Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  He saw her mouth drop open in outrage, and he went on, still without raising his voice, “For the record, however? Your step-mother is a wondrous inventor of fiction. Neither Tiberius nor I have ever taken it up the ass.” The crudity was deliberate, and enough to make her flinch, though he’d not so much as taken a step further into her room, from where he leaned against the doorframe. “Though I’m sure many have joked about the closeness of our friendship. You see, we’re both of the opinion that if you’re going to fuck someone that way, it’s about power. And since he and I are equals, freeborn men of high birth, it would be utterly impossible for either of us to disrespect each other in that way. Which should be evident to anyone with even half a brain.” That part? Complete truth. But now for a few more truths to do the service of lies. “And for all the common Roman jokes about Hellene love? It’s the same for them. They even think that for a man to shove his cock into another man’s mouth is to dishonor him, if they’re of the same social class.” Truth, that. That’s reserved for prostitutes and slaves, male and female alike.

  Octavia wilted. ‘Then you’re saying you’ve never—?”

  “I’m prepared to swear on the Styx that I’ve never turned Tiberius into a woman.” No, when we’ve fucked, we’ve both been men about it. And it was magnificent. Thank you for asking. Alexander’s lips didn’t move, however. His face remained as hard as marble as he added, coldly, “I’m sure that whoever you do wind up marrying, Octavia, would greatly appreciate it if you subjected your step-mother’s tales to a little more analytical thought in the future. Also, as a side-note, Eurydice long ago told me about your kissing games with the maids. You might consider that, in and around your personal indignation with me.”

  Octavia’s face went white. “Those . . . those were just games. Practice for kissing a man—“

  “Yes, yes,” Alexander told her, impatiently. “Notice that none of us has ever confronted you about it, or shamed you for it? However, if you speak one lie more that previously dripped from your step-mother’s lips, about me, Tiberius, or the invalid I’ve been trying to help, I will ensure that everyone in Rome knows about the kissing games, Octavia. And just how far they’ve gone. Is that clear?” Also, best of luck to you with Rullus, who likes it when pretty girls shit on him, or Gallus, who’s had an actress for a mistress for twenty years, or anyone else that Livia picks for you. But that will hardly be my concern anymore. And once you’re out of this house, I may, locked in my study where no one can see, cavort and caper like a Hellene dancer at the thought of freedom.

  Octavia nodded, her expression dazed, as if suddenly understanding how alone she was. Alexander felt an instant of sympathy for her; she wasn’t a bad person. Merely a silly and easily-manipulated one. But his sympathy died the moment he remembered that his agents had fed some of the medicines in the basket to some rats in the barn. And had watched the creatures die, one by one. She didn’t know. But her ignorance is a liability. “Get your things together,” Alexander told her, more kindly. “I’m sure Livia will embrace you when you return to her villa.”

  He chafed for the next week, unable to move against Livia just yet. He needed confirmation from two sources before he took action: Caesarion, and Tiberius.

  On Martius 1, a letter arrived at the villa in the latter half of the afternoon, bearing Tiberius’ seal, to his surprise. Good, this should be news of his betrothal to my sister, Alexander thought, never doubting that outcome for a moment.

  Thus he read the contents with some consternation.

  Alexander—

  I’m at the Leaena inn, in Ostia, with a day or two of stopover before I can catch a ship heading for Colonia Narbo Martius, on the shores of Gaul. That should get me heading properly to Britannia, at long last. I know you’re busy, so don’t take horse and come to meet me. The news I have isn’t good.

  In short? Your sister decided that M. Antonius Antyllus would suit her better than I would. It’s for the best. I couldn’t offer her more than an empty villa, anyway. He’ll take excellent care of her, and I’m certain that your mother will be far more pleased by this union, than by any other.

  There was an attack on your sister and brother during the investiture ceremony, undertaken by a priest you might recall. Antyllus and I kept the creature set against your siblings occupied, until the Emperor was able to recover and finish it off. I later had the honor of killing the priest in question myself, with the aid of several other equites from the Sixteenth.

