Ave, Caesarion (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  Idle chitchat through the first course, as dozens of people circulated through from other rooms to give their best wishes to the bride and groom. Caesarion lost count of how many senators and wealthy plebeians and their wives strolled through, making the same inane compliments on a feast that featured no fewer than twelve roast boars, three roast bulls, four boiled flamingoes in honey, and fish stuffed with its own roe in garum sauce. Dormice and quails and perfectly boiled quail eggs, no bigger than the tip of Caesarion’s little finger. Fruits and vegetables also abounded, as did a half dozen different kinds of cheese. But as he glanced across the room, he saw that Alexander was watching each group of well-wishers. Not straight-on, but with lazy-looking eyes that nevertheless missed nothing. He’s watching them the way I watch a battleground, Caesarion realized after a moment. Did Mother teach him how to do that?

  “So, I hear that you are quite a Circe,” Antyllus asked, leaning in towards the center of the couch and Eurydice. Nothing but friendliness and charm in his voice. And absolutely no fear, Caesarion noted. He clearly didn’t believe the rumors circulating Rome—and perhaps hadn’t even discussed the matter with his own father. “Do you turn men to pigs, then?”

  His voice seemed loud in one of those pools of silence to which parties are so often prone, and every head in the room, to include those from the latest group of well-wishers, turned to listen to the conversation. Eurydice stiffened, but before Caesarion could reply, she managed a laugh. “My brother Alexander tells me that men need no magical assistance in that regard, Antyllus.”

  Antony’s eldest son let out a whoop of laughter, and several of the other guests tittered as well. Caesarion felt Eurydice relax against him. But he tensed himself as Antyllus leaned forward again, offering Eurydice a bite of something from his own plate—which she mutely declined, shaking her head politely. “Oh come, we’re all brothers and sisters here now,” Antyllus told her genially. “Though not related in any blood fashion, of course. Thank the gods. I have enough half-brothers and half-sisters already.” He smiled at her, then looked up at Caesarion. “You know, in mythology, Circe had a brother, Aetes. Which means Eagle.” An impudent grin in Caesarion’s direction. “Any relation?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I think we count enough gods in our lineage for any three families,” Caesarion replied, his tone rueful.

  “Speaking of lineage and, well, carrying it on? Any marriage plans for your family’s siren, Caesarion? She’s certainly old enough to be thinking about it.” Antyllus raised his eyebrows.

  Patrician women tended to marry young—while not quite as soon as menarche began, the general feeling was that if a woman was old enough to bleed, she was old enough to bed. And the sooner marriage occurred, the more likely her virtue was to be assured. They thus tended to marry between the ages of fourteen and twenty, and almost always to older men—men who’d survived their time in the military and could be said to be stable and mature enough to become a paterfamilias. Lower-class women waited for marriage longer—mostly to ensure that whomever they married could be a stable provider for their families.

  Eurydice turned just enough towards Caesarion that he could see apprehension in her eyes. “None at the moment,” he told Antyllus as lightly as he could, in spite of a baseline irritation that he couldn’t really explain to himself. “She’s far too useful to me for me to allow her to go off to join some other family.” And therein was the rub. A Roman woman became, in a real sense, the asset of whichever family she joined in marriage. All her skills and talents belonged to them. Her natural family could recall her to them through divorce, but in a very real way, Caesarion couldn’t allow an asset like Eurydice to fall into anyone else’s hands. She’d never turn against me, he reassured himself. But I don’t ever want to force her to have to make the choice between a husband and children, and me. Be asked by some other family to use her birds to spy on me, or my allies. Or any of the other magical gifts she possesses. He swallowed a sip of his wine. And, damn it all . . . she’s like me.

  Antyllus’ eyebrows rose as another set of well-wishers entered—this time including Livia and Agrippa. “But I’m family now, aren’t I?” he offered jovially. “My father’s expressed an interest in a second marriage tie, and now that I’ve met your sister, I find the thought far from objectionable.” He smiled at Eurydice, whose entire body stiffened against Caesarion’s.

