“We can roll dice instead,” Alexander offered cheerfully. “And once you’re all settled into the command quarters . . . consider inviting a lowly tribune for dinner at some point. You’ll want to invite people like Potitus once in a while, too. We wouldn’t want people to think that you’re playing favorites. You now have social obligations. Which are at the heart of all politics.” He grinned and ducked out of the tent, leaving Tiberius to blink, startled, in his wake.
Chapter XVI: Rituals
December 1, 17 AC
The trip across the central highlands of Hispania had gone better than expected, though it had been chilly. They’d been able to follow the river that the locals called the Dubro, but that a Roman tongue found easier to call Durius. The locals claimed that it had a spirit just as potent as the god of the Tiber, but Caesarion hadn’t spotted the river-god at any point as they made camp along its banks.
The Durius at least cut through the bulk of Hispania’s high plateau region, and where it left off, they’d made camp in the ruins of a village during a blizzard, using the fallen-in walls of the old round huts for partial shelter. “What was this place?” Eurydice had asked, putting her back against the stone foundation and shivering. No privacy that night; they’d packed as many people into each hut as possible for body heat, and used the cloth of their tents and whatever branches they could collect quickly to create roofs. Horses, pack mules, and men, all crammed together—and Eurydice had, for the twenty or people wedged into this little space, incanted and kept the wind a little more at bay.
“This was Soria, I think,” Caesarion had replied, wrapping his arms around her and ensuring that the blankets shrouded her form as fully as possible. The various men of their guard looked away politely, and Nesa and Salatis sat nearby, just as miserable as all the rest of them. The only person who didn’t look uncomfortable, damn him, was their hostage, Matru. “It was a Celtiberian town, about ninety years ago. When Decimus Junius Brutus Callaicus was consul, he came here to conquer most of Hispania. Even the Ilergetae, who just rose up in rebellion with the Vascones, were pacified. But Soria . . .” He exhaled. “The natives refused to be captured and sold as slaves. So, surrounded, they all committed suicide together. Men, women, children. Some by knife and some by poison. The legate in charge of capturing the town was pleased, but his men were furious at the lost opportunity to sell the occupants as slaves for coin. But given the nature of the deaths, no one’s had the courage to build a colonia here since.”
“I wouldn’t live here on a bet,” Lurio muttered, his expression tight. “The manes of all those dead by their own hands surely linger here. No one to give them their death-rites—whatever rituals those savages actually used, anyway.” He glanced around the circle of people in the ruined hut, and his eyes lit on Matru. “What do your people do with your dead, anyway?”
The druid had let his head tip back, and allowed his eyes to close. A blanket over him, but loosely, and Caesarion could have sworn he saw a trickle of sweat roll down the man’s face, disappearing into his beard. “Depends on the tribe,” he replied sleepily. “There are some who still use the long barrows built by their families and villages in ages past. Take the dead down into the earth and leave them with their ancestors. Some people prefer burning. Grind the bones up after, and pack them into urns. There’s a few as still leave the bodies in the woods, to let the Morrigan’s wolves and crows take the dead back into the earth and the sky. Piece by piece. But that’s not so common anymore.” He opened his eyes at the sounds of distaste from those around him. “Personally, my people take the dead into the Caledonian Forest. And bury them there. No markers for the graves. The spirit of the forest will look after them. As she looks after us all in life.” A little, reverent gesture. “If we want to go talk to the spirits of our ancestors, all we have to do is cross into the trees. And hear the voices on the wind, whispering from the leaves.”
“Do you hear any voices here?” Malleolus had asked, curiously.
A flicker of a glance, the druid’s blue eyes considering. “The wind’s howl might be saying, ‘Romans, this is not your land.’” He paused, and Caesarion had felt all the men shift. Wondering, perhaps, if the storm was the vengeance of the long-dead villagers who’d committed suicide here. “But if it is, it’s telling me that, too,” Matru had added lightly, and had let his head fall back once more.
They’d dug out in the morning, and made very poor time for a while, finally getting through the mountains in late November. Caesarion had been concerned for his men’s feet and legs the entire journey—the medici had worked late every night, treating frost-bitten toes. Caesarion had finally asked Matru what his people did to keep feet inside wet leather boots from freezing. “Stocaí,” had been the answer in some impenetrable Gallic dialect. “Thick wool, knitted. Sometimes several layers of them.” He’d pulled down the edge of his boot, revealing curiously-worked wool tubes underneath—the only portions of his original clothing that he’d been wearing when captured, having stripped naked for battle, other than his boots and these . . . items.
