Children of Tiber and Nile

by Deborah Davitt

  Antyllus had hoped to be able to purchase bows in the thousands; he wound up with several hundred, but with something perhaps a little better, in the long-run; two young bowyers from different tribes indicated that, for a price, they’d come with him on his journeys, and equip his troops, assuming he could provide them with materials. Both were young men in their early twenties, without families. They had decent prospects ahead of them, but were hungry for more wealth and renown than were available to them at the moment. And, since the goods they’d brought were worth so much to these nomads—salt, gems, glass, olive oil, and even spices from far-off India—they wound up with several pounds of beautifully worked Scythian gold necklaces, several new, clean rugs, worked in patterns that made Selene sigh in appreciation, and a few Sarmatian slaves in trade as well, though Antyllus muttered that he had no idea what they’d do with them.

  All three were female, and Selene had little difficulty interpreting the looks their new bowyers were giving them. “Hebe and I can try to teach them Latin,” Selene offered shyly. “They’ll find better places in Rome, if you decide to sell them later, if they can at least speak the language. And . . . might not wind up in brothels.” She paused. “And I think that one was with the weavers when I visited with them. She might be trained to weave their rugs. That wouldn’t be . . . that wouldn’t be terrible, would it?”

  Antyllus shook his head. “I have my Scythian maiden,” he said, tapping the bow slung over his shoulder. “I’ve been quite content with her. I didn’t need to add any living ones to my household. We can sell the other two on the way home, since I don’t want to cart them all the way to Rome. But you can keep the third, if you like, and if she turns out to have useful skills, as you say.”

  Selene resolved to teach the women Hellene and Latin, at least a few words each, before they had to sell them. It’s the least I can do, she thought, as they set out to the northwest now, heading back into Roman-Hellene territory.

  She did try. Only one of the three seemed to have any aptitude for language, the same one who’d been owned by the weavers. She was a golden-haired girl with sea-green eyes, of about Selene’s own age, who tapped her own sternum and articulated what Selene hoped was her name: Arunia. Arunia also seemed to like to sing, and frequently did so, just outside of their tent, where she slept with the other two slaves under an awning.

  And so, as they toiled towards the shores of the Black Sea, Martius gave way to Aprilis. They found the city of Trapezus, with its double ring of walls. Let their carters go, dismissed their hired guards, and sold off the two other Scythian girls, keeping Arunia. Selene had just begun putting together bits and pieces of Arunia’s story. She’d been Scythian-born, originally, of their warrior-caste, but she’d been captured during a raid by the Sarmatians, and enslaved. Or at least, that’s what Selene thought the girl was saying. Gods only know if I’ll ever understand it all. But she likes music and sings along when I play—wordless tunes that more or less fit the melody. That’s . . . the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in ages. Social status and language barriers aside.

  It wasn’t much of a friendship, she had to admit. And while she’d finally come to enjoy at least a little of their time with the nomads—all she had to do to prove that to herself, was to take out that tiny rug the women had given her, and she’d feel a hint of a warm glow around her heart—the grinding reality of travel once again bore down on her.

  Arunia and the two bowyers proved to be terrified of the sea and of the boats. They’d clearly never seen such things before, and spent the entire passage over the Black Sea praying in their own language, when they weren’t retching. Which was precisely how Selene spent the passage, herself.

  On being told that they’d have two more sea voyages ahead of them—one through Corinth to reach Rome, and then from Rome to Gaul, one of the men vanished in Megaran Hellene territory, disappearing into the night. Leaving Antyllus with exactly one bowyer and a load of irritation. Selene rather envied the bowyer who’d left, but she couldn’t disappear the same way.

  Finally, they reached Ostia on Aprilis eleventh. Selene had never been so glad to see a stretch of land in her entire life. However, she knew that this was just a stopover. While they were only two hours from Rome by carriage, they’d just be turning around and setting back out to sea again shortly. She wrote a polite letter to Alexander, and another note to Eurydice in Alexandria, informing both of her siblings that they’d arrived safely. She wasn’t sure what else to put in the missives, so both read the same:

  Arrived in Ostia today, after a journey of almost two months. Antyllus successfully purchased several hundred Scythian bows, and procured the services of one Sarmatian bowyer. My husband informs me that we will be departing for Britannia within the next two days.