  In spite of a flash of anger that he again, couldn’t really explain, it was impossible not to like Antyllus. Open-handed, direct, and good-humored. Everything one would hope to find in a new relative. “Eurydice,” Caesarion said, putting the matter in her hands. “Are you looking for marriage soon?”

  She shook her head rapidly. “No, though I thank Antyllus for the notion,” she replied, her voice tight. “I’m far too busy with my studies at the moment for any such thing. And learning to run the Imperial household. Not to mention the fact that I assume that I’m going with you to Hispania or Illyria in the next year.” She paused. “I’m sure that . . . most husbands . . . would not be very accommodating of a wife’s need to travel on her brother’s campaigns.”

  Underscoring that tight-voiced sentence was a note of dread that Caesarion understood partially. Yes, sister. There’d be no more riding lessons for you. Especially if he got you with child early. And, in a sudden flash of insight, he comprehended why her first use of power had taken the shape it had. And he whispered in her ear, “If you found yourself married off, you’d put yourself in a bird’s body and fly away, never to be seen again, wouldn’t you, dear one? Leaving your body to rot, living but dead.”

  She nodded. Just once. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  But Antyllus, not one to be deterred, asked, smiling into his cup, “Studying what? Magic?” He wiggled his fingers. “Is it like what I’ve seen street vendors do?”

  More loudly, Caesarion said, “Eurydice, I think you should show our new brother what magic truly is. Carefully,” he added. “The murals in here are quite lovely, and I’m sure Mother has no desire to redecorate the entire villa.”

  Eurydice looked back over her shoulder at him. “Here? In front of everyone?”

  Caesarion’s gaze took in Livia and Agrippa, who still stood by the low couch, as captured by the by-play as everyone else, apparently. “Yes,” he said. “For everyone to see, if you please.”

  Eurydice closed her eyes and held out her hand, palm up. Murmured under her breath. Caesarion felt the air around him rush inwards, chilling—a welcome sensation that made the sweat on his skin suddenly almost pleasurable. And then three motes of fire appeared in the air over Eurydice’s hand, dancing there. Growing. Heat expanded out from them, like that of a blacksmith’s forge, and he wondered how long she could hold them so, without blistering her skin. “And now,” Eurydice said, opening her eyes, “so that no one can say that this is an illusion . . . a mummer’s trick . . . .” One of the balls of fire drifted to Antyllus’ cup, where it ignited the Falernian wine there. The other two, she allowed to dissipate slowly, till they were nothing more than afterimages and a wave of heat rolling through the room—which, till that moment, had been pleasantly cool.

  Antyllus stared at the cup of burning wine in his hand, and—marks for him—set it down very carefully on the table in front of them. “What would you have done if I dropped it?” he asked, his voice tight. “Flaming wine on a mattress could have burned all three of us alive.”

  Thinks very quickly, Caesarion evaluated. Why do I have to like him so much?

  Eurydice made a hooking gesture with one finger, and all the flame lifted from his cup, streaming towards her hand like a ribbon. “Fire and I are getting to be old friends,” she replied, her voice detached as she concentrated on it. Weaving it around her hand like a bracelet or a wreath. “I work very hard to ensure that no spell of mine hurts anyone unintentionally.” A little flash of humor in her voice. “Not that I know many yet.”

  She let the last flames dissipate, and Caesarion took a quick glance arou
nd the room—noting as he did so, that Alexander was already doing the same. Agrippa had already seen Eurydice’s birds in action, but his mouth hung open at the moment. Livia appeared on the verge of apoplexy. “You allow witchcraft to be performed in your house?” she demanded of Antony now, her voice scathing. “Witchcraft, which is against the gods, and was wisely banned by Sulla?”

  And she thinks fast on her feet, too, Caesarion thought wearily.

  “Not witchcraft,” Cleopatra returned languidly. “Livia, dear, what you see my daughter using is sorcery. Something that Egypt has been noted for over the course of thousands of years. Like all the other provinces of Rome’s mighty empire, we contribute some of our strength to the whole. Is that not the way forward?” A catlike smile slunk its way onto Cleopatra’s face. The words were almost submissive; the tone was a blatant challenge to Livia. “Besides, Sulla’s laws were repealed. By my late husband. And wisely so.” Cleopatra wiggled her own fingers now. Her reputation as a sorcerer-queen lay almost entirely in the repeal of those laws, Caesarion knew.

