Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  He paused at the balcony, considering the problem as he stared out over the atrium. And in a flash, it seemed as if all his current problems might have one singular and very neat solution.

  Fact: As soon as I marry Octavia, Tiberius will quietly step out of my life. I don’t want that. Even if there’s no more sex . . . and I can accept that. . . I don’t want him out of my life entirely.

  Fact: His betrothal to Agrippa’s daughter serves no current useful political need. In fact, it’s a hindrance to him, since it saddles him with Octavianite connections, when he’s solidly in the Julii camp.

  Fact: Breaking that betrothal would be a matter of a conversation with and a possible apology to Agrippa, followed by a wrist-clasp between men, and it would be over.

  Fact: My sister needs a husband who will take excellent care of her.

  Fact: Tiberius is probably the most honorable person I know. He’d never cheat on her. Never beat her. She’d be treated with respect and kindness throughout her entire life—the respect and kindness that she really deserves.

  Fact: I’d be welcome to visit them at any time. And while that might sound self-serving, even if I have to give up everything else, I do not want to lose the friendship.

  Alexander set his hands on the railing of the balcony and exhaled. “Now, if I can only convince him to make the offer, convince Caesarion to consider it, and convince her not to reject Ti out of hand. . . .” First thing’s first. Talk to Tiberius.

  His friend was in the bath house behind the main villa, taking a quick swim in spite of the Ianuarius chill—mostly, Alexander suspected, to clean the sweat off from their earlier exertions. Tiberius popped out from under the water of the frigidarium area, looking surprised to see Alexander here—fully clothed—and gave him a rare half-smile. “You’re overdressed for a bath.”

  “I’ll bathe in a bit.” Alexander took off his sandals and sat on the edge, watching as, in the distance, the servants set up oil, towels, and strigils. “I need to talk to you about something first. I think you should marry Selene.” Quick, blunt, and to the point. Circumlocutions and subtlety didn’t work with Tiberius.

  His friend stood rooted in the shallow end of the pool, staring at him. “What?” His voice echoed back off the tiled walls, causing several servants to look over in interest. Then Tiberius planted his elbows on the tiled edge and hissed, more cautiously, “What did you just say?”

  “It’s not a state secret. I think you should marry my sister. You’ve said many times that if Caesarion ever made noises about adopting you, you’d accept. Gods know, you’ve suggested taking the Julii name as if you were a manumitted slave,” Alexander added that last in a very quiet voice, mindful of how his words might bounce off the frigidarium’s walls. “Marry her. Be my brother in truth.” He exhaled. “I think I’ll find it easier to . . . give you up, if it’s to someone I love.” Alexander grimaced, looking away. Why does the truth always have to hurt to speak? Lies are so much easier to say.

  Tiberius looked away himself, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. “There’s the matter of my being betrothed to Vipsania—“

  “Tell Agrippa that political realities have changed, which is true, and that while you still respect him, you’d like to align yourself more fully with a cause with which you find yourself in full accord.” Alexander shrugged. “The most you might have to deal with is your mother’s affront at marrying a hated half-Egyptian Julii—“

  “I’m not sure you could have spoken words more likely to make me agree to this insane proposition,” Tiberius muttered, running a hand over his hair, darkened almost to brown by the water. “Alexander . . . she doesn’t want to marry anyone. And I’m . . . cold by nature. Not particularly the loveable type—”

  Alexander gave him a sidelong look. “You say that to me?” When I have substantial proof that you’re capable of quite a bit of passion?

  “She’s not going to accept me. She never looks straight at me—“

  “I haven’t seen her look straight at anyone in years, other than Octavia. Not since Father died, anyway.” Alexander sighed internally. “I think we all thought that someone else was looking after her, and it turns out that we all were neglecting her. Time to do something about that.”

  Tiberius turned towards him. No physical contact at all. “And your solution is me? Alexander, desperate times call for desperate measures and all, but . . .” He darted a glance over his shoulder at the various servants, whispering, “Not two hours ago, we were in bed with one of your better informants, and you want me to propose marriage to your sister with a whore’s sweat—and yours!—still on me?” Incredulity in his voice.