  But enough about that. I’m sure you’ll get full details from P. Julius Caesarion in his next letter, though last I heard, he was riding south to Thebes to deal with a revolt there. Your brother rarely sits still for long.

  Best wishes to you and yours, and may the gods keep you in their hands.

  Your friend,

  T. Claudius Nero

  Postscript: Please do not let any rumors about Egypt get around. I particularly do not wish for the proposed cognomen of “Agricola” to be promulgated publically. The men of the Sixteenth can go hang on that count.

  Alexander read the letter, and then immediately called for his horse, knowing that the two and a half hour ride would put him in Ostia, at the door of the Leaena, by no later than eight, if he skipped dinner now. And with no one else in the villa to discommode besides the servants, that was an easy decision to make. He couldn’t leave a message for Sulpicia at Merges, but that was fine; many evenings, their schedules simply didn’t coordinate, and that helped keep people from seeing patterns in their visits to the taverna.

  As he rode, however, he turned the terse, short words of Tiberius’ letter around in his mind. The tone had been extremely formal throughout; the only moment of humanity had been the acerbic postscript. Alexander cursed his sister Selene repeatedly and viciously under his breath. We did everything but stop the course of the moon in the sky to please her, and she decided to vacillate the other direction. After explicitly telling Tiberius that she was in love with him. Gods. The news I have for him is bad enough. I don’t need him in a foul mood before asking him what I need to ask him, and yet I have no choice. I can’t do what needs to be done behind his back. If hears about it after the fact, he’ll spend his whole life trying to find out who did it, and I won’t do that dance. Not with him. A flicker of bleak humor crossed his mind, then. I’d hoped that when I put the question to him, he’d see it as the best thing for his relationship with his soon-to-be-wife: a life together, without his mother involved in it.

  Just past eight postmeridian, Alexander finally reached the correct inn in Ostia. Tossed the reins and a small coin at one of the loafing servants at the front, and strode in, covered in road dirt. Smelled lamb stew and the sweat of the dozens of men already occupying trestle tables, and called the taverna’s owner over, asking for Tiberius by name. A quick flash of the Julii signet on his finger got him a startled look and an admission that the man of the Claudii was indeed in a private room upstairs. And off Alexander went, tapping on the correct door.

  “I said I didn’t want to be bothered,” Tiberius’ curt voice came from behind the door.

  “It’s me, Ti. Open up.”

  After a pause, the door opened, and Alexander met Tiberius’ gray stare, noting that his friend had acquired a tan over the course of two sea voyages in the past six weeks. A faint scent of wine on his breath, but not too much; he wasn’t drowning his sorrows. “And I told you to stay in Rome,” Tiberius said quietly. “You’re rotten at taking suggestions, you know that?” He stepped out of the way, letting Alexander in.

  “After receiving a letter like that? I’d have been on my horse even if I didn’t need to talk to you about something too urgent and too dangerous to put in a note,” Alexander said, stepping through.

  Tiberius closed the door behind them, and Alexander put an arm around his shoulders, gently. “I’m sorry. My sister is a complete idiot. I hope for her sake that Antyllus is the only man of the Antonius name who’s capable of being faithful—“

  “Antony se
ems singularly faithful to your mother,” Tiberius replied, his voice empty and very precise. Like a judge offering a verdict. “The indiscretions with that actress were when his first faithless wife was in the picture. And I can’t blame him for anything he did when married to Octavia. Your sister will be happy with Antyllus, I have no doubt.” He pulled away from Alexander’s arm, gesturing to one of the two seats in the room, the single chair beside the bed. “Pour you some wine?”

  Alexander took the offered chair. Tiberius sometimes said more with gestures than with words, and this was one of those times. “I’ll take the wine, but only after I’m done apologizing,” he said, simply. “It was my damned fool idea that you marry her. None of the rest would have happened, if I hadn’t been greedy. Wanting to keep you in my life as a brother, when I should have known that your friendship, once given, is eternal.” And yet, here I am, about to ask you something else that will jeopardize that friendship. He swallowed.

