The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “How is that a temple?” I asked rudely. It was a simple altar bearing a heavy rock.

  “The goddess came to earth in the shape of a stone, foretelling Rome’s victory over Hannibal.”

  I wondered what foolish story the Romans would concoct for Octavian’s victory over Egypt. Marcellus indicated a crude hut whose muddy walls would never have withstood the first gale in Alexandria. “And that’s where Romulus lived,” he said. “Do you know that story?”

  Alexander and I both shook our heads.

  “Your father never taught it to you?” he exclaimed. “Romulus and Remus were twins. When their mother abandoned them, they were raised by a she-wolf. That doesn’t sound familiar?”

  We shook our heads again.

  “They founded Rome, and this hut was where the she-wolf raised them. It was Romulus who first built walls on the Palatine. And when Remus mocked his brother’s work, Romulus killed him. But there weren’t enough women in Romulus’s tribe, so he decided to steal them from the neighboring Sabines. He invited their men to a festival, and while the men were drinking and enjoying themselves, Romulus’s men carried off their wives.”

  I gasped. “Is that what’s meant by the Rape of the Sabine Women?”

  “Then you’ve heard of it?”

  “Only the name.” It was an event my mother had always alluded to when talking about the barbarism of Rome.

  “Well, the Sabine men wanted revenge. But their king could never defeat Romulus, and since the women didn’t want to see their husbands die, they begged for peace. It’s a disgusting tale,” Marcellus admitted, “but the beginning of Rome.” We had arrived at the top of the Palatine, and the carriage rolled to a stop. “Are you ready?”

  He stepped outside, then held out his hand, first for Alexander, then for me. “Rome,” he announced, and beneath the Palatine spread the most disorganized city I had ever seen. Markets and temples crowded together while brick kilns belched smoke into the blazingly hot sky. People crushed one another on the narrow streets, rushing from one shop to the next. Although the Palatine was far above the stink of the urine used in the laundries, the pungent scent wafted upward on the breeze. Even Thebes, which had suffered destruction at the hands of Ptolemy IX, was far more beautiful than this. There was no organization, no city plan, and though buildings of rare beauty stood out among the brick tabernae and bathhouses, they were like gems in a quarry of jagged stone.

  “So this is Rome,” I said, but only Alexander understood my meaning.

  “And this is my mother’s villa.”

  I turned, and a sprawling home filled the horizon above us. There were villas up and down the Palatine, but none of them commanded such a beautiful view or boasted such elaborate columns. The shutters were carefully painted the same earthy color as the tiled roof, and a pair of metal-studded wooden doors were thrown open onto a broad portico. A crowd had gathered on the steps, watching as the soldiers unloaded Egyptian statues and rare ebony chests filled with cinnamon and myrrh.

  Octavian led the way, and I took Alexander’s arm. The group on the portico chattered excitedly, and when Octavian mounted the marble steps with Marcellus, one of the women stepped forward.

  “That must be Caesar’s sister, Octavia,” I whispered to Alexander in Parthian.

  The woman wore a silk stola of Tyrian purple, and though her clothes subtly suggested great wealth, her face conveyed simplicity. She had not painted her eyelids with malachite, or even lined them with antimony, as my mother would have done. Her light hair had been pulled back into a simple chignon, and when she spread her arms to embrace her brother, I saw that her only jewel was a thin golden bracelet.

  “Salve, frater,” she said warmly, and for the first time since meeting him, I saw Octavian’s smile reach his eyes. “You look well. And only a little red this time. But I suppose that conquering the world is difficult work.”

  “Not the world,” he said without a trace of irony. “Just Egypt.”

  “Well, there will be a feast tonight. Your wife has arranged it.”

  A woman appeared behind Octavia, and I felt my brother tense at my side. This was the woman Marcellus had warned us against.

  “Livia,” Octavian said, and though he’d embraced his sister, he simply squeezed his wife’s hand.

  “Mi Caesar.” There was nothing to distinguish her from any woman on the street, and if Octavia’s dress was simple, then Livia’s was austere. Her stola was made of simple white cotton, and her dark hair had been braided before being swept back into a tight bun. She was small, and while my mother’s build had been slight, at least her voice had been remarkable. There was nothing remarkable about Livia. Yet Octavian had wanted her, wooing her while she was still married to another man and pregnant. She looked up at him with wide-eyed adoration. “All of Rome is waiting for your Triumph,” she said breathlessly. “And while you’ve been gone, I’ve arranged it all.”

  “You have the notes?”

  She nodded eagerly. “You may look them over tonight. Or even sooner, if you wish. They’re right here.” She held up a scroll she’d been concealing in her stola.

  Octavian unrolled it and skimmed the contents. “So the celebration will last for three days.”

  “Your sister thought it should be longer, but I knew you wouldn’t want to appear like Antony, turning your victories into endless Triumphs.”

  “I hardly think five days is an endless Triumph,” Octavia said sharply.

