Ave, Caesarion Read online

  Ave, Caesarion

  Book I of

  The Rise of Caesarion’s Rome

  by

  Deborah L. Davitt

  Copyright 2016, Deborah L. Davitt

  Cover art by Jason Nguyen, 2016

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

  For more information on this book and others in the Edda-Earth universe, please see www.edda-earth.com.

  ISBN-10: 0-9860916-2-6

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9860916-2-9

  Library of Congress Control Number:2016914342

  Foreword

  No book, as I’ve said before, is written in a vacuum. The Caesarion books are the ones I wanted to write for ages, but didn’t think I had enough background in Roman history to write, without, well, obtaining for myself that level of education. Fortunately, a long-time reader of mine, Alexander Thomas, has been undertaking his master’s degree in Classical Studies, with a focus on Roman military equipment and strategy. I’d like to thank him for being a good guide as I’ve done my research, and always being available to tell me when the source I’m reading (Suetonius, for example), might just be the tabloid journalist of ancient Rome. I’d also like to thank Anastasia Ivanova, the Russian super-fan who translated part of the first chapter of The Valkyrie, and Laura Ballegeer, my Canadian super-fan, for their help and support. Without the enthusiasm and encouragement of people like this, I’m not sure you’d be holding this book today; it helps to be reassured that the work is solid on days in which you feel as if you’ve left your talent in your other set of pants.

  I started writing Book IV of the Edda Prime series, and got to a certain point with it where I wasn’t sure what the characters would do next; there were new ones in the mix, and they changed many things. I started writing Caesarion as a break from that, and writing the history of the early empire has vastly clarified for me where Edda Prime will go as Sigrun allows things to unfold that will repair the damage done in the War of the Gods. Yes, that’s . . . vague. I’m sorry. Wait and see how it unfolds.

  As you read these books, you may be struck by how similar Roman life is to modern western life. Some of their holidays—such as Mother’s Day (Matronalia), or Compitalia (Halloween)—might bear some haunting similarities to how you celebrate such, yourself. Other customs, traditions, values, and attitudes may offend you. Please understand that the characters’ attitudes and beliefs reflect those of their time, place, society, and position within that society. Those attitudes do not necessarily reflect mine. Thus, if you encounter two male characters having sex, but both of them view themselves as male, comport themselves as vigorously male, and they do not consider their sexuality to be their identity? Then it’s not identity for them, and has very little to do with life in the 21st century of Real-Earth.

  Likewise, women married early in Roman times—plebeians, strikingly, less so than noblewomen—and in this highly-stratified and traditional society, everyone had a place. Caesarion breaks several cardinal rules of Roman behavior throughout these books. However, he’s god-born, and half-Egyptian. He has to change the rules.

  If you’ve read much on the time-period, I hope you can accept that my perspective on alternate-timeline characters in history—from a Cleopatra who’s outlived her Real-Earth lifespan, to an Octavian Thurinus who was never called Augustus or adopted into the Julii clan, to an older, more weary and cynical Marcus Antonius, or a younger, untried Tiberius—might not be how you’ve seen them when you’ve read them in the annals of history.

  If you can’t suspend your disbelief, or are easily offended by characters who may not share your particular modern attitudes and sensibilities, this book might not be for you. I hope, however, that you’ll give it a try anyway. Sometimes delight comes in the most unexpected of places.

  Rome’s Reach in 15 AC

  Chapter I: Ave, Caesarion

  Not to know what happened before you were born is to be a child forever. For what is the time of a man, except it be interwoven with that memory of ancient things of a superior age?

  —Marcus Tullius Cicero

  ____________________

  Iunius 30, 15 Ascensio Caesare

  On this warm summer evening, fifteen years after Julius Caesar had been crowned in the Forum of Rome, the Empire held its breath. Rumor—fleeter of foot than Mercury—swept through the city, from patrician homes to plebeian ones, whispering that Gaius Julius Caesar had suffered some manner of fit. It had long been murmured that he was subject to the falling-sickness, perhaps contracted in tropical climes, or meted out as punishment by the gods for having dared to ascend so far. More troubling, however, were Rumor’s sly additions to her tale: that the seventy-year-old emperor could not rise, and that his foreign-born wife, Cleopatra, would not leave his side, whispering spells and incantations to keep him alive.