  “You’re taking a bath right now. Ti, I think she’s scared of the unknown, more than anything. You’re a known quantity. You’ve lived in this house for years. She knows you’re . . . safe.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.” Tiberius snorted loudly.

  Alexander looked at the ceiling. “More or less. I’m just saying that it would scarcely be a change for her at all. And I know you’d take care of her.” His throat ached for a moment. “She’d be a damned idiot not to love you eventually . . . and I don’t think she’s an idiot. And I think she’d make you happy, and I’d have the chance to see that in your eyes every time I saw the two of you.”

  Tiberius put his head down on the edge of the pool, his shoulders rigid. “An hour ago, you said things didn’t have to end right away,” he muttered.

  “An hour ago, my brother and his wife didn’t think they were going to have to separate for a year or more. An hour ago, I didn’t know my younger sister needs to be taken out of this house, or that the thought of leaving it sends her into a catalepsy.” Alexander reached out and put a hand lightly on Tiberius shoulder. Felt the warmth of his friend’s skin, and hated himself for his next words. “Please, Ti. Talk to Caesarion. Ask to be considered as a suitor.”

  He felt Tiberius’ shoulder tighten under his grip. “He’s going to love that,” his friend muttered. “I can already hear the comments about how we’re giving up wrestling.”

  “He won’t put it that way to you. He’s too well-mannered, and he likes you,” Alexander predicted. “As soon as he gets me in private, however, I’m in for more jokes at my expense than anyone in the city who calls me Cerastes would ever imagine.”

  Tiberius lifted his head. “Well, eagles do tend to win over snakes.”

  Alexander looked at the ceiling again. “I know. Gods, how I know.”

  ______________

  Caesarion stared at the pair of young men in his study. There was an hour left before dinner, and both had bathed, oiled, shaved, and dressed in their best tunics. “Which of you came up with this idea?” he asked tiredly, standing from his desk to go warm his hands at the brazier that kept his tile-walled study warm, in spite of the breezes coming in through the slatted wooden walls that separated the room from both the open atrium and the peristylium garden.

  Tiberius’ glance at Alexander spoke volumes.

  Caesarion shook his head. “Do you want to marry her?” he asked Tiberius bluntly. “Or is this a matter of maximum convenience to the most people?”

  Tiberius sighed. “I’ve had all of an hour to think about this,” he said, moving closer. “The fact is, she needs a home. I have a villa that’s . . . largely empty, other than the rooms that my brother and I occupy. And I’ll admit, I hated the thought of seeing her waste away as a Vestal. It burned.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Caesarion replied shortly. I didn’t particularly like the thought, myself. Yes, it’s a position of enormous prestige for the women who take the oath, and for their families, too. But . . . Selene? No.

  Tiberius nodded. “Anyone seeing her with Gaius? Has to know that she likes children. She’ll be a wonderful mother. And it would be rather pleasant not to have to wait another six years before I can actually get married,” he added, dryly. “I realize it’s more usual for men of our class to wait till they’ve finished th
eir first ten years of service, but . . . apparently, there’s something of a hurry.”

  Caesarion grimaced. “Our mother is renowned for her subtlety outside of this house,” he said shortly. “With her immediate family, she doesn’t feel the need to employ it.”

  “More of a sledgehammer,” Alexander agreed, his voice empty for the moment.

  Caesarion gave them both a long look. “Can I expect that Selene would be treated with loyalty and devotion?” he asked.

  Tiberius nodded, once. “And absolute fidelity,” he replied, his voice flat.

  I believe him. But I also know exactly how persuasive Alexander can be. Caesarion flicked a glance in his brother’s direction, and was both interested and disturbed by the darkness in Alexander’s stare. If Selene accepts Tiberius, Alexander loses him. And he . . . not only knows this. He proposed it.

