She stared ahead, down the hall, her eyes burning. Antyllus was the one who took me to the door, to safety. Though, in scrupulous honesty, she knew they’d both caught her arms and dragged her from her chair, when her legs had been locked in terror. Tiberius turned back. He chose to fight. Antyllus chose to get me to safety. There can be only one decision. And I’ve made it.
“It’s the right decision,” Selene said out loud, looking up at the ceiling. “Mother Venus, I know it’s the right decision. Isn’t it? And it’s made, and it’s done.” She covered her mouth with her fingers, swallowing. I just don’t know how I can look Tiberius in the eye and tell him that I chose someone else.
______________
Tiberius had been halfway to the room he’d been allocated by the palace staff, when, muzzy-headed from his own draught of poppy-blood, he remembered that he’d left his damned sword and kit behind in the infirmary. Some soldier you are, he chided himself. Someone takes your armor off you, and you forget it? Bad form. He turned and headed back, forgetting in the blissful, pain-stealing fog, that he’d been told that servants would bring his gear for him. He had, after all, only one hand to carry it with at the moment.
On reaching the infirmary door, he’d opened it, and through a sea of bustling healers standing over biers of wounded men, he saw Antyllus pull Selene into him for a deep kiss. Saw, as in the moonlit atrium a month before, her lack of rejection of this very forward overture. She could have pulled away. Her face could have gone cold. Instead, she wore a kind of dazed smile.
And in that moment, all the protective haze of the poppy-blood seemed to burn away. Tiberius turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Returned to his room, where, yes, the servants had already brought his kit. And quietly, methodically, began packing it away, one-handed, into the chest in which it had traveled with him from Rome. Shaving kit, strigil, the writing kit his brother Drusus had given him years ago. My entire life can be summed up in one bag or one box. Nevermind the palatial residences of most patricians. My villa in Rome is empty. Inconsequential thoughts, to keep himself from dwelling on anything else.
A light tap at the door, which opened before Tiberius could even say, enter. He glanced up, saw that it was Caesarion, and stood immediately to attention, as if they were in a castra, not in a palace. A blank stare from the emperor, encompassing the fact that Tiberius was in the middle of packing, and then a cleared throat. “Brought you something,” Caesarion said, holding up a battered silver brazier leg. It was clearly the one Tiberius had used, since it was still stained by the creature’s odd, blue blood, covering the entire jagged tip, where he’d shoved it into its eye. “It’s not really the spoila opima, but it’s a suitable sort of trophy of a very fine moment.”
The spoila opima were considered the preeminent trophies of war. They were the arms and armor of an enemy king or general, taken by a Roman general after defeating the enemy in single combat. No one had taken the spoila opima since the Punic Wars, two hundred years ago. And the last person to have taken them was Marcus Claudius Marcellus, one of Tiberius’ own distant ancestors.
“Thank you,” Tiberius said, accepting the brazier leg, feeling acid burn at the back of his throat. He had no idea how he’d ever look at the damned thing, given that he and Antyllus had fought side-by-side, with the same weapons, just hours before. He tossed it, without much care, into the chest with the rest of his belongings.
Caesarion’s face creased into a frown. “Tiberius, why in Dis’ name are you packing?” He looked around. “And why aren’t you having one of the servants help you with that? You’ve got two broken bones in your arm, for the gods’ sakes.”
“I don’t like letting servants or slaves touch my belongings,” Tiberius replied evenly. Or me. “Once, long ago, I’d been writing a list of reasons that my mother should let Drusus and me go live with our cousins among the Claudii. I left it on my desk. One of the better-educated slaves took it to Octavian. The next time I saw that piece of parchment, it was in his hands, and he read to me from my list of well-reasoned arguments as he had that same slave beat me.” He cast about for what was left to pack, and realized he hadn’t put any clothes in the trunk yet. His tunics were in another chest across the room, which he opened one-handed, braced the lid with his right shoulder, and dug for his clothing with his right hand, before bringing an arm-load back across the room to dump loosely into the sea-chest.
A silent blink as Caesarion absorbed that, and then, mildly, carefully, “Yes, but why are you packing now?”