  And the other woman didn’t dare reply. Merely bristled and turned to greet Tiberius, whose face had turned to stone at the sight of his mother, and didn’t soften even after she left.

  Gradually, everyone’s unease at Eurydice’s demonstration faded. Antony’s majordomo appeared, clapping his hands to escort in the evening’s entertainment. Again, as weddings were fertility rites, it wasn’t a particular surprise to see a scantily-clad woman appear behind him. The surprise was, that it was only a single dancer and a musician, and not a full troupe.

  A scarlet silk veil covered her lower face and her dark hair; a band of the same material partially covered her ample breasts, and her skirt was composed of long strings, each with a bell chime at the end, so that she jingled as she moved, and the amber skin of her legs showed with each step. Every man present looked up with interest, Caesarion included—though he did notice that the dancer had some emblem marked in black ink on her right cheekbone, just under one kohl-circled eye. “For tonight’s entertainment, from distant Babylon, I give you Ishta!” the majordomo declared. “She guarantees that every man who sees her dance will have a spectacular gift for his lady tonight!”

  The musician began a staccato strumming on the instrument, which sounded vaguely familiar to Caesarion, and made him think back to his earliest years, spent running naked through the halls of the palace in Alexandria. Then, all such thoughts vanished as Ishta, if that was the name she’d been born to, began to dance. Her hips and buttocks swayed, and her body undulated in an unmistakable emulation of copulation. Exquisite muscular control, her spine seeming more sinuous than a serpent, as if each individual vertebrae could detach itself from the rest and rotate independently. Fluidity and amazing flexibility, as she dropped back in an arch that somehow put her head almost even with her rounded backside, still shimmying and shaking with abandon. Then she snapped upright, and began moving sensuously from couch to couch, making eye-contact with each man present.

  Caesarion stopped breathing as the dancer made her way to the middle couch after working at Antony and Cleopatra’s sides for a time. Then he caught his cup of wine and drained it, trying not to think. All evening, people passing through to congratulate Antony and Cleopatra had tended to drop by his couch to offer greetings to the Emperor, as well. This had been annoying earlier, but would have been a blessed distraction now. However, none of these helpful people seemed inclined to appear at the moment.

  It had been one thing to take Eurydice to see Lysistrata. The play, while frank about sexuality, had been a raucous comedy. None of it had been taken seriously, or had been remotely titillating. This performance was something else entirely, calculated to raise the blood—and phallus—of every man present. Most particularly the groom, who, given his advanced age, might have been thought to need a little rousing by those who didn’t know Cleopatra’s reputation. But that didn’t mean that everyone else present wasn’t supposed to be similarly inspired.

  He still couldn’t see his sister’s expression, but her hands hadn’t slid up to cover her face. She also hadn’t moved, which was another mingled blessing and curse. Caesarion had kept meaning to find time to make a quick trip to an upscale brothel, but his desk never seemed to clear, and his family responsibilities seemed to multiply every time he turned around. He therefore hadn’t enjoyed the intimate company of a woman since his return from Germania, and the dancer’s movements emphatically reminded him of that fact.

  As such, he edged a little away from Eurydice—just as Antyllus, clearly enjoying the performance, and probably needing to conceal his own reaction to it, rolled to his stomach, making the whole couch shift. And thus Eurydice slid right back up against Caesarion, her backside landing against his hips—and her entire body stiffened in unmistakable surprise at what she’d probably just felt lodged against her spine.

  Gritting his teeth, Caesarion found her hip with one hand and eased her away gently. This is going to be my punishment in Tartarus someday, he thought resignedly. Instead of being sentenced to push rocks uphill forever, like Tantalus, I’m going to suffer the torments of Priapus. A foot-long erection, distended balls, and no way to relieve the pressure.