  “Then you have my permission to address her on the subject tonight. Please be aware that Antyllus will be making his own address at the same time. And I’m leaving the decision in her hands, since both of you are . . . eminently worthy. I trust both of you. And, annoyingly, you’re both my friends.” Caesarion grimaced. “I can’t make this particular choice for her. Just . . . abide by it, and don’t let it get in the way of the work we all need to do, either in Britannia, or here in Rome.”

  Tiberius shook his head, his gray eyes remote. “Of course not, dominus.”

  Caesarion flipped a hand at them both. “Off you go, then.”

  And as the door to the atrium clicked shut behind them, the door to the peristylium opened behind Caesarion, and Eurydice slipped in. “Did you catch any of that?” he asked his beloved.

  “Most of it. I didn’t want to eavesdrop, but on the other hand, I’d rather have been dragged apart by bulls than interrupt that conversation,” she admitted, approaching and putting a hand on his back.

  “Want to put coin on which of them she’ll accept—if either?” he asked. Not really what I want to be thinking about today, but it beats dwelling on the sure and certain knowledge that I’m about to lose you for a year. Or two. Or five, if your earliest dreams hold true.

  “No bet,” Eurydice said, putting her head against his shoulder lightly. “I checked on her a little while ago. She’d stopped crying, at least, but she’s going to be red-eyed at dinner, and if she eats, I’ll be surprised.” A pause, and she added, her voice strained, “I spent the last hour trying to work out travel arrangements for Egypt. It would be nice to be able to set out without a full flotilla around us—“

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” Caesarion pulled her to him, tightly. “I have no idea how I’m going to fight in Britannia without you. Every gain Father ever made on that island, the inhabitants took back within a handful of years. And they’ve had time to prepare.”

  Her arms slipped around his waist. “I’ve been saying for years that I might need to spend time at the Library of Alexandria,” Eurydice murmured. “Maybe I’ll find something incredible inside its hoard of scrolls. Perhaps I’ll find a way to counter the earth-magic of the druids, or a way to convince their spirits to return to whatever realm they come from.”

  “And sail all the way from Egypt to Britannia and save the rest of us.” It wasn’t quite a joke.

  “Hopefully, you won’t need saving.”

  Caesarion prided himself on being a rationalist. He might be the high priest of Mars, among his many other titles. He might be god-born. But he wasn’t prone to superstition. Except in one respect. At the very bottom of his soul, riding into battle without her, without his hawk, without the woman who could call eagles from the sky and fire from the air, seemed like leaving all his luck and half his weapons behind.

  And he knew that she knew it, so it didn’t bear repeating. They just stood, leaning into each other. Trying to keep time from passing for at least a little while.

  Chapter III: Proposals

  Antyllus was prepared for a certain amount of awkwardness at dinner with the Julii tonight. He arrived punctually, opting not to overdress. A simple red tunic without embroidery or stripes, and a heavy white toga. The lack of stripes was important. He wasn’t an equite, and while his father had served as Consul, and thus had entered the senatorial class, Antyllus himself was not a serving senator, for all his family’s considerable wealth and power. He did, however, bring a gift for his host and hostess, as thoughtful guests should—cherries and other fruits preserved in wine. A taste of summer in the midst of winter. He liked the imagery, at least.

  And he did enjoy visiting the Julii villa, though as guests crowded into the triclinium, Caesarion greeted Antyllus with a rueful, “Until today, I was thinking I needed to build a larger villa. Possibly on the Palatine. I suppose that necessity can be put off, however.”

  Surprised, Antyllus replied, “I’d thought that the need to entertain ambassadors from all over the world had decided you in favor of new construction half a year ago. What changed?”

  Caesarion waved him to one of the dining couches with a sigh. “The need to take Eurydice to Egypt for a while. They need to see one of us there and ruling, not just a Roman governor. And without her here, I’ll meet with ambassadors, to be sure, but I have no idea how I’ll entertain them. I’ll practically need to appoint an extra aedile, just to cover all the work Eurydice’s been doing.” He paused, catching Antyllus by the shoulder before the other man could sit down. “You can address Selene tonight. She has another potential suitor, just so you’re aware—not even she knows that part, yet. I’m letting her make the decision.”

