Ave, Caesarion

by Deborah Davitt

  The unfortunate representatives entered the command tent and, on hearing the name Caesarion, began to tremble. “Forgive us,” one of them murmured. “The Tillii army was many, and we are few. We could not resist their demands. They said terrible things about you, dominus. Terrible. Of course, we did not believe a word.” Rapid assurance, which Eurydice thought sounded incredibly insincere . . . and also terrified. The man couldn’t even meet Caesarion’s red eyes as he spoke.

  Caesarion raised his eyebrows. “And yet the people of Carthago Nova and Valentia tossed them out.” No emphasis in his voice. Just an observation of fact.

  “Those cities are far larger and more powerful than we are here, my lord,” another citizen replied hastily. “And the southern tribes disliked their, ah, arrogance. The Edetani and Ilercavones helped the people of the port cities drive them north. The tribes closest to us, like the Ilergetae? They . . . ah . . . have seen the value of trade,” the man offered, lowering his gaze. He had liquid dark eyes and a hint of beard, even though it was just past noon.

  “And will trade with anyone, I take it?” Cicero Minor asked, sounding cynical. In his late thirties, he’d spent the last fifteen years of his life, if not the past two decades, solidly in the military, having rejected the education in philosophy that his father, the famous orator, had outlined for him in Hellas.

  “Broadly, dominus. The Tillii were encamped outside our walls and made, ah, demands of our populace to support them.” Another faintly sidelong glance. “We did not dare do anything but give them the fish and grain that they required, my lords. To do otherwise would have risked the lives of our entire city.” A quick, deprecating gesture. “They were desperate for food when they came, and they did not ask. Nor did they pay us for our goods, or what they took from our winter stores. Our children are starving, my lords, thanks to these wretched rebels. But the Ilergetae, they paid for their goods.” A flash of indignation across his face, which seemed more genuine to Eurydice. “They paid the scarcely-civilized tribesmen, but stole from us! Emporion has been a city since our Hellene ancestors first plowed the waves to reach these shores—”

  Caesarion held up a hand, and the man’s words ceased. “You said they were encamped. Where are they now?”

  The man looked down. “They headed northwest,” he replied after a long moment. “There were talks between them, the Ilergetae, the Lacetani, and the Vascones. I am sure that they have retreated into the mountains, and they are even now buying the services of the archers of the Vascones and the cavalry of the Ilergetae. These tribes are strong, my lord,” he added quietly. “Our town has gotten along with them for hundreds of years because of the benefits of trade. Our tiny garrison couldn’t hold them off any more than we could hold back the tide.”

  “Are there other tribes outside of Hispania Citerior with whom they could ally?” Cicero Minor asked, tapping his fingers on the table. Hispania Citerior was the province of Hispania that spanned the upper coastal regions; Hispania Ulterior was the southerly region closest to Africa.

  A series of frightened glances between the townsmen. “The Ilergetae are Iberians,” one of the others piped up. “The Vascones and the Lacetani speak some gabble called Aquitanian. There are other tribes in the mountains. But they’re Gauls. And they don’t get along at all well with the rest. Particularly not the Cantabri.” A quick gesture to ward away evil at the mention of the name.

  Caesarion’s head swung towards Malleolus. “Ah. A name I’ve heard. The name means highlanders. And I’m reliably informed that one of our legates misplaced an Eagle in a battle in which the Cantabri been hired as Carthaginian mercenaries.”

  A muscle twitched in Cicero Minor’s jaw at those words. Losing an Eagle was a shame that not even suicide could totally efface. Only reclaiming them would suffice.

  Shudders from all the townsfolk now. “They live high in the mountains, yes. They rarely come down from them. And they’re headhunters. Use magic. Mark their skin with tattoos. And have gods foreign to everyone else in the region.” More frantic gestures to avert evil.

  “So they likely wouldn’t ally with the Vascones and the Lacetani?” Cicero Minor asked sharply.

