you.”
“Yes, Father,” they chorused, and that made Antinous sigh just a little. They were Vix’s daughters, blood of his blood, so of course they called him
Father
. “What do I call you?” Antinous had asked as a boy, paralyzed with shyness, knowing with all his heart what he
wanted
to call this godlike man who had rescued him.
But no. “You had a father, not that you knew him, and it wasn’t me,” the brisk reply had come. “So
Vix
will do.”
Antinous couldn’t remember the man who had sired him. All he had in the world was a tall centurion in a lion skin, and he loved that man more than life.
Father.
But he only called Vix that in his mind.
“Walk with me?” Vix asked. “There’s a decent bathhouse and gymnasium opposite the barracks, and I could use a sweat.”
Antinous hesitated. “Mirah won’t mind?”
“Why would she?”
Because she gets jealous
, Antinous thought. It was better when Vix wasn’t there—then she smiled when Antinous crouched down to play with the girls or helped hoist the laundry basket. “Not many boys know how to braid hair or bleach linen,” Mirah would say, as she’d been saying since Antinous was a little boy trying so hard to be the
best
son, the
best
brother. To earn his place. “You’re a gem among sons, Antinous!” She said it with such unconscious affection,
son
. But when Vix came home from his travels or his long guard shifts . . .
Well.
Jealous
wasn’t the right word. There wasn’t an envious bone in Mirah’s body; Antinous knew that. But he couldn’t help but notice that whenever he came into that laughing, shoulder-thumping embrace with his father, when the two of them teased and joked and got out swords to spar—well, Mirah looked sad. As though wondering why the God she prayed to so fervently hadn’t given her a son of her own for Vix to tease and spar with. A son who
could
call Vix “Father.”
“Your mother will be another hour at least moving all the furniture,” Vix was saying, oblivious to Antinous’s musing. “Best thing we can do is get out of her way. Why do women do that, anyway?” he wondered, swinging out of the doorway. “She’ll move every couch into a different room, then decide she liked it better the way it was!”
“Let’s run while we can,” Antinous agreed.
He slouched along easily at his father’s side, companionably silent. They were almost of a height, and Antinous almost as broad through the shoulder, but there the similarities stopped. Nobody whispered foul things on the street when he walked with Vix. His father moved with a ferocious swagger like a man who owned the earth. Antinous wondered sometimes if Vix had ever been unsure of anything—if he’d ever been Antinous’s age, wondering what the world held in store and what was his place in it.
Mostly Antinous thought the answer to that was
No
.
“Emperor Hadrian,” he asked finally. “Arriving soon?”
“Yes.” His father never had much to say about the man he served.
“And he’s traveling to Britannia afterward?”
A savage chuckle. “If he doesn’t drown on the crossing.”
Antinous let it drop. He’d never seen the Emperor except as an occasional distant figure on parade in a purple cloak, but he knew his father hated the man. Something to do with Emperor Trajan’s death, and his father’s transfer from his beloved Tenth Fidelis to the Praetorian Guard. Get Vix going, and he’d convince you Emperor Hadrian was responsible for every evil in the Empire.
“So,” Antinous asked. “You aren’t going to scold me about kissing the clerk’s wife on the boat, are you? Because Mirah already burned my ear off—”
Vix laughed. “Better she saw you kissing the clerk’s wife than the clerk.”
“Oh, he made a try at me, too.” Antinous squatted down on his heels, stretching a hand out to a dog skulking through the gutter. The poor thing looked half-starved. “Mirah just didn’t catch that part.”
“Good. You know how
“Yes, Father,” they chorused, and that made Antinous sigh just a little. They were Vix’s daughters, blood of his blood, so of course they called him
Father
. “What do I call you?” Antinous had asked as a boy, paralyzed with shyness, knowing with all his heart what he
wanted
to call this godlike man who had rescued him.
But no. “You had a father, not that you knew him, and it wasn’t me,” the brisk reply had come. “So
Vix
will do.”
Antinous couldn’t remember the man who had sired him. All he had in the world was a tall centurion in a lion skin, and he loved that man more than life.
Father.
But he only called Vix that in his mind.
“Walk with me?” Vix asked. “There’s a decent bathhouse and gymnasium opposite the barracks, and I could use a sweat.”
Antinous hesitated. “Mirah won’t mind?”
“Why would she?”
Because she gets jealous
, Antinous thought. It was better when Vix wasn’t there—then she smiled when Antinous crouched down to play with the girls or helped hoist the laundry basket. “Not many boys know how to braid hair or bleach linen,” Mirah would say, as she’d been saying since Antinous was a little boy trying so hard to be the
best
son, the
best
brother. To earn his place. “You’re a gem among sons, Antinous!” She said it with such unconscious affection,
son
. But when Vix came home from his travels or his long guard shifts . . .
Well.
Jealous
wasn’t the right word. There wasn’t an envious bone in Mirah’s body; Antinous knew that. But he couldn’t help but notice that whenever he came into that laughing, shoulder-thumping embrace with his father, when the two of them teased and joked and got out swords to spar—well, Mirah looked sad. As though wondering why the God she prayed to so fervently hadn’t given her a son of her own for Vix to tease and spar with. A son who
could
call Vix “Father.”
“Your mother will be another hour at least moving all the furniture,” Vix was saying, oblivious to Antinous’s musing. “Best thing we can do is get out of her way. Why do women do that, anyway?” he wondered, swinging out of the doorway. “She’ll move every couch into a different room, then decide she liked it better the way it was!”
“Let’s run while we can,” Antinous agreed.
He slouched along easily at his father’s side, companionably silent. They were almost of a height, and Antinous almost as broad through the shoulder, but there the similarities stopped. Nobody whispered foul things on the street when he walked with Vix. His father moved with a ferocious swagger like a man who owned the earth. Antinous wondered sometimes if Vix had ever been unsure of anything—if he’d ever been Antinous’s age, wondering what the world held in store and what was his place in it.
Mostly Antinous thought the answer to that was
No
.
“Emperor Hadrian,” he asked finally. “Arriving soon?”
“Yes.” His father never had much to say about the man he served.
“And he’s traveling to Britannia afterward?”
A savage chuckle. “If he doesn’t drown on the crossing.”
Antinous let it drop. He’d never seen the Emperor except as an occasional distant figure on parade in a purple cloak, but he knew his father hated the man. Something to do with Emperor Trajan’s death, and his father’s transfer from his beloved Tenth Fidelis to the Praetorian Guard. Get Vix going, and he’d convince you Emperor Hadrian was responsible for every evil in the Empire.
“So,” Antinous asked. “You aren’t going to scold me about kissing the clerk’s wife on the boat, are you? Because Mirah already burned my ear off—”
Vix laughed. “Better she saw you kissing the clerk’s wife than the clerk.”
“Oh, he made a try at me, too.” Antinous squatted down on his heels, stretching a hand out to a dog skulking through the gutter. The poor thing looked half-starved. “Mirah just didn’t catch that part.”
“Good. You know how
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