Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  “You’re a good man, Tiberius,” Alexander told his friend, with deep conviction. Better than I am.

  “No. I’m not. But I can pretend, now and again, can’t I?”

  ______________

  Aprilis 1, 20 AC

  While on one side of the Mediterranean, Caesarion Aquilus took ship for Rome, in Rome itself, Alexander Cerastes took pains to earn his name once more.

  “It’s time to earn your freedom,” Alexander told Ianos quietly. “Victory or death. The same rules as the arena. Except, if you succeed, you’ll never hear the roar of the crowd. And if you lose, you’ll probably be tortured to death, and I’ll disavow all knowledge of your actions.”

  Ianos nodded. Jocasta was well again—at least as well as could be expected, for someone who’d been so near to death a six weeks or so ago. And to his shy, stunned delight, she’d begun to insist on sharing the big, warm bed in the room she’d been given by Lord Alexander. You’re up all night taking care of me. You need to sleep, had been the excuse at first. Followed, slowly, as she began to feel better, by little kisses, butterfly light. Stroking. Touching. And, gloriously, sex, too. He was sure he couldn’t be particularly good at it. But she made such pretty sounds, that even if she was pretending enjoyment out of habit, he forgave her, because with her, he came as close to feeling like a man as he’d ever been permitted.

  Lord Alexander had sworn that no matter what happened, Jocasta would be safe. Whisked away to Capri, perhaps, or Sicily. But safe. “I know what to do,” Ianos murmured. “I won’t let anyone down.”

  And then he left, a small, wax-sealed box filled with innocuous white powder in a pouch dangling from his belt. He knew better than to open that box for any reason other than seeing Livia Drusilla’s face in front of him. In the box was a death so terrible, he wondered why the gods would permit such things to grow in the bark and seeds of such common, inocuous plants with their pretty white flowers.

  He went around to the servant’s entrance of Lord Agrippa’s villa. Was greeted by the staff there with a mix of derision and interest. “You haven’t been around in a while, puer,” the housekeeper said, her lip curling with scorn. “Forgot all about your poor crippled mistress?”

  “Oh no! Not at all! Mistress Jocasta was dreadfully sick these past six weeks. Took every last denarii she had for the medici to save her life.” Meek, sober words, his eyes firmly on the floor. “Even now, they’re not sure she’ll make it.”

  “Oh really? What sort of horrible pustules did she have up her cunny, then, anyway?” one of the stable-boys asked, laughing. “Did they explode?”

  Ianos kept his eyes on the ground. The master had taught him that early. If he looked up, if he cried out, if he protested—no matter what was being done to him—he’d be punished. And the punishment was often even worse than what was being done to him to start with. When the master sent men to hold me down, and a medicus to cut out my balls, I cried then. I protested. I begged them not to do this to me, after so many other things had been done. And then the men hit me so hard I lost consciousness. And when I woke up, I knew I’d never be a man. I wasn’t a woman, either. Just something in between. Forever.

  A little thing like words—even horrible words about Jocasta—couldn’t make him react now, beyond the meek-sounding reply of, “Oh, it wasn’t that. She ate something with mushrooms in it. The cook must have bought a bad batch at the market. She’s lucky to be alive, she is.”

  “So, what are you here for, then, puer?” The housekeeper again, grabbing him by the ear. She had to reach up to do it. Even hunched over as he usually walked, his head down, he was taller than the tiny, wizened old woman with her talon-sharp nails.

  “She sent me to ask her sister to come to her. I’ll carry Mistress Viola to her. It won’t cost anyone a thing.” Ianos held his breath, but the servants and slaves all seemed to believe him. And, as expected, they put him in a side room, and called for Lady Livia. Who of course needs to know where Jocasta is, he thought, the words burning coldly in his mind. So that she can finish things off, if there’s a need. And who certainly won’t let Mistress Viola go. Not while Jocasta still draws breath. And she’ll come with two or three men. To put the fear of torture in me. Or to rape me, so that I’ll beg to be allowed to tell the truth.

