twice in the past several months?” He cut off a slice of apple and put it in his mouth with every evidence of enjoyment, but didn’t offer her any. “As for the rest? This isn’t your house.” His eyes shuttered. Went blank and cold, and she realized numbly that she’d never seen this side of him before. Ever. “It is my brother’s, and for the moment, I speak for him. Who the guests of the Julii are, are none of your affair. You will not attempt to enter those rooms or speak with their inhabitants again, Octavia. I say this for your own safety.”
Octavia gaped at him. And her mind took a leap, and landed somewhere entirely elsewhere. “Are they ill?” she asked, her eyes wide. “Do they have some horrible sickness?”
“As far as you’re concerned, they’re lepers.” His dark eyes glittered in the low light from the oil lamps illuminating the room. “Stay away from them. Forget they exist. And,” he cut another slice of apple with the knife, adding with slow, cool purpos
e, “I’d take it as a courtesy if you never mentioned Servia Sulpicia’s name to me again.”
A rush of relief passed through her. He hates her, Octavia thought with glee. He despises that old creature with her kohl and her would-be Egyptian jewelry and all her airs and pretensions to poetry, she thought, consigning a woman of only twenty-one years to the same mental midden to which she’d assign a woman of sixty.
When her step-mother, Livia, summoned her to lunch later that week, Octavia went, relieved to have someone to talk to at last, even if it was Livia. Her own mother, Scribonia, from whom Octavian had ensured that she’d be estranged for the first ten years of her life, had died this past year. Octavia had found it almost impossible to mourn the woman. The Julii had permitted her to become acquainted with her mother over the intervening four years, but it had been solely on social occasions. No real bond had ever been established. And so, she was left with Livia, Cleopatra, and Eurydice as the closest things to motherly figures in her life. None of whom really fit that description at all.
But in Livia’s house, drinking watered wine, Octavia felt, for the first time in her life, as if her step-mother sympathized with her. “Alexander simply won’t set a date for the marriage,” Octavia complained. “He says he’s too busy, what with working with the architects on the plans for the new Julii villa—“
“So that’s actually going to happen. They’re going to build that monstrosity right on the Palatine.” Livia shuddered delicately. “And then the reigning monarch of Egypt and his incestuous queen will daily walk the sacred soil of Rome. As no king or queen has been permitted to do in hundreds of years.”
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