“Like a set of cesti, for your feet,” Caesarion had assessed, staring. “Only made of wool. Interesting.”
Eurydice had spent time speaking quietly with the medici herself every evening. And had borrowed scrolls from them to read by the campfire, or by the light of an oil lamp in their tent. Herbiaries and techniques for repairing wounds. When he’d asked her why, she’d replied diffidently, “I’ve read everything I brought with us already. I might as well learn something new.”
And that interest had paid a surprising dividend. Midway through the journey, she’d asked, in an embarrassed tone, to be let down from the horse they’d been sharing. “Need to water a tree?” he’d asked, amused.
“Not quite. I think my moon-flows just started.” She’d winced.
Caesarion had exhaled in relief. Another month safely past. They’d made as many adjustments to their sexual relations as possible to avoid conception. Since he wasn’t afraid, as many men were, that her menstrual blood would cause his cock to fall off, this was actually the safest time for him to be inside of her—that, and the first week after her flows. Though there was, apparently, quite a bit of uncertainty about the best time for conception in Hellene medical circles. But after that time, as the moon waxed, and assuming that they had privacy, they tried to give each other pleasure in other ways, or just held each other in the dark. “Here, slide down. I’ll get Nesa over here to help you with . . . ah, cotton, or whatever it is that you use.” He’d helped her down, and she and Nesa had disappeared off into the trees.
He’d been more than a little surprised when she returned with an injured adult eagle clinging to her slender arm. One wing hung lower than the other, and the beast hissed and fluttered when anyone else tried to approach it. “I think we might be able to heal its wing,” Eurydice said, her face alive with concern. “I can keep it calm while a medicus tries to treat the wound—I don’t think the bones are broken. Can we at least try?”
Faced with that kind of an omen, Caesarion couldn’t say no. Even he could read that sign for what it was. He needed to heal Rome. And his men called him Eagle. Leaving the symbol of Rome, whose name he bore, to die in the snow, pecked at by lesser birds, wouldn’t be a good portent, no.
And so they’d reached Emporion in the middle of November, and found the ships of the navy that had moved there for safe harbor. Boarded them, the various sailors wide-eyed at their druid prisoner and the healing eagle. And made their way to Rome, landing in Ostia on December first.
So here they were on December second, leaving the bulk of the Praetorians outside the city, and bringing only twenty or so into Rome with them as guards, flanking them through the streets. Caesarion had found a good horse for Eurydice once more in Ostia, so she trailed along behind him—the eagle bulking huge on her shoulder. No padding between her and its claws, and little need for it; over the past four weeks of tending it daily and feeding it, the bird of prey had seemed
to become almost tame. It would even accept food from Caesarion’s fingers now, without her having to be in its mind to stop it from snapping at him.
The city-dwellers left market stalls and emerged from shops and tavernas to watch them pass. Their initial silence made Caesarion uneasy. Romans were nothing if not vocal people. Alexander was right. Dame Rumor has been busy at her work.
“Aquilus!” someone finally shouted from the back of the crowd. “Aquilus, Aquilus!”
He couldn’t be sure if they were calling for him, or for the eagle, but he glanced back, and Eurydice had just lifted her hand, coaxing the bird down onto her forearm. Then with a gentle bounce, she encouraged it to fly—and he held out his own hand, hoping that the bird would land there.
It did, and he reined in his horse long enough to find a tidbit of dried meat from a beltpouch to feed it. Let the people stare, wide-eyed, as the creature beat golden wings nearly the same span as the length of his horse. And then Caesarion called to the crowd, “Thank you for your welcome! It’s good to be home, with the Tillii rebellion crushed, and nearly all of Hispania united. In honor of the victories that Mars has granted us, and in gratitude for the joy that Mars and Venus have brought to our lives, my sister and I will be offering games on Divalia. And since there aren’t enough seats at the gladiator venue to welcome all of Rome, we’ll offer cakes and amusements outside as well. A proper Roman festival of thanksgiving. I hope that all of you will join us there.”
