Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  Hosidia grimaced. “The locals were already upset about the failure of the crops. The prefect announced that there would be additional tax-collectors sent, to ensure that everyone had paid their due. Several of the tax-collectors went, ah, missing.”

  Tax-collectors? Or were they frumentarii? Alexander hasn’t spread his net this far yet, I thought. Either way, no, that can’t be tolerated. “And Gallus mobilized the entire legion to look for a handful of men?” Caesarion asked sharply.

  The unfortunate centurion shook his head rapidly. “No, dominus. He sent a century to investigate. They were . . . set upon, outside Thebes. Eighty men set out. Five came back, babbling about the desert rising up against them. Swarms of scorpions. The wind carrying sand that hit them with such force that their armor was pitted, and buried their companions where they stood. Frankly, the medici would have called it heat delirium, if it hadn’t been so cold.” Hosidia chewed on his lower lip uneasily.

  Caesarion turned towards Eurydice, and murmured quietly, not in Egyptian, but in Hellene, “Either some spirit is indeed angry because of the loss of the royal magics, or the mage-priests took a hand in events.”

  “Why would the mage-priests take such a risk?” she replied softly. “They can’t hold out against Rome’s entire might, if it’s turned against them. Why provoke a response?”

  Caesarion looked back at the centurion now. “And since then, your commander’s been in Thebes. Trying to quell sand that buries men eighty at a time?”

  Another look of acute discomfort. “He believed that the guides led our men into a trap. Poisoned the survivors, making them hallucinate. And, as prefect, he said he had the obligation to demonstrate Rome’s power to the locals, and punish them. There was talk of crucifixions, my lord. One man out of every ten in Thebes, unless they gave up whoever the ringleaders were, and turned over any surviving tax-collectors and legionnaires. Or at least their bodies.”

  Caesarion exhaled, and looked over his shoulder, first at Eurydice and Selene, standing side by side to his right, and then at Antyllus and Tiberius on his left, both of whom had gone grim-faced. “That will be all, centurion,” Caesarion said, his voice tight. “Have your men form up for escort detail. My Praetorians will provide the bulk of our security, both moving through the city and in the palace.”

  And once the man moved away, Caesarion swore, rapidly and virulently. “Gods damn it,” he finally concluded, exhaling.

  “I can’t say that I mightn’t have done the same thing as the commander, at least to start with,” Tiberius said, his eyes remote.

  “You wouldn’t have,” Caesarion told him sharply. “I know you. You wouldn’t have sent eighty men to poke around. You’d either have sent a handful for inquiries, or a full cohort. No half measures.”

  Antyllus smiled, but for once, no humor touched his eyes. “If you’re going to make a show of force, there had better be actual force behind it.”

  “And now that he’s committed his entire legion to the cause of putting down minor unrest, he’s turned the entirety of Rome’s forces in Egypt into a sideshow,” Tiberius finished, sounding tired. “He’s swung a hammer at a gnat.”

  “And has just kept swinging. For six gods-be-damned-weeks. He’s making us look like idiots who can’t fix a simple problem, and antagonizing all of the locals. Just in time for the Roman pharaoh and his Roman queen to show up.” Caesarion put a tight smile on his face that he didn’t feel, and offered Eurydice his hand, looking up at the Royal Palace on the promontory high above the docks. “Shall we, Accipitra?”

  “I am somewhat eager to be off this swaying ship,” she admitted. “I haven’t been seasick since that storm on the way to Hispania, but I do feel rather nauseous right now.” She raised her other hand, and the eagle that she’d found in Hispania and nursed back to health, which had been perching on the wooden stand that they usually provided for it, launched itself and landed on her slender, bare arm. Somehow, the bird never even nicked her skin. And she even managed a smile for Caesarion as they walked down the ramp, flanked by Malleolus and the rest of their Praetorians, and followed by Selene, Tiberius, and Antyllus.

  The Roman legionnaires parted ranks and backed up, allowing them easy access to the stairs leading up to the palace; Caesarion could already see that several litters had been prepared, and he grimaced, gesturing for his men to get his horse unloaded. The litter’s necessary for Eurydice right now, though she’d be just as safe if she rode with me. My mother and Selene have never ridden. But I’ll be damned if anyone carries me up the stairs. Several hundred of them or not. Though if the litter-bearers drop Eurydice right now, I will have their heads. That last thought came out unbidden, surprising him with its vehemence.

