Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  Nine days were an eternity in which many plots and plans could unfold.

  ____________________

  Quintilis 7, 15 AC

  At a comfortable villa in the Palatine Hill district, Gaius Octavius Thurinus, generally called Octavian, lounged in the triclinium, his body relaxed, but his mind alert. His first guest had arrived—Marcus Antonius—the wine had been poured, and the servants dismissed. He regarded the older man, his eyes narrow as he studied the graying dark curls and the bags under Antony’s eyes. “It’s good to have you here,” he told Antony. “You’ve completed your year’s mourning for my sister, and are ready to rejoin the world of the living once more?” Not that you ever truly left it. But the polite fiction left room for Antony to behave as if they both believed he was a better man than he was.

  Antony’s lips curled as he sipped from his cup. “Yes, I’m ready. And yet, in the moment I leave off my mourning, I have cause to put it back on once more, for Caesar has passed.” A pause, as both men regarded one another like duelists; measuring, assessing. “Caesar was, after all, the one who sponsored my marriage to your beautiful sister.” Another polite fiction. Antony had merely tolerated his wife for decades, often seeking out more . . . stimulating company in Rome’s teeming brothels, or among slaves he purchased for precisely that purpose.

  Octavian smiled faintly, suppressing his loathing. Antony could be useful, if properly motivated. “Yes. My uncle brought you into the family.”

  “My mother was already his cousin—” Snapped with all the furious pride of a plebeian who had one noble relation.

  “Of course,” Octavian soothed. “I meant to say that he embraced you as kin when you married my sister.” He paused, smiling into his cup. “As I still do, brother,” he added. “Regardless of my sister’s untimely passage, you will always be kin to me.” He paused again. Affiliations and affirmations dispensed with, it was time to draw nearer to the heart of the matter. “I’ve heard that Lepidus was named as guardian for Caesar’s younger children,” he murmured, watching a muscle twitch in Antony’s cheek.

  “Lepidus,” Antony replied scornfully. “He’s spent the last fifteen years licking Caesar’s arse. Of course he’s been named their guardian.”

  A brooding silence followed, which Octavian could have filled with words. Could have said, Fifteen years spent as Master of the Horse made him Caesar’s right hand, not an arse-licker. Instead, he took another sip of his wine and murmured, “You weren’t named at all?”

  Another twitch of a jaw muscle. “No. Seems he forgot all my loyal service.”

  “A pity. Though not all patricians have such faulty memories.” Octavian smiled again as Antony’s head jerked up. “However, I’m not sure that Lepidus is the correct man to oversee the upbringing of Caesar’s children. Nor to advise young Caesarion. He’s . . . cautious.”

  “He’s been coasting for decades on a reputation for knowing when to fight and when to negotiate since that business in Hispania,” Antony replied dismissively—glossing over, Octavian noted, Lepidus’ notable military successes against Pompey during the civil wars. “He’s an old woman these days. And this is a time that calls for boldness.”

  No unexpected sentiments. “It seems that perhaps young Caesarion needs more capable advisors,” Octavian replied.

  “Young Caesarion,” Antony replied acidly, “isn’t likely to listen to me. His mother has hated me since I first met her in Egypt. When she was no more than fourteen.” His eyes seemed to peer through the decades between that moment and this. “So damnably beautiful, even then.”

  And there was another potential piece of leverage, though Octavian had no way to use it at the moment. Antony lived his life at the surface of his skin, his lusts and hungers clearly evident. “Yes,” Octavian responded meditatively. “It’s a shame that young Caesarion is so . . . filled with his mother’s teachings. One might say that she’s poisoned him against Rome.”

  Antony’s suddenly sharp glance reminded Octavian why it never did to be incautious. “One might say that,” he replied, baring his teeth. “I’m not, however.”

  Octavian raised his cup in a mild toast. “Nor have I,” he returned urbanely. “However, that same hypothetical person might agree that it would be . . . better for Rome, were Caesar’s heir someone, hmm. Younger. More apt to be instilled with proper Roman virtues.”