The cheers started off desultorily, but gained in enthusiasm when he smiled, and put as much of Venus’ grace into it as he dared. It wasn’t something that he usually thought about consciously, but feeling the incipient hostility in the crowd, he couldn’t risk a riot—though he was sure that the eagle on his arm helped. Enormously.
Then they rode on, and he glanced back along their line of guards and attendants, and caught sight of the way Matru’s head kept turning, this way and that, to stare at the buildings and people. The look of awe on the man’s face when he saw the villas of the gentry, as they finally approached the Julii villa on the outskirts of town.
By the time they did, however, the number of plebeians following them to gawk at the eagle and at the couple that Rumor had, in fact, whispered much about, bordered on a procession. Apparently, we are the circus today. If the servants have baked fresh bread, I need to have it handed out on the front steps. He caught sight of their servants now hustling down those stairs, and dismounted carefully, trying not to dislodge the eagle. It flew off anyway, landing on the roof just over the door, and preened there, as if finding its new home entirely to its liking. Grooms appeared to take the reins from him and from Eurydice, and Malleolus and the other Praetorians dispersed to enter the house and inspect it—and find rooms in which to rest. A five-hour march in winter wasn’t much by legion standards, but they’d be sharper for having had the downtime.
“The rooms have been opened and cleaned,” the butler told them as they entered, looking deeply relieved. “Your message to expect you arrived only last week. The couriers must not have made good time.”
“Snow in the mountains of Hispania,” Caesarion remarked off-handedly, stripping off his cloak while another servant helped Eurydice remove her travel-stained palla. “This is Matru. He’s a hostage, but has shown himself to be a man of his word so far. Give him one of the windowless rooms near the peristylium, if you would. Ground floor.” Caesarion turned to the long-haired Gallic man and added, “We have a small set of baths of our own behind the villa. I strongly encourage you to use the facilities there. One of the servants will take your clothes and clean them, and provide you with fresh.” Probably one of my old tunics. There isn’t anyone else in the house close to his height, besides Malleolus. Caesarion turned back to the butler, “And of course, you’ve made all the arrangements to have my wife’s belongings transferred from her old room to our mother’s old chambers?”
This had been something they’d discussed before leaving Rome, but with only two weeks between the realization of their feelings and their departure, the change hadn’t quite been accomplished. The butler’s eyes flicked from Caesarion to Eurydice, and back again. “Ah,” he said, and Caesarion almost felt sorry for the man. But if I have to brazen it out, so can everyone else around me, damn it. “Yes. We’ve followed your instructions precisely, my lord.”
“Good. Send a runner to the house of Marcus Antonius, please. I’d like our mother to know that we’ve returned. I’d expect her, our sister, Octavia, and Drusus for dinner, if nothing else. How have our house-guests been? Have any of the philosophers remained through the campaign season?” Caesarion had taken Eurydice’s hand in his, and with quick strides, pulled her into the house, which seemed exactly as they’d left it. Simple pillars to support the high roof of the entry. Mosaics depicting Venus Genetrix and Mars on the walls, along with Flora and Faunus. The tile mosaic on the floor here held over a thousand triangles of various colors, all worked into an elaborate whorl that suggested a flower, without really depicting one. At the center, an eight-pointed star, and around the borders, flowing lines in the Hellene style. He caught Matru staring down at the floor as if apprehensive that the tiles were about to move, and chuckled under his breath.
And safely upstairs in his room, he pulled Eurydice to him and exhaled into her hair. “Well, I don’t think that the people of Rome are going to burn the villa down around us tonight,” he said, tightly.
“If we can get past the first few days, things should go better,” she replied, but her voice held unease. “Given time, they should adjust.”
“Problem is, they’ve had plenty of time to get disapproval well settled into their minds,” Caesarion replied, and found the wide sleeping couch. “Alexander was right about needing to come here.” He exhaled. “I need a bath and a shave. Mother will be here soon enough.” A light kiss under her ear. “Not tonight, as it was a long ride today . . . but perhaps tomorrow night, after everyone else has gone to bed, you might join me in the bathhouse?”
She gave him an impish look under her eyelashes, the kind of expression he’d grown to enjoy very much as her confidence grew. “You require someone to scrape your back?”