Tiberius straightened. “Dominus, when you re-open the harbor, I’d like permission to be on the first ship back to Rome. Britannia and the Tenth await.” And before Caesarion could ask the inevitable follow-up question, Tiberius added, his voice colorless, “I happened back into the infirmary in time to see Antyllus pressing his attentions on your sister again. She didn’t seem to be objecting, so I rather think her mind is made up. No sense in me staying around. I’ll just make the situation uncomfortable.” Well, I’ll be uncomfortable. Antyllus definitely appeared quite comfortable where he was. Tiberius rigorously repressed that line of thought as unworthy, and kept his face blank.
Caesarion put a hand on top of a table, his frown becoming more of a scowl. “Pressing his attentions?”
“Kissing, sir,” Tiberius specified clearly. “It’s happened before, and I didn’t mention it at the time because she didn’t slap him.” He turned back to the chest, and once more braced it open, one-handed. Finished emptying it out this time, and transferred the contents. Armor, done, clothing, done, hygiene materials, done, writing kit, done, oils and brushes for armor and sword, done. Maps of Gaul and what we know of Britannia, done. I’m done here.
Caesarion’s face eased. “Well, kissing’s fine, though the in public part is unacceptable. I expected a certain amount of that from both of you—“ he paused, looking at Tiberius. “You haven’t kissed her?”
Coldness spread through Tiberius’ chest. “No, sir. She’s your sister, and Alexander’s, and I wanted to treat her with all the respect that she’s due. The respect it seemed she hadn’t been accorded by your mother, or by many others.” That, and it never seemed like a kiss would be welcomed. Always looking away. Always embarrassed.
He finished latching the chest, and looked around for the piece of rope which had secured it on its way up from the ship. “To be honest,” Tiberius said, feeling chill pervade him, down to his bones, “it was a foregone conclusion before we even came here. No one in their right mind chooses winter over summer, or night over day.” Not finding the rope, he turned back to Caesarion, feeling somehow clean and very empty. The way he sometimes felt after a bad fever, when he’d vomited and evacuated and sweated out every fluid from his body, and was left shaking and light-headed in its wake. “I should never have come here,” Tiberius added with a shrug. But I wanted her to make that clear choice, for herself. She has.
Caesarion’s heavy brows contracted again. “Tiberius, if you hadn’t been here, there’s a good chance that Antyllus would be dead right now,” he said sharply. “You saved his damned life. Antony was the closest to his son when Antyllus went down. Antony’s no slouch with a sword, but he’s fifty-nine. I’d be looking at two dead men now, one of them my mother’s husband.” He gestured at the trunk, where the silver brazier leg had just been stowed. “I gave you that to remind anyone who sees it, that you’re a damned hero. Including you.”
“I did my duty, sir,” Tiberius said, hearing the words as if from a very great distance. Please don’t say anything else, Caesarion. Nothing that will make me hate myself any more than I already do. “Any one of the Praetorians around us could have picked up that piece of silver and done exactly the same thing. It takes no great courage to get in the way.”
Caesarion looked deeply upset about something, though Tiberius couldn’t have said why. “Tiberius, I’m going to ask Malleolus to stay on extra years. As an evocatus.” Evocati were the chosen men of the legions. They’d ser
ved their full terms of service, and had been asked, at the request of a legate or consul, to stay on. They were revered, as such. “I want him to stay here in Egypt and keep Eurydice and the child safe—“
“Congratulations, sir,” Tiberius murmured, as this was the first he’d heard of Eurydice’s pregnant state.
“Stow it. I wasn’t finished talking.” Caesarion didn’t take offense at the interruption, but his brows remained furrowed. “You’ve been with the Tenth since I transferred you to them in Hispania. I was hoping you’d come into the Guard. Eventually even become their prefect. You’re the best with a sword that I’ve ever seen.”