  On the smooth stone of the quay, Antony and Cleopatra met them. The contrast between mother and daughter was striking, even today. Cleopatra wore a wig of dark hair, braided into thousands of cords, each tipped with beaten foil gold, a heavy diadem atop the wig, and weighty gold earrings that fell to her shoulders, along with a thick turquoise and lapis collar that, as usual, spanned her skin from collarbone to sternum. Caesarion had no idea how his mother could move her head, let alone keep it all balanced. Eurydice, however, was the picture of simplicity. A white kalasiris, her gold betrothal ring, a signet ring that held a tie to one of her bound-spirits, and a diadem made of pearls atop her natural hair—his gift to her on Matronalia this past year.

  As Cleopatra stepped off the ramp, she raised her hands to the assembled servants, as if in benediction. And every one of them suddenly knelt before her in profound obeisance, making Caesarion deeply uncomfortable. “I have not stood before you in seven years,” Cleopatra called to her servants, a kind of affection in her voice. “I have been too long from my home, and I thank you for your welcome. This is my son, your pharaoh, Ptolemy Julius Caesarion Philopator Philomator. Born of Isis and Osiris, born of the long line of kings going back to the dawn of time. Welcome him, and his bride, my daughter, Eurydice Julia, shortly to be your queen.”

  She paused. “Also, welcome my youngest daughter, Selene, and my new son, Gaius Antony.” She gestured as one of the servants from her ship brought young Gaius down the ramp to his parents now. Antony hadn’t moved yet, himself, his lined face completely still, as if he were a statue carved from basalt.

  Caesarion did his best to keep his face impassive, but his skin crawled at the introduction. Most days, he managed to forget he had any other names besides Caesarion or Aquilus. The Julius was important. But hearing his praenomen of Ptolemy inevitably made him uncomfortable. He hadn’t even realized that his right hand, covering Eurydice’s as it lay atop his left arm, had tightened, till she made a sound of mild protest. “Sorry,” he apologized under his breath.

  And then he grimly acknowledged the various servants—some of whom, he knew, had to be Egyptian nobles by birth, distant kin of the pharaohs, just as Nesa herself was. And told them, twitching internally, “Please rise. I have no need of obeisances.” Then he handed Eurydice into her litter, and waited for his horse to be saddled. After four weeks at sea, the creature was as restless as he was, himself, snorting and straining at the reins as a Praetorian brought the stallion to him. All right. Let’s get on with this. Maybe we can actually look as if we belong here. In a city so accustomed to the blend of Hellas and Egypt, you’d think they could manage stirring some Roman culture into the mix, too. Perhaps by standing on their damned feet, to start with.

  ____________

  Antyllus did his best not to gape like a yokel as they disembarked in Alexandria’s port. You were born in Rome, he scolded himself mentally. The heart of the world. Rome was founded centuries before Alexandria . . . probably. That last thought snuck in a little shamefacedly. Romans believed their city to have been founded some seven hundred years ago; Alexandria’s establishment a little over three hundred and fifty years ago by Alexander the Great was a matter of historical fact. But he didn’t plant a city in the middle of an open beach. There was a port here befo
re he imported Hellene architecture and ideals, too.

  Still, that architecture and those ideals were on display everywhere he looked, but somehow, beautifully commingled with Egyptian ones. They’d landed in the central area of the port, at the Royal Docks, while the rest of the flotilla was making for the naval docks on the western side, near the island of Pharos—where the huge Lighthouse of Alexandria towered above their heads.

  Antyllus had never seen anything so tall in his life before, barring mountains. It hardly seemed like it could be the work of human hands, and yet, there it stood. Blocky at the base, it cut in after a hundred feet or so, rising in a second, cylindrical tier, followed by a third tier, again, cylindrical. The great beacon wasn’t lit at the moment, of course; it was daylight. But from his angle, he thought he could see the metal mirrors that helped send light out over the waves. I’ll find a window when the sun sets. I want to see this great eye, peering out into the darkness, calling all the ships home to shore.