  He pulled the little box from the bag at his waist when he heard steps in the hallway. More than one set of feet, as he’d known there would be. And then Lady Livia entered with two of the other slaves of the house, both male. He could see her smiling out of the corner of his eyes. “Well, now, look who’s returned!” Honeyed tones disguising venom. “I’m told your young mistress was very ill?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Something she ate?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Not a word offered more than was asked.

  “And where has she been recovering? I sent men to her home to check on her, when neither you nor she had appeared in some time.” A little titter of laughter. “Why, there were those who’d thought you’d had a quarrel, and that you’d dropped her in the Tiber!”

  Slow burn of rage inside of him; he tucked it where he always put his anger—deep down in his bowels. Where no one could see it. No one said that. She’s saying it now to test me. “She told me to take her to Tiber Island, my lady,” he said quietly. “To the temple of Asclepius there.”

  “Those quacks are never cheap.” Scornful tone. “How did she pay them?”

  “It took all her savings, domina. But they gave her a blessing for her sister before she left.” That, the only unasked-for piece of information so far. Ianos kept his eyes on the ground, but watched everything out of the periphery of his vision. This, too, was a skill he’d perfected in the master’s house. He’d learned that if he could keep enough people around him, it was less likely that the master would start caressing him. Or take him off to the room where pain lived. The result was that Ianos always knew exactly where people were around him. How close. How many. He knew that at the moment, there was a group of serving women in the hall outside, carrying loads of laundry downstairs. He could hear them chattering and laughing. Not yet. Soon. They’ll be passing the door any moment now. Has to be when they’re past, or the powder could catch them, too.

  “Hah. A blessing. That costs them as much to speak the words as the blessing itself is worth.” Livia studied him. He could feel her eyes boring into his skull. “You haven’t spent the past weeks with Lord Alexander?”

  “My lady?” Carefully blank tone, and he flinched a little as her fingers caught his face. He couldn’t help it; he flinched when anyone touched him. He’d even flinched at Jocasta’s touch once or twice, when she caught him unawares.

  “Lord Alexander,” Livia repeated, impatiently. “You stayed with him, didn’t you, and not at the Temple of Asclepius.”

  Now came the real test. Ianos looked into her eyes. And, as he’d been so carefully trained for years, filled himself with all the things that the master had always wanted to see in him. Weakness. Fragility. Beauty. Innocence. And a broken spirit. Even thinking of the master made bile rise up in his throat. Made his hands shake, but that only added to the believability of his illusion. “Domina, I don’t know a Lord Alexander,” Ianos lied, with perfect sincerity in his voice. “I don’t know any lords and ladies anymore, excepting yourself.”

  And as he’d hoped, she was distracted. “And once you did?”

  He dropped his eyes. “Yes, my lady.”

  “I’d be most interested to know which lord kept you, puer.”

  I bet that you would. He choked the thought down. Put it with the rage and the nausea. Flicked a glance at the two slaves, and listened as the servants passed outside.

  Taking the hint, Livia waved her two slaves away. “Go on with you,” she told them indifferently. “This one’s so well-trained that I’m sure he’ll do everything necessary to ensure that our young Jocasta comes home safely to her sister.”

  The two slaves left, looking dubious. Ianos allowed himself one
exhalation of relief. He wouldn’t be responsible for more than one death, hopefully. “So,” Livia murmured, her smile predatory as they left, closing the door behind them, “what was the name of your former master?”

  Ianos glanced up timidly. “My lady, I was told never to tell anyone. And I should be bringing Mistress Viola to her sister—“

  “You dare to presume?” Livia’s face contorted for a moment with rage, and she struck him, hard, across the face. “You dare to put the requirements of your little harlot before my request for information?”

  She was close enough now. The door was closed. Ianos, his face still stinging, flipped open the box in his hand and ducked away, as if to protect himself from more blows . . . and threw the entire contents of the box in Livia’s face.

  White powder bloomed out, looking nothing so much like talc dust. Ianos leaped back, immediately, getting away from the cloud, trying not to breathe. “Oh, no!” he wailed loudly. “The blessing! The priests gave this blessing for Mistress Viola!”