  Hapless shrugs all around. “Everyone has a price,” one of the men said, his voice barely audible. “The Cantabri hate Romans. They might ally with a few Romans if they thought it gave them a chance to kill more Romans in the long run. But it would be a temporary thing.”

  “What do you want done with these, dominus?” Malleolus asked, gesturing towards the townsfolk, who looked plainly terrified.

  Caesarion flicked a glance at them. “Done with them? For the moment, escort them home. Send the quartermasters into town. Nothing taken unless paid for. Though if any of my men happen to be sickened by bad food, take it out of the merchants’ hides.”

  The townspeople nearly gabbled in relief as they left. And in their wake, Cicero Minor shook his head and said, “And if you believe they didn’t immediately fall in with the Tillii—”

  “Of course they did,” Caesarion replied sharply. “They had an armed camp of twelve thousand men descend on them. They saw which way the wind was blowing, and shouted down with Caesarion, the half-Egyptian bastard son of a tyrant!” He grimaced. “And now that the wind’s blowing from another quarter, they’ll pray to any god they believe in that I won’t sack their city for collusion.”

  “You should,” Tiberius muttered. Eurydice turned towards him, her eyebrows rising. “They aided and abetted proscribed men, my lord,” he added more loudly.

  “Aiding a traitor is treason. You’d be well within your rights to level the city,” Antyllus agreed staunchly.

  Caesarion glanced at Alexander. “Anyone care to give another opinion?”

  Alexander shrugged. “It’s a port,” he replied simply. “And if we bog down in the fucking mountains, we’re going to need a winter camp. Here, at least, we can get supplies brought in by the navy. While they’re going to have to live off the land, and the generosity of the tribes out there. That generosity will dwindle.” His expression was empty as he added, “I’d recommend burning the fields of the tribal allies of the Tillii before I’d recommend burning a Roman city.”

  Caesarion glanced at Eurydice. “And you, sister?”

  She looked up, startled. She’d often given reports before on what she could see, but he’d never asked her opinion in front of so many before—other than at the dinner table. It took her a moment to marshal her thoughts. “As you say, they didn’t have much in the way of a choice,” Eurydice finally replied. “And I believed them when they said that their winter stores were effectively stolen to feed the rebel army. They might not be starving. But their children are hungry. I suspect they already know that they’ve erred.”

  Caesarion nodded. “Cicero, I know that Alexander reports to you,” he said. “But I’d take it as a favor if you’d send him into town along with the quartermasters.” Then, looking at Alexander, he added, “Take a couple of our better information-gatherers with you. And Antyllus—assuming his commander can spare him.”

  “Why Antyllus?” Sextus Caesius asked, looking confused.

  A wry smile from Antony’s son. “Probably because my father has had a Gallic king’s son as a hostage in our house since before I was born. Tincomarus, we called him. He had a Gallic retainer with him who taught us both the Atrebates’ tongue. It’s not quite the right language, though, my lord,” he added, shrugging in Caesarion’s direction. “Chances are, I won’t understand more than one word in twenty.”

  “That’s better than Alexander can manage, so give it your best effort,” Caesarion told him, and returned his gaze to his brother. “See if you can make contact with the locals. Find out if their representatives were telling us the truth. See if the rest of the townsfolk think the Tillii headed northwest. Verify.”

  “Anything else?” Alexander asked.

  A nod. “Yes. If you get any hints that any of them still have allegiances to the Tillii? Get proof. With proof
, I’ll have them hanged from their own walls before we pursue the rebels. Without proof, no action to be taken. Understood?” That last, at everyone else in the tent.

  A chorus of assents, and Alexander and Antyllus, receiving permission from their legates, saluted, but Alexander lingered in the tent long enough to give Eurydice a quick kiss on the cheek before slipping away.

  Proof was hard to come by, beyond the finger-pointing of terrified neighbors. But the hard work of Alexander and the various information specialists turned up a few Tillii loyalists who’d been left in the city to try to pass information to their cohorts in the hills—or back into the Empire itself. Eurydice couldn’t force herself to be present at what was termed ‘hard questioning,’ but she knew it started with beating, and could escalate to torture—but only on those who denied their Roman citizenship. The body of a Roman citizen was sacrosanct against torture.