  To his surprise, Antony leaned forward and whispered harshly, “Are you testing my loyalties? Are there men outside this room, waiting to testify against me at a proscription?”

  Proscription was a punishment that had been levied against hundreds of people in the time of Sulla. They had been stripped of their citizenship, and all the protections that it provided—for example, citizens could not be crucified. Their lands, slaves, and money were seized by the state, leaving their families paupers, while the proscribed individuals fled Roman lands, often one step ahead of an executioner. Caesar, to his credit, had used the punishment sparingly—mostly to silence those who would not acknowledge his marriage to Cleopatra and the legitimacy of his heirs by her.

  Octavian shook his head, raising a soothing hand. “Never in life,” he assured Antony. “Did I not say just moments ago that I consider you my brother?”

  The suspicion in Antony’s gaze did not fade, however. “There is the matter of Caesarion being a god-born,” he muttered.

  Octavian waved a hand. “That is somewhat in question. His eyes are a strange color, yes, but the mage-priests of Thebes are skilled. An illusion, some bargain with a spirit? A simple pretense. A lie to keep the boy alive past infancy.”

  As Antony frowned in consideration, a servant entered and announced, “Your other guest has arrived, dominus.”

  Octavian waved the newcomer in, and Antony sat up, his pouchy eyes widening in surprise. Alexander Julius Caesar entered the room, wearing a fresh white toga that swamped his slender frame. “Cousin,” Alexander greeted Octavian with a polite nod, but his eyes were wide, and he seemed a little overwhelmed by his sudden introduction into adult privilege. “I was surprised to receive your invitation, as our home is in mourning, but my mother assured me that there would be no disrespect to my father’s memory in dining with kin.” His dark eyes took in Antony, slouching on one of the dining couches, and then returned to Octavian.

  For his part, Alexander kept his mother’s long-standing advice in mind. Conceal your strength. Let everyone underestimate you, until you have their measure. When dealing with someone who is complex . . . be simple. Be water in a cup. Transparent. Speak little, hear much, and react not at all until you know who they truly are.

  So he smiled and allowed a servant to help him up onto a couch, and accepted food and drink gracefully. “This is marvelous after six months on legion rations,” he admitted, and heard Antony bray with laughter.

  “Six months in the legion, and you’re an expert, eh? You haven’t even been on short rations yet, have you, lad?” Antony bit into a dormouse from the trencher in front of him. “Doubt you’ve been digging many ditches or setting palisades yet, either.”

  Alexander shook his head, lowering his eyes. “No, not at all. I served as my brother’s scribe.”

  Looks of intrigue on both of the older men’s faces. Antony smiled and offered, “You were entrusted with official correspondence? That speaks well of you, lad!” The Tribune of the Plebs leaned in, lowering his brows conspiratorially. “Careful, though. Even thinking of any secrets you read is dangerous around Octavian here. He can pluck secrets from a man’s mouth before a word is even spoken.”

  Alexander touched a ring on his hand, and it warmed. And then the spirit bound to that ring whispered in his mind, There is no magic in play here; nothing in this room can compel you to speak. Invisible to other eyes, a hawk made of green flame appeared, landing on his left shoulder. His mother had insisted that the mage-priests of Thebes bind protective spirits to each of her children at birth, and this was one of his.

  Nothing to compel me to speak, except the
weight of all this attention, Alexander thought. A cup of unwatered wine in my hand, and two of the most powerful men in Rome having invited me to sup with them. I am supposed to be overwhelmed. And he was—but with apprehension, not awe. His voice broke as he asked, “Are there no other guests tonight?”

  “No,” Octavian replied, smiling gently. “Just a quiet celebration of your having attained the toga of manhood among . . . relatives and friends.” He toasted Alexander.

  “Perhaps a little business,” Antony chimed in. “I have a daughter who’s about your age. Might be time to consider marriage, lad. After all, you are now Caesarion’s heir.”

  Alexander caught the look of faint vexation that crossed Octavian’s face. “Caesarion’s heir?” Octavian put in, raising his eyebrows. “Some would say that Alexander is the heir to the Empire. After all, what is Caesarion but a legitimized bastard, while Alexander here was born within the sacred bounds of matrimony?” Warm sympathy in his voice. A hint of outrage at wrongs done to a friend.