Tiberius waited a moment to be sure that Caesarion had finished this time. “My brother will be better than I am, when he’s had more experience. He’s faster on his feet.” He looked straight ahead, not focusing on anything. “While I thank you for the courtesy, dominus, the requirement is currently ten years’ service before becoming a Praetorian. Please do not waive that for my sake. I would prefer to do my duty.” His eyes flicked towards Caesarion. “Do I have your leave to leave for Britannia when the harbor re-opens?”
“And if I said I need you here, to help deal with the mess Cornelius Gallus has made in Thebes?” Caesarion asked heavily.
“I would do as my emperor commands.” Empty words. Hollow soul.
“For the sake of the people and the Senate of fucking Rome?” Caesarion rapped out.
“Yes, sir.”
There was a long pause. “You may leave for Britannia once I re-open the harbor. Quintus Cicero has command of the Tenth at the moment. Cicero Minor has the Seventh. I have all the Ciceros I need up there. Apparently, I need a Claudius there, too.” Caesarion held out his hand, offering a wrist-clasp, as between equals. “Tiberius, for the record, I think she made the wrong decision.”
“Right or wrong, it’s hers.” Tiberius accepted the wrist-clasp. “I’d like to move my belongings to the barracks, sir—“
“You’re my guest,” Caesarion refused, and this time, his tone sounded like iron. “You are my guest, Eurydice’s guest, and you will not leave us until the harbor opens.”
Tiberius straightened back to attention. “Yes, dominus.”
And he stayed that way, even when Caesarion reached out, put a hand on his injured arm, and healed the broken bones. A quiet word of thanks, and still, he stood straight, until the door closed behind Caesarion. Then, with nothing left to do with which to occupy his empty time until whenever the harbor opened, Tiberius dug in his chest. Pulled out his writing kit and the maps of Britannia. And sat at the room’s low, Egyptian-style table, to plot out how, if he were a Briton, he’d go about attacking Gaul and re-taking it.
There was nothing else really left for him, after all. The potential tie with Selene, gone before he’d even realized that it existed. The tie to Alexander, severed, out of honor, because pursuing Selene while remaining connected to Alexander would have been wrong. The tie to his mother, severed, both for Selene’s sake, and for his own, because he couldn’t bear to hear Livia spew poison any longer. The tie of friendship to Antyllus strained to the breaking point, because the other had capitalized on Selene’s feelings for an injured man hours after Tiberius had saved his life. The only things left to Tiberius were his love of his brother, Drusus, his loyalty to Caesarion, and his personal sense of honor.
The plain fact is, I didn’t deserve her to begin with. I don’t deserve happiness. I don’t deserve anything, really. I’m as empty as my villa. The gods did make me for war, and not for love. I said it a month ago in Rome. And now I have the proof of it. The gods made me this way for a reason. I hear them. I obey them. And I accept their judgment.
______________
Caesarion took reports from the urban cohorts and from the men of Eurydice’s Sixteenth, who’d fanned out into the city, looking for anything and anyone out of place.
They’d found a body in a warehouse of a middle-aged man, run to fat around the waist, with the hands of a scribe or a priest—soft, uncalloused, and with ink under the nails—but not a mark on him to suggest foul play. The owner of the warehouse swore that it had been rented a month ago by that same man, who’d claimed to have a large shipment of spices and other goods coming in by ship from Syria, but no trade goods were in the empty warehouse.
Alongside the man’s body, they found the body of a sacrificed lamb, drained of all blood, but there was little blood on the floor, which had recently been mopped and swept. The warehouse owner informed them that the man’s name had been given as Taf-Nekht, but that meant little. No one by that name appeared in any of the official registers of Alexandria, and the warehouse owner, having received his rental payment in advance, hadn’t bothered to stop by and inspect his property since.
“Dead end,” Caesarion remarked, looking at Malleolus in the room his mother had told him was the palace library. Cavernous and dim, its long, thin, rectangular windows admitted little light, and the whole place smelled oddly from the hundreds of papyrus scrolls in racks along the walls. Eurydice will make changes here. Roman pillows and a Roman bed, for one, I’m sure. They’d both been equally disconcerted by the jade headrests, as well as the inclined surface of the royal bed. And she’ll want a lighter, brighter place to do her reading. For however long she’s confined here. For her safety.