  “Five days or three, it doesn’t matter,” Octavian ruled. “We will only be participating on the first day. The rest is just entertainment for the plebs, and since Livia has planned for three, that’s what it will be.”

  Livia preened a little, smiling smugly at Octavia, and I thought that if she were my sister-in-law, I would want to slap her.

  Octavian handed the scroll to Agrippa. “Look this over and prepare the soldiers. I’ll wish to see the final plans tomorrow.”

  “And are these the children?” Octavia asked.

  Octavian nodded. “Alexander and Selene.”

  She blinked rapidly. “They are beautiful.”

  Marcellus laughed. “What did you expect? A pair of Gorgons?”

  Octavia walked down several steps so that we were standing on the same level. Instinctively, Alexander and I moved back, but there was no menace in her face. “I know you must have had a terrible voyage,” she said, “but welcome to Rome.” She smiled at us, then turned to her brother, whose face did not reflect the same tenderness. “Shall we?” she asked him, and the group followed Octavia onto the portico. Although Alexander and I were the last in the party, there was no doubting that we were of the most interest. The women craned their necks around Agrippa to see us, and Juba even stepped back so that a young girl could get a better view.

  “Caesar’s daughter, Julia,” Alexander whispered. Although many of the girls on the portico were attractive, there was no one with the same dark beauty as Julia. Her mass of black hair shone in the sunlight, and her large dark eyes were framed by long lashes. Even her mouth was pretty, not small or thin-lipped like the rest of her family’s. Her gaze shifted from me to my brother. Then Marcellus went to her and whispered something in her ear so that she giggled. I felt a strange annoyance, but didn’t have time to understand why.

  Octavian held up his arm and announced, “Since you are more interested in seeing the children of Kleopatra than me, I shall present them to you.” There were sharp denials from all around, but Octavian didn’t appear angry. “Prince Alexander Helios and Princess Kleopatra Selene.”

  Dozens of faces turned in our direction. Many in the crowd were not much older than us. “Great Jupiter!” Julia cried. “What are they wearing?”

  “Greek clothes,” Marcellus explained. “But,” he warned her, “they speak perfect Latin.” Color flooded her cheeks.

  A handsome man in a crimson toga stepped forward. “Are they—?”

  “Roman citizens,” Octavian said dryly.

  “What
a shame.” The man cooled himself with a fan. “They’re quite a pair. Especially the boy.”

  “There are plenty of boys in the market, Maecenas.” Octavian looked around. “Now, who will make the introductions?”

  Though Marcellus dutifully stepped forward, Livia pushed another young man toward Octavian. The boy shrugged off her hand, and I wondered if this was one of her sons. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  Livia’s lips grew even thinner. “Caesar has asked for someone to make the introductions.”

  “And because Marcellus wants to do it, I should, too? Perhaps I should be more like Marcellus and gamble away Caesar’s allowance, as well.”

  Marcellus laughed uneasily. “There’s nothing wrong with gambling.”

  But Octavian glowered. “Not when it’s done in moderation.”

  Everyone heard the implied criticism, and Marcellus colored a little. Then he introduced us to those gathered on the portico, beginning with Livia’s son Tiberius, who had shaken off his mother’s hand. His nine-year-old brother was Drusus, and each of them was the very image of Livia, with sharp noses and too-thin lips. Though I knew I would never remember so many names, Marcellus went on, pointing out our half sisters Antonia and Tonia, shy girls who clung to Octavia’s stola and had none of our father’s gregariousness. There was Vipsania, Agrippa’s little girl whose mother had perished in childbirth, and a cluster of old men whose names I had heard of in the Museion, Horace and Vergil among them.

  When Marcellus was finished, Livia held out her arm for her husband. “Shall we prepare for your Feast of Welcome?”

  “But I haven’t asked Marcellus about his journey,” Julia complained.

  “Then you may ask him tonight,” Livia said tersely.

  Julia looked for reversal from her father, but he gave her none, and they left with Agrippa and Juba, trailing a dozen slaves behind them.

  When they were gone, Octavia said softly, “Marcellus, show Alexander and Selene to their chamber. When their chests have been brought, I will come myself to prepare them for Caesar’s feast.” She looked down at the small girls clinging to her legs. “Shall we pluck some roses for the dinner?” The little girls nodded eagerly, then chased each other to the end of the portico.

  We followed Marcellus into a long hallway whose mosaic floor spelled out the word SALVE, welcoming visitors into Octavia’s home. “This is the vestibulum,” he said, leading us through it into another columned room he called the atrium. A beech-beamed opening overhead admitted sunlight, and terra-cotta gutters led into a marble pool. I asked Marcellus, “How often does it rain?”

  “Well, in summer, almost never. But in winter the streets of Rome turn to mud.” He gestured toward several doors leading from the atrium. “Those are the guest rooms. And that is the tabulinum, where my mother keeps her desk.” He pointed to the far side of the room, and through the slightly open door I could see a long table of polished oak. “Over there is the lararium.”