  The freeborn muttered in the marketplaces; the Empress might be a curse on Rome. Their beloved Emperor had divorced his third wife, Calpurnia, after his coronation, and had extended to Cleopatra and the Hellene-Egyptian House of Ptolemy Roman citizenship for “services to the Empire.” Italians who had only recently been granted citizenship spat at those words; her services, in their opinion, were those of a harlot, and the rights that their grandfathers had died for in the Social War had been granted to her for what lay between her thighs.

  Few in Rome understood that the bread distributed by the government—the Annona—came at such a low cost to the state solely because Egypt’s fertile fields provided their plenty at the whim of their queen.

  In the last light of sunset, five cohorts of legionnaires marched along the Via Flaminia towards the gates of Rome, accompanying two young men on horseback. The dirt and dust on their uniforms suggested a long journey, conducted rapidly. The senior centurion and all the men on foot were hardened soldiers in their thirties, members of the Legio X Equestris—the first legion levied by Julius Caesar. The Equestris formed the backbone of Caesar’s Praetorian Guard, the personal protectors accorded to many a general over the centuries. Hence the distinctive white crests on the helmets of their officers.

  Of the pair on horseback, the elder, who wore the long white crest of a tribune of the Tenth Legion, didn’t look to have escaped his adolescent years; the younger, who wore no uniform, but rather just a tunic and cloak suitable for riding, looked barely old enough to have received his toga virilis. “Malleolus! Fall the men out,” the older of the pair called to the centurion, reining in. “Let them eat and bathe and see their families. But be at my father’s villa outside of Rome first thing in the morning.”

  The centurion thumped his breastplate in acknowledgement, and the weary legionnaires gave a desultory cheer. But the centurion let the rest of his men file past, and then caught the young officer’s reins before he could thump a heel into his horse’s flanks. “I’ll be going with you, dominus?” Malleolus asked. It wasn’t quite a question.

  The corners of the young man’s mouth kinked upwards slightly. “This is Rome.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Solemn acknowledgement. “And fifteen years ago, seven men tried to murder your father. On the sacred soil of Rome.”

  The young man put a hand on his shoulder, imperceptible through the armor. “I’m harder to kill than my father, Malleolus. Though I thank you for your care.” In the last rays of sunset, his eyes gleamed an unnatural shade under the shadows cast by his helm—the color of spilled blood. For Ptolemy XV Julius Caesarion Philopator Philomator—generally called Caesarion—was god-born.

  His mother, Cleopatra, who had made her son co-ruler of Egypt with herself when he was no more than three, claimed that the blood of Isis and Osiris ran in her veins. His father had o
nce minted coins that reminded the people of Rome that his house claimed descent from Venus. And none could deny that Mars had favored Caesar on the battlefield as well. Yet neither of his parents had shown the signs of divine favor as clearly as Caesarion did.

  Malleolus released the reins, saying mildly, “I would sleep better tonight, my lord, if you’d allow me to follow you to the villa’s gates.”

  A quick smile. “You’re going to insist?”

  “I would never so presume. But I do ask, dominus.”

  “For the sake of your good rest, then, yes.” A nod, and then the young patrician clucked at his horse, preparing to enter the city. But now his brother, young Alexander, caught the reins. “Caesarion,” Alexander said, his voice tight, “You’re not carrying a sword. You can enter the city legally. But . . . if you enter now, you’re giving up your right to a triumph.”

  “I don’t care,” Caesarion replied impatiently. “Father had a choice once, between being accorded a triumph for his victories, and standing for election as consul. He chose the consulship. You pick the thing that’s more important. And seeing him before he dies . . . that’s more important.” He grimaced. “And ensuring that we’re here to deal with issues of succession, too. Gods. I hate thinking like this.”