  Still, the next day, both Alexander and Antyllus looked ten years older, but stolidly ate breakfast with everyone else in the command tent.

  In clear view on the walls, five men’s bodies dangled by the necks from ropes. Eurydice could see crows circling in to peck at the corpses, and made very sure not to reach for the birds’ minds. “Right,” Caesarion said after everyone had eaten. His voice held a notable absence of inflection. “Let’s get moving. We need to see what kind of a trap we’re walking into.”

  Before Alexander left, Eurydice caught him and whispered, “You’ll be all right?”

  “Never better,” he assured her loudly, and gave her a bright, wicked grin. But his eyes were shadowed. “Don’t worry so,” he murmured quietly. “Right around when we brought out the hot pokers, four of them confessed to being Roman citizens and demanded their right to die cleanly. Amazing, really. The last poor sod was a Gallic auxiliary. He held out a damned long time. They take pride in resisting torture, I’m told, same as the Goths.” He shook his head. “We strung him up with the rest because he’d shown so much fortitude.” He gave her a quick pat on the shoulder, and then off he went again.

  Eurydice peered out the tent flap after him, worrying in spite of his admonition not to do so. She’d promised that she’d try to see the man, and not the boy. But the hardening and chilling process was even more marked now than it had been in Brundisium, and it afflicted both Alexander and Caesarion. We’re not on the relatively safe ground of the Italian peninsula, she realized. They’re taking no chances at all. No matter the cost to themselves. These are the faces that the men of Rome don’t want their women to see. They come home confident and strong and victorious. But out here . . . they fear weakness. They fear the mistake that will get them, and everyone around them, killed.

  Even knowing that, it was a hard thing to watch.

  ____________________

  Maius 5-15, 17 AC

  The lands of the Ilergetae started as rolling coastal plains, filled with green fields, but rose rapidly into foothills. Some of the slaves and small land-holders in the fields fled at the sight of the legions, and Caesarion had a grim choice to make—let them flee, and possibly carry word of his movements to his enemies, or have the cavalry chase them down.

  On the one hand, Eurydice’s eyes always counseled the gentler path. And on the other, if he let their camp be surprised, his mercy could wind up getting her—and quite a few of his men—killed. Thus, he ordered riders to pursue, but no more than a mile from the main body of troops. And if the slaves resisted being brought back to the column, they were to be killed.

  Those who held their ground, and didn’t flee, were inevitably questioned by some grim-faced centurion or another. And the information they gave was always the same: Yes, we have seen other Roman troops on the move. They went northwest, towards the mountains.

  Or, I regret to say that my master left me in charge of his villa, and went with the Tillii to the mountains.

  How many men did he take with him?

  All the freeborn men of this villa, my lord. Ten in total, with two horses each. Yes, my lord once fought as a cavalry auxiliary. No horses in the world are better than those of Hispania!

  Or, My husband is not here, my lord. He left me and our daughters here with only the slaves to protect us. Yes, he has gone to join the Tillii. Caesarion had been close enough to hear this one, personally. Close enough to see the terror and dread in her eyes at the sight of all those armed men marching by. Close enough to see young female faces peering out the villa’s shuttered windows.

  He said that an armed camp was no place for women. Her voice had shaken.

  And the centurion had replied, No. It’s not. Pity he didn’t think about what might happen to his wife and daughters when the real Roman army showed up, eh?

  “Centurion,” Caesarion had called over, from horseback, and the officer trotted over hastily. “Check inside to ensure that there aren’t any, hmm, misplaced menfolk. Ones who didn’t go off to join the Tillii. And, assuming that there aren’t any, I want you to stand guard at this woman’s door until the column’s past. No one’s to offer her or her children any offense.”

  He could practically read the man’s mind. Why is the Imperator wasting my time with this bullshit? Who the fuck cares if a couple of our lads take a detour after getting a drink at their well, and get their cocks well-lubricated at the same time as dampening their throats? She’s just an Iberian. Not even a Roman woman. What’s the fucking point?