  I hope that this letter finds you in good health. May the gods keep you.

  There wasn’t much else to say. She could have rattled on about the smells of Antioch, but that seemed pointless. She could have mentioned the weavers of the Sarmatians, but that would surely have bored her busy siblings. Their eyes would skip over that sort of fluff.

  She couldn’t write any of the questions she ached to ask Eurydice. At what point does love become the all-consuming fire I see between you and Caesarion? Does that only happen when the husband and the wife are . . . friends? More equal, like Father and Mother, or even Mother and Antony? She sighed. I admire Antyllus’ strength and courage. I’m amazed by his ability to talk to and persuade anyone, even barbarians. I enjoy his ready humor. I feel safe with him.

  Listed, all the things that she liked about her husband certainly sounded like symptoms of love. Her uncertainty, however, was real, and cruel. It’s just. . . I expected more. I expected the feelings to grow. But they’re . . . tepid. Whatever I feel is not a fire, and I thought it would be a blaze, after the first times he kissed me. Selene swallowed, the pen still in her hand, dripping ink in a useless blotch on the parchment. Still, this is probably more than other women in arranged marriages feel. He doesn’t beat me or the servants. He lets me choose my own servants, gives me gifts, and . . . well, I doubt I’d have ever seen the weavers working, if he hadn’t dragged me out of the tent. But on the other hand, I didn’t want to be there to begin with.

  Tiredness rose up like a gray fog, and she pushed it down with an effort. He’s fond of me. He’s faithful. He hasn’t even been sleeping with any of the slaves—how could he, since he insists on me sharing his bed every night? A tinge of resentment, even at that, however. Marital relations were nice enough, and Antyllus certainly seemed intent on pleasing her, but she spent every day in a haze of exhaustion that he didn’t seem to feel. Sex was thus, something she hoped would be over with quickly, so that she could sleep, and not the joy it had been the first night on the ship, leaving Alexandria. Before the seasickness had set in, anyway.

  And there was another component to that thought. Antyllus was fond of her. Nothing more. Oh he’d kiss her quite passionately when they were in bed. But the rest of the time? He’d stroke her hair sympathetically, rub her shoulders, and generally take care of her. But she was left with the impression that he’d have taken care of a child in exactly the same way. Maybe what I feel isn’t growing, because he doesn’t feel much for me, either? But that seemed unfair. I could just as easily say that he doesn’t feel more for me, because I don’t feel more for him. Circular reasoning.

  Selene dropped the quill, sending a spray of ink over what she’d written, and not caring. Logic didn’t seem to help her through the muddle in her own head. I’m fortunate. I know I am. So why, when I’m throwing up over the side of yet another ship, do I wish that I’d never left the Julii villa? Why do I wish that I’d stayed a child forever? Why do I get so angry with him when he strokes my hair and tells me that the seasickness will pass, when he never seems stricken with it? How can I resent someone who treats me so well? Selene sighed as she stared at the spattered, mostly-empty scroll in front of her. I couldn’t have stayed home forever.
Things change, and I should be grateful to have so much.

  But . . . if she’d been able to pick up that pen again, and write her confession, it would have read, I don’t think I like adventure. No matter how much Antyllus enjoys it. I’ve been miserable since the moment I left Rome. Meeting the weavers was interesting. I liked that. But that was . . . five or six days out of eight horrible weeks of being dirty. Having to have Hebe wash my hair with yarrow and other oils to kill the fleas from that filthy inn. Getting horribly ill from strange food, or plain bad food. Shivering in a tent, terrified of Parthian patrols finding us. Wishing, every moment of almost every day, that I were home.

  She couldn’t say that, though. Not to Eurydice, whom Selene knew had hate being cooped up in the palace in Alexandria. Who was far from Caesarion. Who actually seemed to enjoy living in a tent or a wooden castra building. Who never seemed to get sick from bad food. Who’d gone with Caesarion on a trip to the Alps, just to see what the mountains looked like.