  Alexander shook his head sharply. Five years younger than his brother, he still seemed to have more political acumen. “A triumph will ensure the love of the plebeians. And you must have the mob behind you before dealing with the Senate.”

  Caesarion’s expression tautened. “It’s strange, Alexander. I see your face, but I hear our mother’s voice when you speak.” An impatient shake of his head. “Every man who stood with me in Germania deserves that triumph. They all deserve that recognition, because without the men who followed me, the seventh Legion would have been cut off, surrounded, and destroyed in that damned forest.” His face settled into stubborn lines. “But holding a triumph instead of making my way to Father’s deathbed?” He regarded Alexander steadily. “Bad taste. It would look as if I valued his position more than his life.” He stared at the Porta Flaminia, and then turned his head and spat into the dust at the side of the road. “To Dis with the damned triumph. Let’s go home, brother.”

  Centurion Ramirus Modius Malleolus trotted silently alongside the pair as they entered the city. They looked far too young to bear the weight of the Empire on their shoulders. But Caesarion will have to carry it. And in spite of the young man’s high rank and youth, he liked Caesarion. Uncannily, almost everyone did. The love of his father’s legions was mostly assured, but Malleolus had seen freedmen and slaves who served the legionnaires in their camps—men who hated anyone with a patrician name—smile when Caesarion addressed them.

  He sighed, and kept his eyes on the people crowding the streets. No one had yet given them more than a glance, but someone had to keep these two youngsters alive.

  “Why so quiet, Malleolus?” Alexander asked as they pushed through a marketplace. The stripling had been sent on his brother’s campaign mostly to learn how military camps worked.

  “I don’t mind fighting wars, dominus,” Ramirus replied tersely. “Not looking forward to another civil one, though.”

  Caesarion’s head turned towards him. Malleolus prepared for a reprimand—he’d overstepped with that reply. But Caesarion surprised him. “Rome’s always at war,” he replied. “Constantly pushing out the borders. Bringing the light of our laws to the unwashed barbarians on our periphery.”

  The words would have been innocuous to the ears of any Roman citizen. The tone, however, distinguished them. Pure irony, inviting Ramirus in. Suggesting a hint of likeness between the centurion and the god-born son of the Imperator.

  And for an instant, Ramirus saw it. Ramirus’ Gallic mother had been taken as a slave somewhere in Hispania, explaining the centurion’s blond hair and height. She’d jumped into the Tiber to save the life of one of the noble children in her care, resulting in both her manumission and the noble name that she and her freeborn son bore. And this young patrician’s mother is as much a barbarian to Rome as mine. While she didn’t enter Rome as a slave, but as a queen . . . in this, if nothing else, he and I are alike.

  “The problem,” Caesarion said now quietly, “is the same in Rome’s empire as it was in Alexander’s.”

  His younger brother’s head swung towards him. Over the jingle of armor and tack, he exclaimed, “Alexander the Great conquered the known world!” The young man’s tone held bewilderment. “His body is kept in a temple in Alexandria, and he’s worshipped as a god, for all that he was as human as I am.” A hint of pride in the young man’s voice, for his namesake; he wasn’t even a god-born like you, brother. And look what he accomplished.

  “Oh, he conquered it. And our own forefather Ptolemy found himself the ruler of a kingdom for his loyalty to his lord.” The irony hadn’t left Caesarion’s voice. “The problem, brother, isn’t conquering the world. It’s holding it. Keeping the provinces from rebelling. Keeping the government from becoming more corrupt. Keeping the lines of communications open. All the administrative details at which conquerors usually fail.” He frowned. “So yes, Malleolus. As you say . . . civil war might well arise once more.”

  Stunned at his inclusion in this conversation, the centurion remained silent. But at the villa any misapprehensions the centurion might have had of being a kindred spirit dissipated as the young men disappeared into the elegant edifice, leaving him unattended.

  Caesarion looked back to give the centurion a grateful, if dismissive wave, and then ducked through the door to dart upstairs to his father’s chambers, where he knocked. “Enter,” his mother’s voice called, and Caesarion obeyed, Alexander at his heels.