Caesarion grinned outright. “It’s away from the main house. And in spite of a healthy echo on the inside, it has thick walls and no windows. Privacy, beloved. I’d very much like to make the most of it before we have to stop for the month.” Again.
She got up on tiptoes to kiss him. “I think that I could be persuaded,” she whispered. “I’ll also talk with Mother about other, ah, methods of preventing conception. She must have used something with Father. Else we’d be knee-deep in other brothers and sisters.”
Caesarion nodded, trying not to look too eager at the thought. A Roman man was supposed to have self-control over all of his appetites, and live his life in moderation, after all.
Of their house-guests, the two philosophers had transferred to Antony’s house to assist in the education of the children there, and the priestess of Hecate had apparently found a local temple of the goddess Trivia to reside at, temporarily. Which meant that dinner tonight was mostly a family affair—Cleopatra, Selene, Octavia, Drusus, and their hostage, Matru, were the only guests, given the short notice of their arrival. “Mother,” Caesarion called from the atrium as his guests bustled in. “You’re looking well. Your lying-in went smoothly, I hope?”
Cleopatra grimaced. The threads of silver in her hair seemed to have widened in the past nine months. “As smoothly as could be expected. You have a new brother. Antony and I have exchanged letters already arguing over his name.” A faint smile. “I wanted Keraunos Antonius, for the son of the first Ptolemy. It means thunderbolt, and it’s an impressive name. Antony wanted Gaius. For your father. After he explained that, I couldn’t really tell him no. So the poor child has a very Roman name, compared to the rest of you. Gaius Antonius.”
Caesarion blinked, struck by the nobility of the gesture by Antony. “We’ll come by in the next few days
to meet our new brother,” he promised, taking his mother by the hand to lead her to the triclinium, and smiled past her. “Who is this young lady—why, it’s Selene! I didn’t recognize you in a stola and with your hair up, sister. Most becoming.” He caught how wide her eyes had gone, and sighed internally. “Octavia, Drusus, always a pleasure. Drusus, I have a letter in my bags for you from Tiberius. I’ll give it to you after dinner, if that’s all right?”
The younger man nodded, his eyes nearly as apprehensive at the moment as Selene’s. Four years younger than Tiberius, he was eleven now. “Why is he still with the legion, if you’ve come home?” he asked, his voice still high and young.
“Because I needed someone to stay behind and serve as legate of the Tenth in my absence,” Caesarion replied simply, watching Drusus’ eyes suddenly go wide with delight in his brother’s good fortune. “And he was the most qualified. Even Alexander said so. My senior tribune had been killed early in the campaign, unfortunately. I’ll be bringing additional men and staff-officers with me when I return.”
Eurydice had just entered, and exclaimed over seeing Selene dressed as a young woman now, too—“Why, that’s the stola you were weaving when I left. The gold thread turned out beautifully. Of course, your hands are so clever that I think you could take the coarsest twine and make something lovely with it.” Pure admiration in Eurydice’s tone, and a little rueful self-awareness. “This is not a talent I possess, and I do envy you for it.”
Selene flushed with pleasure at the praise, but still looked a little uncomfortable, even so. But she returned Eurydice’s embrace, while giving Caesarion glances askance now and again. So, I remain a cyclops in her opinion. The more so now that Dame Rumor has been to visit, than before, perhaps. Someday, I will come home, and Selene will not be terrified of me. And on that day, the sun will rise in Tartarus.
Dinner was an oddly uncomfortable affair. Eurydice had been seated on the same couch with him hundreds of times in her role as lady of the house, and all the youngsters had seen her in this position at least as many times, making their bow before going to eat upstairs, out from under the feet of more important adult guests. And Matru, their hostage, had clearly never eaten Roman-style before, and shifted uncertainly on his dining couch, unsure of where to put his elbows or how to take food properly from the table. Octavia kept chuckling at his manners, to Caesarion’s annoyance, but Selene, seated next to the long-haired barbarian, covered as he was in tattoos, cleared her throat and tried to show him how to nibble more gracefully, and, in between courses, how to wash his hands in the bowls of scented water offered by the servants, and to dry them on the cloth mappae. Caesarion leaned over to whisper in Eurydice’s ear, “She’s terrified of me, but she’s taking a hairy barbarian under her wing? Fancy that.”
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