The word burned in his mind like a curse, and Caesarion gave it voice here in private, with vehemence. “Mal, I was supposed to leave Eurydice here because Rome wouldn’t be safe for her if she became pregnant. That, and the damned pact between the Egyptian gods and their mortal rulers.” He leaned back in his chair, gesturing in disgust at the palace around them. “How in the gods’ names do I keep her alive, if the safest place for her turns out to have enemies at every turn?”
Malleolus shook his head, standing in front of the low table that served Caesarion as a desk, for the moment. “You’ve asked me to stay on past my term of service, dominus. But you want me, the prefect of the Praetorians, to stay here in Egypt with your wife, rather than with you, and the bulk of the Praetorians—“
Caesarion leaned forward, his voice strained as he replied, “Your job is protecting my life, yes? She and the child are my life, and the future of the Roman people.”
“Yes, sir.” Malleolus held up his hands. “If I might continue?”
Caesarion’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned back again. “Speak your mind, Mal. I’ve never asked you to do otherwise.”
The prefect nodded. “That being said, sir, I’m not sure how I can keep them safe. The merely human threats, yes, I can handle. But at least twice in the past three years, the threat to her has been supernatural. The god-born woman in Hispania, that Aucissa.” His jaw clenched for a moment. “And of course, the beast in the temple.” He regarded Caesarion somberly. “We need people who can counter those kinds of threats.”
Caesarion grimaced. “I am open to suggestions.”
“The Roman-born mages that your wife has been training might have impeccable loyalties, but they’re too green.” Malleolus exhaled. “Dominus, I would like to expand our net for recruiting these kinds of . . . specialists. Quietly. Very quietly. Hellenes, to start with. Egyptians with no history of involvement in the business down in Thebes, and who have Roman associates with known loyalties, who will vouch for them. Carthaginians and Lydians—“
“You want to trust my wife’s life to Carthaginians?” Caesarion’s voice cracked.
“Whom we’ll observe over the span of years to ascertain their loyalty before putting them on any sort of protective detail,” Malleolus said, grim-faced. “It will be slow, but I can’t see a way around it. In a few decades, maybe even Gauls.” The half-Gallic man met Caesarion’s eyes. “It doesn’t help us in the short-term, but in the long run, it would be a way for people who have been marginalized by their own people to attain Roman citizenship. Which has been, I know, your wife’s goal, as well as to build a cadre of sorcerers with similar power to her own.”
Caesarion f
licked his hands. “Yes, but what do we do as a short-term solution? I don’t have decades, or years.” And I can’t leave till I know she’s safe.
Malleolus braced himself. “I hate this suggestion,” he noted. “It has a number of risks and uncertainties about it, which I think I can mitigate. But I’d like to put Magus Banit and her bodyguard temporarily on our payroll. She can cast spells, while for the moment, your wife can’t—though we have only the Magus’ word that magic during pregnancy is a bad idea.” That last, with dour suspicion.
“You want to put an admitted spy on our payroll,” Caesarion said, slowly, and he rubbed at his eyes.
“We’ll always know where the spy is,” Malleolus returned with a note of grim humor in his voice. “If she’s in the domina’s presence, there will always be at least four Praetorians around, as well. Watching the watcher, as it were.” His blue eyes were cold. “I can’t match supernatural threats. The Magus can. Call her a civilian specialist. She can advise on ways to keep spirits out of the palace and everything else. She just won’t be permitted to be alone with your wife, at any time.”
Caesarion nodded, a certain relief stealing through him. “Truthfully, Eurydice asked me if the woman could be kept on hand,” he admitted. “She wants to learn about the Magi approach to magic. If the Magus is overseen . . . my objections can rest.” He eyed Malleolus. “I doubt coin alone will convince the Magus to assist us, after the welcome we gave her.”
“No. But if she was telling the truth about the attack on her several years ago, she’ll be very interested in Praetorian resources in terms of tracking the men down. I can reach out to your brother, and his frumentarii. Have clerks go through records that aren’t open to the public. Things of that nature. She may be willing to play along.”
Children of Tiber and Nile Page 22