  Coughing and choking on the powder, some of which had gotten into her mouth and nose, Livia furiously beat at the powder that now covered her face, hair, and stola. “Imbecile!” she shouted, and the door opened behind her, revealing those same two slaves, looking angry. Ianos backed up another step, truly apprehensive, and found his back against a window that opened into the peristylium. And he was on the ground floor, gods be thanked. “I’m so sorry,” Ianos cried out, and leaped through the shutters of the window. It didn’t matter if they caught him and beat him till his ribs broke. He needed to get away from that cloud of dust.

  The slaves did catch him. They kicked him and punched him, and Ianos curled into a ball, protecting his head and stomach, grateful for once in his life that when they kicked him in the groin, it was uncomfortable, but not debilitating. Aware that all the servants had turned out to watch, over the rails of balconies. Most of them cheering the two brutes on. Kill him! they screamed. Kill that uppity little puer. So pretty, you’d think he was a girl. Thinks he’s so much better than us, never had to work a day in his life? Mess his shit up but good!

  He was aware, too, that Viola was one of the people looking down into the garden. Alone, on her crutches. Unable to stop what was happening.

  Livia had no further use for him at that point. She had him thrown out of the house, once the slaves had had their fun. Ianos was simply grateful that they’d stopped with a beating, and hadn’t decided to rape him, or shove a stick up his ass.

  Bleeding from the eyes, nose, and mouth, and hunched in on himself like an old, old man, he staggered through the streets of the Palatine, among all the houses of the rich. Until a hand came out from behind a tree and pulled him into cover. He flinched, but he couldn’t do anything to prevent the contact. “Dis’ teeth and toenails,” Spurius muttered, wetting a cloth with water from a flask, and mopping with surprising gentleness at Ianos’ face. “You look like someone who got the wrong end of his contubernium’s fists when the centurion said ‘you know, I don’t care which of you idiots was responsible, so I’m going to pick one man and the rest of you get to beat him to set an example.’”

  “Feels like it, too,” Ianos mumbled through his swelling lips.

  “Did they get you anyplace important? Besides the pretty face?”

  “Couple good kicks in the groin.” Ianos shrugged. “I’ll survive that.”

  “You’ve definitely had worse in that region.” Dry humor, but not hurtful.

  “It’s the fact that I can still . . . feel their feet . . . under my ribs in my back. . . .”

  “Fuck. Sounds like kidneys. You’ll probably piss blood for a couple of days. Depends on how thorough they were.” Spurius gave him another wipe with the cloth. “Let’s get you to a medicus. Set most of these with stitches, and won’t be able to tell you were cut up in a month or so.”

  “Scars . . . would only . . . improve things for me.” Ianos coughed, felt a rib scream to life as he did so, and tried to breathe shallowly. “Wouldn’t be . . . so fucking pretty . . . anymore.”

  “Dominus says you stay as pretty as the job lets you. It’s all right. Most of us wear our scars on the inside, anyway. Makes it harder for people to identify us.” Spurius smirked. “I’m the exception, of course. Did you get the powder in her face?”

  “On her. On half of the room. I’m hoping . . . that the fuckers who did this. . . got a couple of good lungfuls.” Gone were his earlier compunctions about the collateral damage to the two slaves. Now, Ianos hoped they died just as painfully as their mistress would.

  _____________

  An hour later, Livia sat in her room. She’d called Viola to her, and ordered the girl to brush out her hair, to ensure that all the flour, or whatever it was, was gone. The last thing I need is anything to make it whiter than it already is, she thought grimly, watching the young woman, leaning on one crutch, comb out her tangled tresses. The bronze mirror in front of her gave everything a somewhat jaundiced color, but she knew that white was creeping into her blond hair.

  The little Hellene slave who usually took care of Livia’s needs was, unfortunately, unavailable. Agrippa had taken her off with him into his rooms early this morning, and whatever they’d been doing, they hadn’t so much as poked a nose out of his chambers during all the contretemps earlier. So Livia made do. She had Viola help her remove her flour-covered stola, and had the girl toss it on the bed, for the moment. “Impudent wretch,” Livia muttered under her breath. And Viola, not daring to reply, said nothing at all. Just combed the white powder out of Livia’s hair, sweeping it off her shoulders with a horsehair brush. Stirring up fresh clouds of the finely-milled stuff.