  Antyllus’ eyebrows rose. “Unusual. Most of the time, fathers decide for children, and you stand in the place of a father to her right now.”

  Caesarion grimaced, his hand still on Antyllus’ shoulder. “I don’t want her blaming me for ruining her life if I make the wrong choice. I like watching Hellene tragedies on stage. I don’t need my life to become even more of one.”

  Antyllus chuckled, taking his seat, and called over as Caesarion moved away, “Then take care not to develop any fatal flaws of character! Superbia’s always a favorite for the powerful, in tragedy.”

  Caesarion took his own seat beside Eurydice, calling back dryly, “With you and Alexander around to puncture my self-love at every turn, I fail to see how I can ever develop that particular vice.” He rubbed a hand lightly over his wife’s shoulders, and she turned slightly to smile at him. As they always did, they reclined on their couch both facing the same direction, with her back tucked against him. A little closer to each other than sticklers for propriety might find strictly correct, but still with visible space between them. No guest of honor tonight would join them.

  Antyllus had been waved to the middle couch, the seat of honor. And to his pleasure, as Selene entered, habitually moving towards the high couch, the least favorable seats in the room, Caesarion waved her over to join Antyllus. Which she did, her steps suggesting the hesitance of someone facing execution.

  Well, Father. One unicorn, driven towards the hunter like a rabbit chased by beaters in the brush. Unfortunately, I don’t think arrows or spears are the correct choices here. Antyllus stood from the couch as Selene approached, and quickly made sure she was comfortable before taking his seat once more. And then raised his eyebrows as Tiberius, too, was shuttled to their couch—quite a deviation from the normal seating arrangements in this room. A quick glance told him that yes, Alexander was on the high couch tonight—with Octavia, as usual, but this time, with the poetess Servia Sulpicia joining them.

  Noticing Selene’s red-rimmed eyes, and wanting to give her a moment to recover herself, Antyllus turned back towards the host’s table. “This room alone shows why you really do need to build a bigger villa, dominus,” he told Caesarion. Friendly tone, but still respectful. “You can manage nine people at dinner in here. It makes your dinner invitations exclusive and much sought-after, of course, but invariably, someone’s left out, so you have to dine more often with people, just to avoid offense!” A quick grin. “If you
had twice the seats, you’d only have to invite people half as often.”

  Eurydice sat up a little straighter. “You wait until today to offer that very pertinent argument, Antyllus? We’d have had the new house finished inside of a year if that had been given as a reason—“

  Chuckling, Caesarion replied, “It’s a good theory, but in application, wouldn’t someone inevitably be seated further away, in a second ring of seats? And thus feel just as slighted that they weren’t in the first row, at my left hand, able to converse with the most favored guests?”

  “Perhaps,” Sulpicia called from her seat beside Alexander and Octavia, delicately dipping a fragment of bread in moretum, a spread of garlic, cheese and herbs, here at the start of the meal. “But I believe, dominus, that most will simply be happy, when someone asks, ‘Did you hear about when Virgil fell asleep in the middle of his declaiming own verse?’ to be able to answer, ‘I didn’t just hear about it, my dear; I was there!’”

  General laughter around the tables. “He’s not that bad,” Eurydice said, smothering her smile. “Nor that old!”

  “No, he’s just a lickarse of the worst sort,” Alexander muttered. “And his vison of Venus, always appearing in disguises to her own son, never a straight word between them.”

  Antyllus swallowed. He’d been one of the handful present when Mars and Venus had appeared, personally, in Hispania to bless Caesarion and Eurydice’s wedding. That moment had affected him, deeply. “He’s indebted to Homer for that,” Caesarion replied, shrugging. “He wasn’t in Hispania, Alexander. He didn’t see their faces directly, as we did.”