  “I wanted to punch you about two weeks ago,” Tiberius admitted, taking a seat on the bed and looking at the nearby window, its shutters drawn against Ostia’s sea breezes. “Then I realized that it’s no one’s fault. Things happen as the gods will it.”

  No. It’s not the gods’ fault. It’s my sister’s, for being a flighty child. But if you’re choosing to be magnanimous, I can’t say more. Alexander nodded. “We’re all right?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “And you’re fine?” Alexander pressed, gently. The emptiness in his eyes—it’s like the self-loathing fits. But . . . different. This isn’t the black pit of despair, which I’ve seen even in the eyes of people like Ianos. This is just . . . nothingness.

  “As I am likely to be.” Tiberius poured fresh wine and watered it. “I only have the one cup. We’ll have to share it.”

  “We’ve done that many times.”

  A silent nod as Tiberius handed the cup to him. And then his friend began to describe the demon attack at the Temple of Isis, and Alexander nearly choked. Followed by the fight against the mage-priests, which had claimed so many lives. “In the end, as I was trying to crawl under three feet of sand, the weight of it pressing down, no air left . . . I prayed to Pluto and Proserpina. I offered my life, so that we could destroy these enemies. I don’t know why they didn’t take it,” Tiberius said, frowning over the cup as Alexander passed it back. “Perhaps I didn’t use the correct prayer. I know that when you offer devotio, you’re supposed to invoke Quirinus and Jove, too—“

  Alexander lunged forward, putting his hand on Tiberius’ shoulder, his heart having gone cold inside of him. “Don’t! For the gods’ sakes, don’t invoke them now—“

  A faint, wintery smile as Tiberius looked at him. “I think the gods know what’s their due, old friend. Sooner or later, they’ll collect it. When they’re ready.”

  “And maybe you just found the strength to stand up on your own, in a moment of desperation and courage,” Alexander shot back angrily. “Perhaps the gods had nothing to do with it at all.” And he leaned in, kissing his friend. Hard. Trying to remind him of life, damn it.

  Tiberius responded, but slowly. Wrapped one arm around his neck, and finally pulled his lips away, but didn’t retreat further. “And what’s new with you? Did you finally seek out your poetess?”

  Alexander sighed. Put his head on Tiberius’ shoulder. “I did.”

  “Did you find a way to fuck her mind after all?” A hopeful sign; there was a slightly humorous lilt to the question.

  “Gods, yes,” Alexander returned fervently. “I ask her to recite poetry in bed, and when she starts forgetting words, I know I’ve found the correct path to that beautiful mind of hers.”

  “You sound smitten.” Tiberius kissed his cheek. “It’s a pleasure to hear.”

  “I am,” Alexander admitted. “She’s writing a play for me. And I’m going to marry her. Someday.” He turned his head to look at Tiberius. “I have to admit, she’s the one thing I don’t want to share with you. I thought about it at first—incessantly. And then I realized that I didn’t want to take the chance that she might like it better with you.” A flicker of a smile for the insecurity of that admission.

  A snort from Tiberius. “Does this mean we’re growing up?”

  “No. It means I know you’re the better swordsman. In every way. And I can’t take that chance with her.” Rueful humor.

  Tiberius’ lips actually quirked up for that. “You give me too much credit, and yourself not enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “So, if you marry her, won’t that make for a crowded bedchamber? What with Octavia in there, too?”

  Alexander sighed. Pulled back. “That’s not going to be an issue,” he told Tiberius tiredly. “Octavia ended the betrothal a week ago. On the grounds that your mother had told her that I’d fucked your ass smooth for four years.”

  Tiberius’ head snapped up, a look of rage and offended pride crossing his face. That’s the most human he’s looked since I sat down, Alexander thought, concern vying with the need to make Tiberius understand everything. To agree with what needed to be done. “What did you just say?” Tiberius demanded furiously.