  No, Eurydice would only tell Selene how fortunate she was, to have seen so much of the world—perhaps more than even Eurydice herself had, at this point. To have drunk sour, thick mare’s milk—nevermind that she’d thrown most of it back up the next morning. To have seen golden Antioch and Trapezus, where Xenophon had retreated with ten thousand Hellene mercenaries, hired by Cyrus to help him try to take the throne of Persia.

  I’m tired of traveling, but so are all the women married to officers who’ve made the crossing to Britannia by this point. Most women don’t have any say in where they go. There’s . . . nothing special about me. A brief thought crossed her mind, of what her life would have been like, if she’d married Tiberius instead. And she had to acknowledge, that it would be, in most ways, exactly the same. Oh, she wouldn’t have been dragged through eastern Lydia, the steppes of Scythia, up to the Black Sea, and then across the Mediterranean. But right now? She’d probably be stuck in a castra in Britannia. Or sitting alone in a villa in Rome, forced to hold political dinners and converse with people, because the military is politics and politics relies on the military.

  She’d never really thought about that reality when she’d been daydreaming about marriage when she was younger. Her own mother hadn’t gone with Caesar on his wars since before Selene was born. Cleopatra had been too busy handling the political end of things, and ruling her own kingdom largely by correspondence. So. This is my life now. If I had a choice, it would be between even more travel, and staying in Rome, equally miserable, and disappointing Antyllus into the bargain. At least by going with him, there’s only one person unhappy, instead of both of us. That’s the way to make a decision between two choices that will make me equally unhappy, isn’t it? By determining how happy the choice makes the other people in my life?

  And there’s no way out of it, short of the gods reaching down and transforming me into someone else. I wish it could all just stop. That I could stop being who I am.

  She covered her face with her hands, trying to will the tears away. I can’t let Antyllus see this in me. He’d blame himself, or try to fix it, and there’s nothing to fix. The problem is me. I wouldn’t be happy alone in Rome, forced to hold political dinners and whatever else in his absence. I probably won’t be happy in a castra. The only place I think I was really happy, was the Julii villa when my father was alive. And that’s not my home anymore, and never will be again. She swallowed. As Antyllus’ wife, I’m supposed to make him my home, and make a home for him. But the only home he wants is the road and the sea. And I just . . . can’t. I can’t feel that I’m home when I’m with him.

  And that thought made her head spin and her stomach curl with guilt. Because Antyllus did go out of his way, trying to make her happy. She knew that he did. His fondness showed in all the little things he did for her. But again, it was fondness. Not love, as far as she could comprehend it. Selene sighed, and reminded herself, yet again, I need to appreciate the things that I have and stop whining, even in my thoughts. Fondness is better than nothing. And my own feelings . . . well, they’re better than nothing, too, I suppose. Even if they’re muffled and gray, and I can’t understand why, when I know I was happy about it all, in Alexandria. But even that feels so distant, now.

  Selene stared at the bare words on the two scrolls, identical, but for the ink spatters on the one to Alexander. Signed them, exactly as they were. And asked Antyllus politely to put his seal on them, so that they could be passed to couriers and sent on their way.

  _____________

  Antyllus was surprised when Alexander showed up at Ostia the next morning, with an armed guard and a servant carrying a heavy chest as he knocked at their door. Antyllus could see weariness in the younger man’s eyes—the strain of carrying the political weight of the Empire, while Caesarion was attending to the military half of the Roman equation. It’s only been a few months. He must have had to make some bad decisions, to look that tired already.

  Alexander clasped wrists with Antyllus politely, but didn’t smile. “Congratulations on your marriage,” the younger man said tersely, and accorded Selene, standing behind Antyllus, a brief nod and a single word: “Sister.” No hug, no embrace for his youngest sibling.

  Then he opened the chest, which was filled to bursting with coin, and told Antyllus, just as politely, “Caesarion sent a letter, asking me to ensure that you received Selene’s dowry in full when you passed through.”