  But the centurion was too much of a veteran to speak that kind of insubordination out loud. He just saluted and replied, “Shall be done, sir.”

  And Caesarion rode off, feeling slightly cleaner, and more certain of being able to meet Eurydice’s eyes later that evening.

  On reaching the foot of the forbidding mountains that were home to the Vascones, Caesarion exhaled and told his sister, dryly, “People just won’t be accommodating and hold all their battles on nice flat plains.”

  “It’s almost summer, and there’s still snow up there,” she replied, sounding amazed.

  “I’ll take you to see the Alps sometime.” Casual tone to that promise, but he got a faint smile in response from where she perched on her horse. “There are peaks there that never lose their snow. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these are the same.”

  And now, it was time to set up a proper entrenched fortification, or a castra. The men set to felling trees. Digging ditches for protection and latrines for sanitation. Experienced officers with ten-foot rods moved around, surveying the land and setting up markers for where every wall and every building would be erected inside of it. Three headquarter buildings, side by side, one for Caesarion, one for Cicero Minor, and one for the aging commander of the Fourth, Sextus Caesius. And scouts rode out, trying to get a feel for the mountainous terrain and where their enemies could be hiding even as Eurydice sent out hawks.

  The cavalry had strict orders not to engage the enemy or give chase if they found other scouting parties. Caesarion had read enough about the ambush tactics used with such good effect by the Iberians during their mercenary service with Carthage, and had vivid recollections of men being drawn out and slaughtered in a forest in Germania. And yet, his cavalry couldn’t find the hidden rebel legions or their allies.

  In the command building, which reeked of fresh sap, but actually had rooms with walls, he found Eurydice near sunset on Maius fifth, her fingers pressed to her forehead as if she were trying to reach through the bone straight into the brain below. “You’re over-reaching,” he told her gently. “Have you even eaten today?”

  “I broke my fast,” she said, her voice and eyes distant. “I think . . . brother, I think I may have found the enemy.”

  He caught one of her hands, kissing the back of it. “Where? Sister, where?”

  She grimaced. “I’ve been pushing the hawks further and further away. It’s hard to stay in touch with them over so many miles. But there is a castra not much different from this one, further to the west, and high up in the mountains. It’s beside a small village—just a cluster of huts
, really, in a green cup of a valley below a huge sheet of ice.” She shuddered a little. “There’s . . . there a set of poles outside the village. Ten feet high. Each of them has skulls impaled on it. Some of them are . . . very fresh. Some are just bone.” Her voice was tight as she added, “And there are thousands of people gathering there who aren’t Roman. They seem to be arguing. There’s a man in the armor of a Roman legate there, debating with them all.”

  Caesarion dropped to a crouch beside her. “I wish to the gods that I could see what you see, Eurydice.”

  “Don’t,” she told him faintly. “You don’t need headaches like these on top of all your other troubles.” She rubbed at her head with her free hand; the other, he kept tight in his own. “There’s a woman there. Sitting off to the side with a group of men in long robes. Watching the others argue as she drinks. There’s a raven on her shoulder, and a . . . wolf . . . yes. A black wolf, sitting at her feet. She’s . . . not wearing much clothing,” she added, sounding embarrassed. “But her skin’s almost completely blue. So many patterns painted there. No one comes near her besides the robed men.” She sounded fascinated

  “Blue patterns?” Caesarion repeated. Oh gods. That sounds like one of the damned Britons. Prydaini. Whatever they call themselves. Maybe even an Iceni. What would one of them be doing so far south, though? “Any chariots?”

  “No, just horses and archers. Lots of archers. A few of them have ring cuirasses, but most just have shields and swords, or shields and spears.”

  “Can you draw me a map of how to get to them?”

  She blinked, and the hawk gold faded from her eyes as she met his. And then she nodded once, solemnly. “It doesn’t look like it will be easy,” Eurydice told him. “The paths are little more than goat tracks. And there are trees on every side. Steep drop-offs to one side . . . steep cliffs rising up to the other.”