  Grim-faced, he endured a performance intended to evoke pleasure until the dancer finally gave up on him, and moved on to the last couch, to his inexpressible relief. Jullus, Caesarion noted, somehow received less attention from the dancer than Tiberius did; the young man’s angry, distant, uncomfortable expression seemed to be as much a challenge for the dancer as Caesarion’s own lack of overt reaction had been.

  “I think she likes you,” Alexander told his friend now, laughing and flushed with wine. “Perhaps you should make her acquaintance more thoroughly later. If you do, I want a full report. No detail omitted.”

  “That doesn’t seem the course of honor,” Tiberius muttered, loudly enough that Caesarion could hear it across the room. “I’m betrothed.”

  Alexander clearly knew a bad excuse when he heard one. “And going out with me to vile tavernas is better?” he countered—much to Antony’s amusement, as the older man laughed, long and loud, at the words. “It’s better when we pay for it?”

  The dancer’s movements slowed, and she leaned over the couch to plant a kiss on Tiberius’ lips, right through her veil. “Have a care,” Cleopatra said, her voice cool and distant, cutting through the music. “She wears the mark of the Chaldean Magi on her cheekbone.”

  The music faltered, and the dancer turned, her eyes wide with fright. “I know not if she’s an initiate of their secrets, or merely once was one of their slaves,” Cleopatra went on, her voice chill. “But if she’s a practitioner of their arts, you young men should be aware that with a drop of your blood—or your seed, or a lock of hair—a Magus can summon spirits to find you anywhere. Enter your body, and compel you to actions that you’d never commit of your own accord.” Her eyes burned as she stared at the young dancer. “Many a man has found himself standing over the body of his own murdered wife, or a betrayed sovereign, with no recollection of how he came to do these terrible things. For the art of the Magi is subtle and powerful.” She looked over at Eurydice. “Note the mark on her cheek, my children. And remember it well—and you young men should learn to be extremely cautious about where you go planting your seed.” A faint smile curled her lips. “You never quite know into what it could grow.”

  “I was a slave to them,” the dancer whispered, her voice quavering, her hands raised. “Please, my lady. I am no Magus. I have no powers. I only dance.”

  She dropped to her knees, but Antony shook his head, taking no chances as several guards came and took the dancer and her musician away. “I’ll have my men look into how she was slipped into the entertainment,” he muttered, standing. “Excuse me, everyone. Please go on enjoying the food and the music. I’ll return shortly.”

  A pall had been cast over the wedding feast, but it was something of a relief to Caesarion, as his body finally eased.
And as Antony returned, his face rigid, Alexander asked across the table, “Mother, just so that I understand . . . why does having a part of someone’s body help magic work? It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Eurydice’s powers.”

  Heads turned, and Eurydice stiffened beside Caesarion once more. “Because there is more than one kind of magic in the world,” Cleopatra replied slowly. “Eurydice’s power—which may well come from the gods; the priestess of Isis will be interviewing her this week, now that she’s arrived here in Rome—is clearly that of sorcery. Control of the elements, the natural world. Some Magi possess this power. But many of them deal with spirits and minor gods. Not as a priest, in supplication. But either as a commander, using their own considerable power to enslave spirits . . . or as a merchant. Making bargains that the spirits find acceptable.”

  “Like the lares,” Eurydice said, her head rising. “Or the spirits you had bound to each of us at birth, Mother.”

  “Except our lares pester us for bread and milk,” Caesarion put in dryly.

  “Flaminia has been bothering you about that?” Surprise in her tone.

  “That little cat-woman had the audacity to ask for twice her given rate for keeping vermin out of the villa last week, yes. I sometimes curse the day you taught me how to see them, sister. Because now they all want to chat.” Caesarion caught the looks of astonishment from those around him, and stumbled to a halt before graciously telling his mother, “I apologize for the interruption, Mother. You were saying?”

  Cleopatra smiled without humor. “Their spirits are similar to your lares, yes. But many of the spirits that the Magi bargain with are old. Powerful. And either capricious or outright evil. Spirits that hunt humans for sport, or for the taste of the human soul.” She swirled the wine in her cup, looking into the lees as if to divine the future.

  “But what does that have to do with blood and seed and hair?” Alexander asked impatiently.