  “I wasn’t going to charge you interest for keeping it for us,” Antyllus replied, smiling. “And gods know, I don’t want to keep a guard on my quarters at all times in a castra. You’ve wasted a trip here, Alexander. Take it back with you; I’ll collect it later, when Selene needs it for the household accounts.”

  “No,” Alexander replied calmly. “We need this off our books. I can send it to the Antonii villa instead, but I’d greatly prefer that it be signed for by your own hand.”

  Antyllus frowned at him. “So businesslike.”

  “We Julii have loaned money to three other major families at the moment. They’re supposed to be repaying with interest, but I’m beginning to feel as if the word of a patrician isn’t what it used to be. I’m debating sending thugs to their homes—the politest thugs I can find, mind you—and inquiring as to which of their knees they’d prefer to have broken.”

  Alexander’s tone was sour, and Antyllus laughed. “I trust the word of your particular patrician family. But if you really want your accounts up to date, I can ride back with you, get it into my father’s vault, update the books, and ride back.” He made a face at the thought. “That’ll delay our departure by a day, however. We’re supposed to leave with the evening tide.” He paused, gesturing to a seat. “Won’t you have lunch with us, before you force me to ride to Rome and back?” He kept the humor in his voice.

  “I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Alexander said, shrugging.

  Antyllus paused, frowning. He and Alexander had usually gotten along for the past four campaign seasons, always working together well. At the moment, however, Alexander’s dark eyes were closed to him. “Is everything all right?” he asked Alexander directly, as he opened the door, asking Alexander’s servant to go down to the kitchen and have them send up lunch.

  A blink. “Nothing’s wrong,” Alexander returned mildly. “I simply have many, many pots boiling back in Rome at the moment. If you wouldn’t mind? Please convey my sympathies to Tiberius and Drusus, when you catch up with them in Britannia. Their mother and several of her servants passed away some time ago, and while I already sent them a letter on the subject, I’d like a more personal touch on it. Also, you might tell Tiberius, in his ear, that it’s being bruited about as the wrath of Asclepius—a sudden, terrible illness that occurred just after his mother supposedly profaned an item that carried the blessing of the healing god.” Alexander’s eyebrows went up. “Of course, I’m sure that’s just superstition, casting blame on the victims of a terrible, swift disease.”

  Antyllus blinked several times. “I see,” he
said, finally, and heard the clatter of feet on the stairs as servants now returned, carrying platters of food. “I’ll pass along your condolences,” he added, as the servants began to lay out the meal on the room’s small table, and then held Selene’s chair for her, so she could sit down comfortably. “Sit,” he told Alexander, genially, wanting to reach out to his brother-in-law, who seemed more distant than was his wont. “I’m sure you’ll want to chat with Selene, after all. You haven’t seen your sister in months.”

  Alexander glanced briefly at Selene, then back at Antyllus. “If you insist,” he replied, taking a seat. “Though I can’t think of anything I have to say that Selene might enjoy hearing,” he added, looking at Selene for a moment. “I’ve been relieved of my betrothal to your old friend, Octavia, but that’s hardly news at this point, as that ended two months ago.” A little shrug. “Apparently, my offer to have you come and keep my house for me, so that you wouldn’t have to get married with such haste, wouldn’t have been quite the issue that our mother made it out to be, after all.” Now Alexander looked directly at Antyllus. “But as I’m sure you’re both overjoyed at how it all turned out, there’s really not much else to discuss on that front, is there?” He raised his eyebrows, and directed his attention to the food in front of him. Not taking more than a thin slice of bread and dabbing it lightly in oil.

  Antyllus felt his teeth snap shut as he took his own seat. The urge to smack Alexander at the moment was very strong, though the words and the tone weren’t sarcastic—rather, they were uninflected. But they were a strong suggestion that some of Selene’s siblings had been inclined to keep her from marrying in a rush. “Didn’t feel like haste to me,” Antyllus said, picking up a spinach-stuffed sardine in his fingers and popping it in his mouth. After a moment, he added, “My father requested the match for three years. There was no haste about it.”