  “It looks a little like face-powder, my lady,” Viola ventured. “I wonder why he’d have been carrying that.”

  “He said it was a blessing from the priests of Asclepius. For you. After your sister spent all her savings, trying to cure herself of food poisoning.” Livia snorted. “Fat chance they’d just give that away. I’d be willing to bet that it was just face-powder. Something to try to buy back your good-will, my dear.”

  “Yes, domina.”

  She grimaced as Viola’s hands hit a tangle. Alive she has to stay, until I know for sure where Jocasta is, and have taken care of the problem. I’m quite sure young Ianos will lead me back to her. The men I set to following him, however, lost him somewhere in the Palatine. No matter. He stands out. More, now that he’s been beaten. We’ll find him again. And with him, her.

  Livia found that she simply couldn’t sit still. She wanted to be up and moving around, but forced herself to calmness, though her knee bounced up and down—a clear violation of the self-control on which she prided herself. Her neck hurt, too—a pervasive soreness that she simply couldn’t get away from. “Be a dear and rub my neck, girl. That’s it—not too hard now.”

  A muscle fluttered by her eyelid, and Livia raised her fingers to press against the tic for a moment. I’ve been overdoing it, she decided. My body’s telling me that I’ve spent too many late nights trying to hold together this far-flung faction of Octavian’s former officers, friends, and social conservatives like the distant relations of Cato the Younger. “I think I might like to lie down for a bit. Clear my clothing away, girl! Doesn’t do to be a slattern, with everything lying around, out of place.”

  When the first spasm hit, Livia felt her legs and spine contort, as if she were trying to give birth to something that wasn’t even there. She moaned with the pain of it, and sat up, panting and sweating, as soon as it passed. And with a shock of horror, she recognized all the symptoms. Strychnine. Oh, dear gods, how did they get it to me? I haven’t had anything to eat or drink that I haven’t had tasted by three different slaves. How did they—could it have been the powder? Oh, gods. “Girl!” Livia called imperatively. “Viola! On the shelf here—the ivory and gold casket.”

  But Viola, shuffling in from another room, had a tic under her eye, and, balancing on only one crutch, couldn’t quite reach the costl
y container. Livia managed to raise herself upright, and then another spasm hit, making her feel as if her jaw were about to rip itself off of her face. “Oh, gods,” she whispered as it passed, and heaved herself up. Managed to reach the casket down herself, and, opening it, found the rich, spicy smell of mithridate inside—the universal cure, the recipe seized from the defeated Parthian king Mithridates, and carried to Rome by the hand of Pompey the Great himself.

  Livia broke off a piece of the crystallized cure. Dropped it in a cup, poured wine over it, her hands shaking so much that she slopped it everywhere. Brought the mixture to her lips. Another spasm hit, even as the precious elixir coursed over her tongue. Found the back of her throat.

  But she couldn’t swallow. Her limbs seized. Her back arched like that of an acrobat, and searing pain flooded through her. “This . . . is . . . his . . . fault,” Livia panted. “The snake . . . the snake murdered me. . . .”

  With the last glimmers of her consciousness, Livia saw Viola pop a fragment of the universal curative in her own mouth. And took the pitcher of wine, and drank from it directly. Trying to preserve her own life. It won’t work, Livia thought, the thought dissipating. It’s as much a crock as everything else . . . .

  _____________

  “Is it done?” Alexander asked Spurius tightly. Jocasta had held Ianos’ hand the entire time that Ianthe, the priestess of Hecate, had gone about the business of swabbing the cuts and stitching them up.

  “Agrippa’s villa looks like a kicked anthill,” Spurius returned, glancing through several slips of parchment.

  “Anyone shouting poison yet?”

  Spurius shook his head, his eyes narrow. “No. Too many people in the villa have come down sick, it seems. The girl who helped Livia change and brush her hair is ill, or so our man on the inside says.” He frowned over something, then handed Alexander the parchment, going on calmly, “The two slaves who beat our lad here are convulsing. Several others who weren’t in the room are coming down ill, as well—not typical for poison, as they’re all likely to know. They’re closing down the house, saying it could be some sort of disease.”