  Inside, the smells of effluvia and illness struck him, even covered by the odor of costly incense, and his nostrils twitched. He’d smelled this before in the triage tents, as bowels evacuated and wounds turned septic. He is dying, Caesarion thought, but controlled his face, stepping forward to take his mother’s hands in greeting as she rose from Caesar’s bedside.

  Forty years old, Cleopatra had been celebrated for decades as the greatest beauty the world had seen since Helen of Troy. Some of that praise was pablum; her nose could most kindly be described as beaky, and a large mole interrupted the smooth arc of one of her eyebrows. Lines had graven themselves on her face in the past year, and the first traces of white flecked her dark hair. However, her eyes still captured the attention of anyone who met her: large, dark, and wrapped in kohl, they sparkled with a ferocious intellect. “I’m relieved that you made good time over the Alps,” Cleopatra murmured with careful restraint, though her eyes were luminous with tears. “He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for two days.”

  “A seizure?” Caesarion asked, taking a seat at his father’s bedside.

  “Not one of the usual ones. He can’t raise his right arm.” Cleopatra exhaled, obviously tightly controlling her face and voice for the benefit of the Egyptian servants hovering outside the door. “He told me that once you arrived, he’d trouble me to assist him with cutting his wrists.”

  Caesarion’s head snapped up. “I’ll do it,” he told his mother, immediately. “You shouldn’t have to—”

  “Peace. A son’s hands should not be stained with a father’s blood.” Her lips quirked, then quivered. “No matter how many times that has occurred in my family’s history.”

  Julius Caesar opened his eyes and extended his left hand shakily for Caesarion’s. Alexander crowded close as Caesar croaked, “Bring Lepidus.” His voice was nearly inaudible. “Witness.”

  His Master of the Horse, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, a patrician in his own right, was quickly fetched. In his fifties and completely loyal, he stood beside his emperor’s bed, face composed and without tears, as Caesar spoke again, with difficulty. “My will . . . lodged with the Vestals. Coin set aside for Alexander and my daughters. Caesarion, you are my principal heir. You know this.” He closed his eyes. “Listen to Lepidus. Lean on h
im. Too old for a regent . . . never too old . . . for good counsel.” His fingers tightened on Caesarion’s. “Marry one of Crassus’ granddaughters, if you can. You’ll need their wealth. Keep the Legions paid, and they’ll never betray you. Be wary of Octavius and Antony. They are . . . jealous. Hungry. Use them . . . against each other.” His words slurred, and he opened his eyes once more, looking now at Cleopatra. “And if you happen to find love . . . consider yourself fortunate. But never let it dissuade you from duty.”

  Caesarion nodded, his throat tight. I’m not ready, Father. You can’t leave us. But to give such weak and mewling words voice would not have comforted the dying man.

  A pause, and then an almost incoherent mumble: “The sword . . . lost it at the river. Touched . . . by Mars. Find it . . . .” And moments after those final, inexplicable words, which sounded like the unraveling of mind that had lost all lucidity, Gaius Julius Caesar died without troubling anyone for the favor of a knife, after all.

  Cleopatra put her head on the bed beside him and wept silently. Uncomfortable, unable to show his grief for a man that he’d followed loyally for close to thirty years, Lepidus turned towards Caesarion. “Shall I make the announcement and begin the traditional nine days of rituals?”

  Caesarion stared blankly at the man for a moment. And the mill that is Rome grinds on, its great wheels churning. One man dies, and is ground to dust, and the next must take his place. “Yes. We’ll need a procession with all the family images. Mummers from the theater to carry them.” He didn’t know what to make of the words about the sword, and since no one around him commented on them, either, he put it aside.

  Lepidus cleared his throat. “You won’t address the Senate until you’ve finished his funeral oration?” A delicate question, that. If Caesarion did address the Senate before the funeral was over, and asked them to vote on passing his father’s position as Emperor to him, it could be taken greatly amiss. On the other hand, if he didn’t, there would be a power vacuum in Rome for nine days.