  Beside the Lighthouse, he could see a huge, Egyptian-style temple, blocky and bold, presumably dedicated to Isis, judging by what he could see of the statues outside it. Behind it? One of several temples to Poseidon, all within easy viewing distance, that dotted this bustling port.

  A long, man-made causeway connected that island to the mainland on the western side of the harbor. Tons and tons of soil and stone had been moved there, filling in the depths, and then capped with a road of perfectly fitted stones, leading into the smooth, curving embrace of the half-circle beach—lined with hundreds of piers and quays, and a confusion of masts all jutting up, blocking the view. In the center, where they were now, there was a huge promontory, on which the Royal Palace of the Ptolemies looked down over the bustling harbor, directly across from the Lighthouse, but all the ships kept a respectful distance from the royal docks and the waters surrounding the palace itself.

  At first, Antyllus found it jarring; a palace meant for kings and queens, positioned at the heart of commerce? Then again, they get sea breezes up on that headland. They’re positioned right where they can, on a whim, take a leisurely cruise on a barge or a sailing ship. And they’re no more than a stone’s throw from all the ships of their navy. That’s the Hellene in the Ptolemies. Never far from the sea, from the nets, from the oars.

  And that alone made the city jarringly unRoman for him—but also, delightfully different in aspect.

  Several other fingers of land reached out into the waters of the port, and Antyllus could see, even from here, that the streets of this area of the city had been laid out in a neat grid, reflecting the Hellene qualities of organization, harmony, and unity. Along the sides of the wide streets, buildings rose, smiling behind their colonnades of fluted white marble, and their faces brightly painted in red and blue patterns, almost seeming to glow under the warm sun. A Hellene-style theater—where Caesar and his troops had once defended themselves against a mob—stood beside Egyptian obelisks, which pointed up into the sky like needles. And beside that, still near enough the harbor to benefit from its breezes? The Tomb of Alexander himself, and west of it, the Great Library and its sprawling grounds.

  He and Tiberius hadn’t brought their own horses; there would be plenty here in Egypt, but Caesarion preferred his own mount. So they walked up the hundreds of stairs from the royal docks to the palace, sweat starting to form under their armor. One to each side of Selene’s litter, and surrounded by Praetorians in their white-crested helmets, taking in the view of the gleaming waters of the harbor as each twist in the stairs led them higher and higher.

  Finally, at the top, the bearers set her down, and Antyllus took another look, inhaling at the huge palace complex, which seemed to be made up of dozens of buildings, linked to each other by roofed, shady paths. The pillars were Hellene on the outside, but the statues scattered around the grounds? Purely Egyptian.

  The servants opened the doors, admitting them into the cool, dim depths of the main building, and they followed the others inside. Gold-embossed images on the doors, of the jackal-god, Anubis, and hawk-headed Horus, and dozens of others. And in the grand entryway, Selene half-laughed, slapping her hand over her face, trying to stifle the noise on this solemn occasion. “What is it?” Antyllus whispered from her right, while Tiberius’ head swung over from the left.

  Still biting her lip in amusement, Selene pointed at a black, highly-polished statue of a naked woman against the far right wall. A woman wearing the headdress of a pharaoh, but with the smooth, balanced proportions of Hellene sculpture, one foot slightly in front of the other, hip angled, as if ready to step off her pedestal. And for a moment, Antyllus stared at it, trying to understand why her face looked so familiar. Except smoother, perhaps? Younger—oh, shit.

  “That’s your mother, depicted as a goddess?” Antyllus whispered, snapping his eyes back to the front, lest it be said that he was ogling his step-mother’s naked form. Not to mention the former Empress. On the other hand, it’s right here in the entryway. Presumably, it’s meant to be ogled.

  “Oh, gods,” Tiberius muttered, and his head jerked away, too.

  “Yes,” Selene managed, laughter welling up in her voice, but she kept it tightly under control, at least for the moment. A good thing, too; the various Praetorians around them had just swung their heads over to see what the fuss was about—and then their heads snapped to the front, as well.