  Alexander thought rapidly. It was easy to resent his older brother, some days. The gods had ladled gifts over Caesarion—from Mars, skin so tough that no weapon could cut it, and enough strength to crush a man’s skull in his bare hands. From Venus, a smile so charming that few people had the will to gainsay him. From Osiris, immunity to poison. From Isis, healing. And from both of their mortal parents, gifts of shrewd intelligence and courage. They’d taken great pains to conceal Caesarion’s gifts. Most of their servants were Egyptian, completely loyal to Cleopatra and unable to speak Latin, for precisely this reason.

  But on the other hand . . . Caesarion hadn’t been required to take Alexander into Germania; he’d offered to take his younger brother with him. And just this morning, he’d sent the new toga to Alexander’s rooms, though Alexander’s fourteenth birthday wouldn’t be for months. Our family needs all the men it can muster, with Father no longer with us, the accompanying note had read. And warmed by his brother’s trust, Alexander had worn the toga with pride, a man in the eyes of his family.

  So he lowered his eyes and replied softly, “I thank you for the idea of a marriage, Tribune. I had always thought that my brother would give me one of our sisters in marriage, and send me to Egypt to rule as king there in his place.” A quick glance to verify the expressions of revulsion on those Roman, patrician faces at this alien Egyptian practice. “I would have to ask my mother about any other marriage plans,” he added, trying to sound tremulous and dependent on others. It wasn’t difficult. He knew that he was in deep waters here, and wished, desperately, that Lepidus had sent someone with him. But that’s the wish of a child, and I’m supposed to be a man now. And they wouldn’t have spoken this way in front of witnesses. “As for the rest,” he added, raising his eyes to Octavian, “I really don’t know much about politics. Or about strategy and war. I just copied my brother’s letters, and wrote whatever he dictated to me.”

  Simple. Easily-led. As transparent as a cup of water. And he could see Octavian’s eyes light up with a kind of excitement as the man leaned forward, smiling. “Oh, my dear boy! You have no idea of what has been taken from you, do you?”

  Alexander let his brow crinkle. “Taken?” he repeated vaguely.

  “There are those who might say that you have been cheated of your birthright,” Octavian replied carefully.

  Always putting words in the mouths of invisible others, Alexander noted. “My birthright?” Just reiterating the others’ words. Forcing them to do more of the work. “I should be the next Imperator, and not Caesarion?” he added hesitantly, as if slowly adopting the idea as his own. I might be going too far.

  “It’s a pleasant thought, isn’t it?” Antony offered, glancing over at Octavian.

  Alexander shook his head rapidly. “I wouldn’t know what to do,” he protested. Truth, this time. “I’d need help.”

  Octavian’s tone became soothing. “I’m sure that there would always be those on hand whom you could trust to advise you.” A dismissive wave. “Of course, this is a moot discussion. There’s nothing that could stop Caesarion from taking the title of Imperator in just a few days’ time.”

  The subject dropped there, but Alexander remained nervous for the rest of the meal. And when his litter came around to carry him home over the filthy streets of Rome, he chewed on his knuckles until the moment that he escaped its confines to flee into the villa. He ran directly to his brother’s room, and, finding Caesarion there at his writing table, dropped to a crouch beside him.

  “That’s not an expression that bodes well,” Caesarion said, looking up from their father’s eulogy.

  “Octavian thinks that I’d make a more biddable heir than you.” Alexander’s voice shook. “I played the idiot, and he almost had to wipe away the drool.”

  Caesarion grimaced. “Mother said he’d probably make a move, such as trying to betroth you to one of his daughters—”

  “Oh, so that’s why he looked so angry when Antony suggested that—”

  “Antony’s in this with him?”

  “He was at dinner with us. I couldn’t tell if they were working together.” Alexander caught his brother’s upper arm, feeling the strength there, muscles like raw iron masked by illusions maintained by spirits. “Brother. He said that there’s nothing that could stop you from taking the title of Imperator after Father’s funeral rites are done.”

