Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  And thus, in proper Roman fashion, they’d started by collecting information. Systematically. Region by region. They sent some of Alexander’s frumentarii out into the countryside, not just looking for missing taxes and disloyalty, but also searching for credible evidence of witches and sorcerers. These people were notably wary. Sulla’s antique Lex Cornelia de sicariis et veneficis had criminalized several things—women seeking abortion, and the practice of magic among them. Even owning a book about magic had been a criminal act. Ianthe, as a priestess of Hecate, worker of magic, and herbalist? Would have been a felon under the old laws, and might have been executed for it.

  Having been driven to the outskirts of society over the years anyway, Rome’s secret sorcerers weren’t inclined to volunteer information about themselves. Disappointingly, many of them turned out to be little more than herbalists. A few were plainly madmen. Others were simply cruel individuals who delighted in tormenting their fellow men by harnessing the power of superstition, leaving dead cats and toads in their homes as curses—things that Ianthe sniffed at. “If you want an effective curse, you need to make proper sacrifices to the correct spirits, or to the correct god,” she’d murmured after meeting a woman who’d sworn that she, too, was a priestess of Hecate, living deep in the rural heart of Campagna. Her lips had curled into a sneer. “A spirit might ask for a cat’s life-essence, yes, but leaving it in the house of the victim just leaves a bad smell and some fear.” She’d put her head to the side, consideringly. “The right kind of spirit finds that sort of fear as tasty as wine,” Ianthe had added, her tone musing. “But still. Sloppy. Best not to leave any evidence at all. And I see no evidence that this latest ‘witch’ can call the attention of so much as a mouse, even when armed with a block of cheese, let alone a spirit. I would, however, like to have a chat with her, if you’ll permit me, domina. My lady does not appreciate having her Name invoked by someone who has never undergone the proper initiations.”

  In public, Ianthe tended to put on a show of being even meeker than Selene, scarcely speaking above a whisper. The pose deflected attention from her. Which made it all the more startling when the supposed priestess from Campagna had left their private discussion white-faced and shaking so much that she hadn’t been able to walk to the door without assistance. Eurydice had never asked what Ianthe had told the woman, but she suspected that there would be no more rural curses in Campagna. Not for some time, anyway.

  “Three more who can definitely see lares,” Ianthe replied now, taking a seat at the table.

  “Two more who passed the test of the candle and feather,” Kheiron added, pouring himself a cup of hippocras—wine spiced with costly cinnamon and honey, in spite of the early hour. “Neither of them are noble.”

  “The gift does not seem to pass solely among patrician families,” Zaracas put in, his voice louder than all the others, rich and hearty. “If magic is a gift from the gods, it seems a most democratic one. There is some evidence that the gift is passed down in family lineages, however. You would think that if magic was truly useful, people would use it to rise above their fellows. Establish great kingdoms and accrue much wealth, and set up families that endure in power for generations.”

  “Perhaps because those who have the gift who do not seek to placate the gods,” Kheiron returned sharply, “are inevitably driven out of whatever society in which they lived—“

  “Magic comes from the gods,” Ianthe hissed under her breath. “It is sacrilege to say otherwise. The greatest heroes of Hellas all possessed it in some measure, but all of them gave correct obeisance to the gods in gratitude for the gifts they were given—“

  And yet, today, Hellas is a province of Rome, Eurydice thought. And so is Egypt, land of magic. She held up a hand. “That particular conversation can wait,” she informed them, cutting the trio off before they could completely distract themselves. “We’re still seeing childhood headaches as one of the signs? Followed usually by a traumatic experience that they tried to prevent in any manner that they could?”

  Nods around the room. “That is usually the pattern,” Ianthe acknowledged. “Unless there’s a reason to suspect at birth that a child has been marked out for greatness. Signs. Portents.”

  Both of which were lacking at my birth, Eurydice thought. For whatever reason, the gods decided to let my gifts bloom unseen at first. Perhaps because the rest of Rome would have been even more threatened by two god-born in the house of Julii than they were by just one. This gave us both time to grow up.

  “We really do need to go district by district and tribe by tribe in Rome itself,” Zaracas said in his usual cheerful rumble. His light brown skin and pale gold eyes shone in the morning light streaming in the window. “It’s the largest city on earth. There must be hundreds of potential candidates among its streets.”

  Eurydice sighed. “That takes away somewhat from our attempts to keep our efforts here secret,” she told them all, shaking her head. “Our current total is what, fifteen students, not counting me?”

  A room of dispirited nods. Eurydice exhaled. “Given the spells that I’ve developed, based on the limited access I’ve had to the Book of Thoth and through experimentation on my own, and what Kheiron and Ianthe have brought with them, how far are the rest of our students along?”

  Kheiron grimaced. “Most of them seem to be breaking along clear lines of affinity to this element or that. Fire, water, air. None of them show your ladyship’s ability to harness all of the elements at once, or principles of inertia. I have some of them reading Titus Lucretius Carus’ On the Nature of Things in an effort to make them think about how the natural state of matter is motion, not stasis, but they seem to find it hard going.”