  An hour or so later, they’d settled into large, private rooms that were startlingly bare of furniture, for all the opulence of the paintings and carvings on the walls, and the genuine lapis and turquoise inlaid into the floors. The few furnishings were odd; chairs and stools so low that even his young, healthy back protested as he lowered himself into them. And a bed, inclined slightly so that the feet were lower than the head, which lacked a pillow entirely. Instead, at its head was an object that looked like a very small stool, made of jade. Antyllus hesitantly lowered himself onto the bed, still dressed, and attempted to rest his head on this . . . pedestal. How in the name of the gods do they expect someone to sleep, let alone do the other things one might conceivably do in a bed? He carefully picked up the priceless jade . . . artifact . . . and settled it under the bed, instead. I can ask the servants if they have anything else. If Cleopatra’s hospitality doesn’t extend to Roman pillows, then I can roll up my cloak and use that. His lips quirked as he stared up at the ceiling. Or I can apply to Caesarion and Eurydice. I do not see them enjoying a bed like this one. In fact, I would be greatly surprised if there isn’t hasty redecoration going on this very moment in the chambers of the pharaoh and his queen.

  Sitting up and laughing to himself, Antyllus left his room, plagued by restlessness. Four weeks at sea, and now, finding himself in one of the greatest cities in the world, he wanted to see it. Wandering the palace halls in sandals—the various legionnaires had been required to leave off their nail-shod boots, for the sake of the costly floors—Antyllus finally found Selene and Tiberius sitting on a bench under a palm tree in one of the many cool, shady gardens around which the palace complex sprawled. Gardeners labored in the sun, pulling unwelcome weeds and cutting back old, yellowing fronds from the palm trees, chatting idly as they worked.

  “There you are!” Antyllus told them cheerfully enough, though at the back of his mind, he wondered if Tiberius had finally stolen a day’s march on him, while he’d been investigating the palace’s rooms. Probably not. There are too many servants around, doing their work. “You’ve never been to Alexandria before, correct?” he asked Selene. Four weeks at sea, and I have no idea if either Tiberius or I are making any headway with her. Of course, that four weeks was also spent under the—ha!—eagle eye of her brother. That accounts for much.

  She shook her head quickly. “Father never allowed any of us to go. He felt that we needed to be as Roman as possible.”

  “Well, then, what do you want to see first?” Antyllus asked her, gesturing at the sprawling city just barely visible through the garden’s gate.

  Selene blinked. �
��I . . . oh!” She paused, then admitted, sheepishly, “I thought I’d be staying in the palace for the month of the celebrations and whatever.”

  Again, Antyllus had to stop and make himself remember exactly how sheltered her life had been. She’s been as far as the baths in Rome, always under escort. Never allowed out of the Julii villa, except under guard. One siege camp near Brundisium, where again, she wouldn’t have been allowed out, except under escort. Is it any wonder that by this point in her life, she doesn’t even think about where she might go? The answer has always been no. Of course, I contrast this with my sisters. Antonia the Elder always trying to sneak out of the house while Octavia was our step-mother. . . .

  “Personally,” Tiberius put in quietly, cautiously leaning back against the palm’s trunk, and then sitting back up again as a monkey leaped from a nearby roof and into the tree, chattering wildly, “I’d like to visit the Tomb of Alexander. Probably make an offering.”

  Selene sat up a little, looking surprised. “You consider him a god?”

  “Some people here have declared him one. I think it’s closer to the old Hellene concept of declaring someone a hero after their death. Not quite a god. Not quite human.” Tiberius’ head turned until he was looking more or less towards the building that housed the pharaoh’s private chambers.

  Antyllus caught his meaning immediately. “Well, we are in the service of one such, yes.” A quick smile. “I somehow don’t see Caesarion trying to conquer the world, however.”

  Tiberius shrugged. “Son of a war-god. Son of Caesar.”

  “Yes, but for better or worse, the man has no ambition. His father did. Octavian did. My father? Absolutely.” For all that he’s a divinely-inspired fighter and tactician, who loves living among his men, and is happier in a castra where the walls are so green that sap drips from them, than in a palace? Caesarion would be just as pleased to stay in Rome, putting up new buildings. Listening to philosophers. He’d deny it if I said it to him, of course.