  “As I live and breathe, your mother told Octavia that I’d made a woman of you. I’d already asked Caesarion if I could be shed of this betrothal, so it was a damned relief for me—“

  “Why?” Tiberius snapped, lurching to his feet. “Why would my mother dishonor me so? Why would she put those words in the mouth of a chatterbox like Octavia, to be spread all over Rome—“

  “I took care of that. She says one word, and she’ll be known for the Sapphic dalliances she’s been having with some of our maids. It’ll put a stain on her virtue that no amount of coin in her dowry will ever remove.” Alexander regarded Tiberius, his throat tight. And now, we come to the point that might break our friendship in half. “Ti. Your mother didn’t just tell a bunch of half-truths and distortions to Octavia.” All the words now in whispers so soft that he almost had to strain to hear himself. “She got ahold of Jocasta’s sister. Took her in, made her comfortable, indebted Jocasta in so doing, and then made her listen for information, too. I didn’t know about it. And Jocasta surely didn’t know what was in the bottle of oil your mother gave her, with explicit directions to pour half of it over my back and rub it in the next time I visited—“

  Tiberius’ eyes locked on Alexander, and the other man finished now, quietly. Simply, “Wolfsbane. Aconite. Jocasta nearly died—my agents got us both to Ianthe in time. I’m sure that the only reason I survived was the amulet of Sekhmet. I had no idea it would handle poison. Though it started burning with cold at dawn that morning—“

  “The thirteenth?” Tiberius said, hoarsely.

  “Yes, why?” Alexander asked, frowning.

  “I was bitten by the cobra at dawn that day. Couldn’t understand why the amulet woke me up near midnight, with it burning cold against my skin.” Tiberius took a seat again, one hand over his face as he fought through the emotional responses. Finally, he looked up. “The amulets are linked, then. We’ll always know when one of us is in mortal danger, I expect.”

  “You’ll see more of that than I will. Britannia won’t exactly be a wedding feast.” Alexander said nothing more. Tiberius worked through things in his own time. At his own pace. Pushing never helped.

  And Tiberius worked through it. Step by step. “My mother targeted you, through Jocasta. Nearly murdered both of you. She went after you, because . . . you’re of the Julii. Because she’s ambitious. . . on my behalf, or Drusus’. Because you’re in her way.” And then, very softly, so that even another person standing in the same room wouldn’t have heard it, “And because I love you.”

  Alexander nodded. Tiberius closed his eyes. “Do you want me to kill her?” he whispered, his voice empty. “She’s dishonored me, in word and in deed. I should do it—“

  “No! No, Ti, I would never ask you to commit matricide.” Alexander caught his friend’s hand in his.

  “Who better than a dead man, t
o bring another to dissolution?” That wasn’t quite a joke.

  “Even if Pluto has a marker for your soul—the same as he has for every man born!—that doesn’t mean you don’t get to live in the meantime,” Alexander retorted hotly. “No. It won’t be by your hand, Ti. I have it arranged. I just . . . needed you to know.”

  “Knowledge, in this case, is a heavy burden,” Tiberius muttered, his voice taut. “Knowing that my mother is a would-be-murderess. Knowing that she has to have tried this sort of thing before, to be so good at it. Knowing that my best friend—my lo—“

  “Shh,” Alexander said, putting his other hand over Tiberius’ mouth. “Don’t say it.”

  “Knowing that you’re going to have to kill her,” Tiberius finished, quietly. “Can we ever look at each other the same way again?”

  Alexander’s throat hurt. “I had to tell you. Otherwise, you’d have gone digging afterwards. And there was the potential that you’d feel betrayed when you found out.”

  Tiberius exhaled. Lay back on the bed with a forearm over his eyes. “The only person who’s betrayed me,” he said quietly, “is Livia Drusilla. She’s a murderess. She’ll try again and again, if you let her.” He uncovered his eyes, regarding Alexander steadily. “Do what you need to do. And don’t feel badly about it. She hasn’t been my mother in years. You will always be my brother. And my friend.”

  Alexander let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Slid into the bed beside Tiberius, and just lay there. Not moving. Not touching. Not talking, at least not for a long while. Tiberius finally took his hand, and told him, gently, “You need to sleep, if you’re going to ride back to Rome in the morning. Please tell Sulpicia that I very much would like to meet the woman who captured my brother’s heart. And that if her play is ever performed in public while I am in Rome, I expect good seats for Drusus and myself.”