  Ianthe snorted. “That Epicurean,” she said with a frown, “wrote seven thousand lines of verse in which he claimed to explain the nature of the universe, for the purpose of teaching humanity not to fear the gods. To tell everyone that things happen because of chance, not because the gods will it—“

  “And there are natural laws,” Kheiron shot back sharply. “Lucretius fully acknowledges that the gods exist. He simply does not think that they meddle in the world as much as you priests would have us believe. That there is no augury in the flight of a sparrow—“

  “He claims to understand everything, but he can’t fit the stars into his grand explanation—“

  Normally, Eurydice would have enjoyed this conversation, and even joined in. For she had personal evidence that yes, sometimes the gods did indeed meddle—why else would there be god-born such as herself? But on the other hand, the gods also seemed to stand apart. Content to give advice or commands, and let humans go about the business of living in the world. “Venus and Mars did specifically say that they came to this world,” she murmured softly. “Not that they made it. And that they met our people. Not that they created us.” She gave them all a faint smile as they quieted for a moment. “Can we agree that the universe seems to be governed by laws? And that, if they feel like it, the gods can break those laws . . . but that they don’t seem to be responsible for, hmm. Overseeing them.”

  Kheiron and Ianthe gave each other grim glances. Seleukos coughed into his hand gently. “Far above my head,” the physician murmured. “I generally content myself with ‘what does this rash mean?’ and my best augury is reading what Hippocrates and other medici have observed and written down before me.”

  “Precisely why we need to record everything we say here,” Kheiron jumped in with enthusiasm. “Even a passing thought might actually reveal truth to us later.”

  Zaracas stretched, rolling his shoulders. “So, you have our candidates reading Lucretius’ seven thousand lines on the nature of reality. But they’re having problems with it. Is it the fact that it’s couched in poetry, or is it the concepts?”

  “Both. Domina, most of these people are . . . not well-educated,” Kheiron told Eurydice, rubbing at his thick golden beard. “Half of them came to us completely illiterate. The other half can read, but only . .
. functionally. Enough to understand a letter from their cousins. They’re mostly highly intelligent, so they learn quickly, but they’ve never had to think about why things work. They either work, or they don’t work.”

  “They are the sort for whom the spells as written and passed down are entirely the correct route,” Ianthe put in quietly, and Eurydice covered her face with her hands. “I myself learned in that way, and most of my spells are curses. They require sacrifices. Negotiations with spirits—which I certainly can try to effect in lands not my own, but the spirits I meet outside of Hellas tend to be hostile towards me. We have yet to find a second person close to your power, domina.”

  “Or to your curiosity.” Kheiron’s voice quieted now, too. “With a few more years of training, however, they might become quite something else.”

  Eurydice kept her hands over her face, concentrating on her breathing for a long moment. “We don’t have years,” she finally said, taking her hands away. “The druids of Britannia have been training their people for thousands of years. The Magi of Chaldea have done the same. We lag them in almost every way.” She sighed. “You will all be staying here to continue the census. Expand it to Rome itself, on my authority. If asked, direct people up the line to Alexander. He’ll handle all inquiries in his usual . . . inimitable fashion.” She stared at her tea for a moment. “The top half of our recruits—pick them by their ability to work beside the legionnaires—will be going to Gaul with the Tenth.”

  “Our top two recruits are women,” Ianthe cautioned.

  “Keep them here,” Eurydice said, hating herself for the words. “The men of the Tenth are used to me, but I also have quite a bit more power than our recruits. They don’t see me as a liability or an experiment, and I have enough personal resources in the way of horses and tents and servants that I can keep up with them on the march. Our recruits need to be able to march right alongside the legionnaires, carry the same kit, and blend into formation—until they’re needed to add flame to a ballista stone, heating it until it explodes in a rain of hot fragments wherever it lands. Preferably without damaging the ballista itself.” She rubbed at her eyes. “Also, Kheiron will be in charge here during my absence. Report regularly to me and to Alexander. I will be gone for . . . an unknown amount of time.”

  “The campaign season doesn’t start for two months, domina,” Seleukos said, frowning. His close-cropped dark beard shadowed most of his features. “If I may ask where—“

  “Egypt,” Eurydice said emptily. “The only good thing about that statement is that I will have unlimited access to the Library of Alexandria for quite some time. And perhaps access to priests of Thoth better equipped to teach than Tahut-Nefer was.” Perhaps someone, at some point, can explain to me why earth and metal are so damnably difficult to work with, when air and water and even fire are my good friends these days. “Most of the Sixteenth will be coming with me,” she added quietly. “We’ll move a different legion into this camp, most likely the Fourth. They were in Hispania. They lost half their men there. They’ll take the oaths, and they’ll understand the value and need for what we’re doing here, as few others can.”

  Seleukos’ head came up. “May I come with you, domina?” he inquired. “Tahut-Nefer was an intolerable snob, but not every Egyptian physician will be quite so, ah, disdainful of others’ learning, I would think. And I would like a chance to catalogue their medicaments and any alternate techniques they might have. Their knowledge of anatomy alone is worth the trip.”

  Eurydice nodded immediately. “Absolutely,” she agreed, standing. “And now I must be off again, unfortunately. I don’t have time today to train with the recruits.”