  Caesarion’s red eyes bored down into his own. “In this? He is absolutely correct.”

  ____________________

  Quintilis 9, 15 AC

  Novendialis, the ninth day of mourning, required sacrifices and feasting—and, since Caesar had stood as a father to the entire Empire, not just to his own family, everyone in the Empire partook of the feast. Caesarion, after Lepidus had shown him the budget, had winced and sponsored games in Rome for the Novendialis at the expense of the Julii family. Thus, he could hear the roar of the crowd as chariots raced in the Circus Maximus, the massed voices erupting from the structure shaking the ground as he stood in the cemetery. At his side was the entire extended Julii clan—including distant cousins like Octavian and Antony.

  Lepidus held down the sacrificial sow, and Caesarion slashed a knife across its throat, letting its blood pour over the grass. “For Ceres,” he said clearly. “Blood in the earth, and protection from all vengeful spirits.” As the sow’s struggles and squeals ceased, he went about the butchery matter-of-factly, setting aside the portion that would be cremated with his father’s body with due reverence. Food for the ghost.

  The rest would be served at dinner, to which all these people would be invited. Another roar from the crowds resonated up through his body, but Caesarion ignored the distraction and poured a generous libation of wine over the hungry earth, splashing the hem of a toga already stained with the sow’s blood.

  As everyone departed, Marcus Antonius paused to speak with him. “The mob loved your father,” he said, as the ground shook once more with thunderous roars.

  “They had good reason to,” Caesarion replied mildly. After all, he gave them games, victory, and peace. He gave them a voice, too—for patrician though he was, he was a populist.

  Antony smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just keep in mind that the mob is fickle. If they turn against you, they’ll cook you and eat you in your own house.”

  It sounded almost like a threat. Caesarion met the gaze of the Tribune of the Plebs—a man who could whip the common folk into a frenzy with a few words, were he so inclined. “I thank you for your warning,” he replied. “I think, however, that my eulogy for my father will allay much unease today.”

  Antony nodded. “Yes, you’re the final speaker at the Rostra. Octavian’s scheduled just before you. Cicero’s before him.”

  Caesarion tried not to swallow his tongue. Cicero, a frail, elderly man these days, had been carefully carried in from his country villa, where he lived in retirement. He remained, however, the greatest orator of this age, whereas Caesarion had never spoken before th
e Senate or anyone but a group of legionnaires before. I can only pale in comparison.

  Thus, two hours later, Caesarion sat in the Rostra, trying not to shake, listening as Cicero lauded his late father. “While I disagreed with him on almost every particular,” the elderly republican declared, “he was a noble man, filled with high ideals and love of his country. I counted him my friend, even when we disagreed. Perhaps even more so than when we were in agreement, for out of disagreement, new ideas may grow.” Leaning lightly on a stick, he gestured at the Rostra. “And out of disagreement, what an idea has grown. A Rome stronger than it was fifteen years ago. More united. And with less corruption in her governance. While I will ever hold to the ideals of our beloved Republic, I must admit that my friend’s life was to the benefit of our home.”

  Polite applause as Cicero shakily made his way back to his seat. Then Octavian spoke at some length, and, in his conclusion, exclaimed, “How like a god was Caesar! No—not like a god. But a god, in truth, as should be recognized by the Senate. For who else but Caesar could have brought us all together, republicans and populists alike? Who else could have been a father to this entire mighty empire? While I know that grief touches every heart now, how much lighter will our spirits feel, knowing that his divine hand will govern through his successors?”

  The crowd, frenzied, began to clamor for precisely this. “Divus Iulius! Divus Iulius!”

  Caesarion stared at Octavian, trying to fathom the political motivation behind this insanity . . . . Ah. He said that my father will guide the Empire through his successors. Plural, and unnamed. Whoever winds up in control—perhaps Octavian himself, should my brother and I mysteriously die—would partake of the divine spirit of my father. Legitimacy.

  A frown on his face, Caesarion took the speaker’s position. His prepared remarks had to be thrown away, for he needed to stop the runaway reaction of the crowd without causing a riot.