  The others all rose when she did, and Kheiron and Zaracas walked her to the exit. “I think you’d find Lucretius of great interest, domina,” Kheiron told her mildly, opening the door for her.

  “I’ve read him,” she acknowledged. “Personally, I found what he had to say about free will to be most intriguing. He thinks that atoms dance by chance. And because they can move in ways that deviate from the set path of determinism, that we poor mortals can, too.” She looked up at the tall Carthaginian, Zaracas. “Some days, that thought is all that gets me out of bed in the morning.”

  Back at the villa by mid-morning, Eurydice started going over the travel necessities once more. Decamping the entire Sixteenth to go with her to Egypt had long been planned, but that still meant that they needed close to forty-eight ships, and that wasn’t counting the full complement of the Praetorians, clerks, scribes, and other such people as followed Caesarion and Eurydice these days. She had two personal scribes, one Egyptian, who could handle the demotic writing needed for correspondence with the nobles of Alexandria, and one Roman, who helped with communication with the current Roman prefect there. Cornelius Gallus. Who will not be best pleased to be replaced by Marcus Antonius, who will take the grander title of governor when there. Married to Cleopatra though he may be.

  Scanning through her usual sheaf of communiques from Alexandria, Eurydice spotted one that stated that there had been ‘unrest’ in Thebes, and that Gallus had taken the garrison and ridden south to investigate and put it down. Frowning, Eurydice stared at those words for several moments, as her scribes worked assiduously in her office, preparing letters of instruction for ships, provisions, and other such necessities.

  Thebes. The temple of Thoth is there—well, any number of temples are at Thebes. It was the capital, on and off, for several dynasties. The Ptolemies brought the capital down to the sea, because they were Hellenes, and couldn’t be parted from Poseidon’s realm. Where trade in goods and trade in knowledge was available. Where in the desert, far from the sea, there are no new ideas. Just old ones.

  Struck by the thought, she stood, catching that piece of parchment, and told her scribes, “Keep at it. I’ll read all the copies and put my seal on them when you’re done. But for the moment, I need to talk to Caesarion.” And down the stairs she went, thinking, Whenever we build the new villa, my study and library really need to be beside his. I spend all day running up and down the stairs, but there just isn’t enough room in his office for all my books, and Alexander needs his own workspace—and then the thought cut off abruptly, as she again realized, frantically, that very shortly, she wasn’t going to be anywhere near Caesarion. Let alone needing to be concerned about making space available for all their scribes and clerks and everything else.

  Eurydice put a hand to the wall outside Caesarion’s study and steadied herself. Don’t cry. The moment of separation isn’t here yet, and you’ve had three years to prepare for it. Three years of genuine happiness is more than some people get in a lifetime. So take a breath. Straighten up. And knock. Her hand found the wood of the door, and she tapped there firmly.

  “Come in, Eurydice!” Caesarion called from the other side, and the door opened in front of her, without her touching the latch, and one of the lares scampered away, giggling.

  Inside, she saw that he stood at his desk, and that Tiberius and Antyllus were both with him, leaning over the desks and tables, an assortment of maps and charts scattered on every available surface. Most of which looked to be of what little Roman cartographers currently knew about Britannia. “I can come back,” Eurydice said immediately. “This isn’t urgent.”

  Caesarion waved her in, however, and she crossed the room and let him take her hand lightly in his. “I was just telling Tiberius that he should come with us to Egypt. Britannia can wait a month or two for all of us.”

  Tiberius shook his head slightly. “My brother’s joining the Tenth. It’s his first campaign. I should be there for him.”

  “He’ll be in the command tent, fetching, carrying, and writing letters for the first year,” Caesarion told Tiberius dryly. “You and Antyllus both put your names forward with interest for Selene. Selene’s coming with us to Egypt. You’re not jumping at the chance to go with us?” His eyebrows rose, and Tiberius looked even more uncomfortable for a moment.

  Anty
llus shook his head. “Honestly, after last night, I’m not sure either of us have a shot with her,” he said, his tone a little more dispirited than Eurydice had expected of the usually cheerful man. “She told me that she’s in love with someone. Someone betrothed, apparently, and in love with someone other than his betrothed, to boot. I’m willing to give her time to leave fantasy for reality, and I told her so—and that I hoped I might be the reality she’d pick.” He shook his head. “If I knew what man she had her eye on, I’d tell you,” he added to Caesarion. “I don’t think he’s been leading her on; she said he doesn’t even know she’s alive.”

  Eurydice’s eyebrows had risen towards her hairline, and she turned to stare at Caesarion, who looked at her in turn. “Did you know about this?” he asked her, immediately.

  “No! I’ll admit, she and I haven’t been close since . . . everything. . .” Eurydice gestured at her own eyes ruefully. “She’s never particularly confided in me, and when I asked her a few years ago if she was practicing Mother’s love-spell for anyone, she immediately replied no.” Eurydice frowned. Then again, I did suspect she was lying at the time.

  “Love-spell?” Antyllus asked, in tones of intrigue. “What’s this?”

  “It doesn’t work—“ Eurydice began dismissively.