  “And what is that?”

  Marcellus turned in surprise to Alexander. “Aren’t there lararia in Egypt?” he asked. “That’s where we greet the Lares every morning.” Alexander and I looked at the alcove, with its long granite altar and ancestral busts of the Julii. When Marcellus saw our expressions, he explained, “They’re the spirits of our ancestors. We give them a little wine and bread every morning.”

  “And do they like it?” I asked curiously.

  “Better ask the slaves.” Marcellus laughed. “They’re the ones who end up taking it.”

  We crossed the atrium and reached another open-air space, the peristylum, where bronze sculptures peered from the shadows. There was a long garden in the center, and a fountain that channeled water through the mouths of marble lions. Several men reclined on benches, shaded by trellised vines and flowering shrubs. They raised their hands in quiet greeting, and Marcellus mumbled, “My mother’s builders.”

  At the end of the portico was the triclinium, where the household ate, and across the hall, next to the baths, were more chambers. “This is my room,” Marcellus said. “This is my mother’s.” He indicated a wide door painted with a garden scene. “These are for my sisters. And this is for you.” He opened a wooden door, and I heard my brother Alexander breathe in sharply.

  It was a magnificent chamber. Curtained windows opened out onto a balcony, where a variety of palms grew from painted urns. The room itself was unlike anything in Egypt, with three wide couches, instead of beds, and only one painting. But the furniture was unmistakably rich: four chairs inlaid with bone and ivory; a pair of lamps fashioned into triple-headed Cerberus, whose bronze serpent’s tail could be lit; a cedar folding stool; three tables; and three heavy chests. Everything had been prepared for three children, only Ptolemy had never made it to Rome. I blinked back my tears and tried not to think about Egypt. The northern wall had been painted with images from Homer’s epics, so that whenever we fell asleep our last thoughts would be on the greatest poet Greece had ever produced. I could pick out Agamemnon, Achilles, and even Odysseus among the painted men.

  “I thought we were prisoners,” my brother said.

  “In my mother’s house?” Marcellus sounded offended. “You are guests.”

  “Caesar killed our brothers,” I reminded him sharply. “And tomorrow, we will be taken through the streets.”

  Marcellus’s face became grim. “My uncle rids himself of anyone he thinks might be an enemy now or in the future. And he surrounds himself with useful people. He has a wife who is more like a secretary to him, and my mother advises him on matters of the Senate. He keeps Agrippa for his knowledge of war, and Juba for his knowledge of the people and for protection. Do you think he would have any interest in me if I weren’t my mother’s eldest son? I serve a practical purpose as well. But so long as you are here,” he said firmly, “you are guests.”

  Several slaves appeared behind us with the ironbound chests we had taken from Egypt. But before we could look through them to see what we had been allowed to keep and what had been taken, Octavia entered the chamber.

  “It’s time to prepare,” she said quickly. “Marcellus, take Alexander to your room and give him what’s been laid out on your couch. He may keep his diadem, but the chiton and the sandals must go.” As she turned to me, I noticed the strikingly beautiful woman standing behind her at the door. Her long hair was the color of honey, and Marcellus smiled winsomely as he passed.

  “Salve, Gallia.”

  She inclined her head slightly, and I guessed her age to be about twenty. “I am glad to see your safe return, Domine.” She used the word for master, which indicated her position as a slave, yet her tunic was embroidered with gold.

  “Selene,” Octavia said, “this is my ornatrix, Gallia. We are going to prepare you for tonight, and give you clothes that will be suitable for Rome.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Domina.” When Gallia smiled, I noticed that she had the high cheekbones that artists in Alexandria loved to capture. She’s like a sculpture carved from marble, I thought, and wondered if she was one of the twenty thousand women Julius Caesar had brought back as slaves from his conquest of Gaul. She spoke Latin with an accent and pronounced her words with exaggerated care to make sure she was getting them right. “Why don’t you come with us into the bathing room?” she asked, indicating a room in the corner. Inside was a tub of heavy bronze. She turned a handle and a pipe that led from the ceiling released hot water into the bath. The mosaic floors depicted sea nymphs and mermaids, and a large mirror of polished brass hung on the wall. A small brazier was tucked away in the corner for colder nights when the chamber would need to be heated. Several stools were arranged before a long cedar table.

  Octavia led me to one of these seats, then studied me carefully with her pale gray eyes. “What do you think?” she asked Gallia nervously.

  “How old are you?” Gallia asked me.

  “I turn twelve in January,” I replied.

  Gallia stepped forward. “Al
most twelve. Still, just a little bird.” No one had ever called me a “little bird,” and when I straightened indignantly, Gallia laughed. “No, it is good that you are so small.”

  “We want you both to appear as young as possible tonight,” Octavia said, busying herself with Gallia’s basket. She took out vials of antimony and saffron, piling them on the long table along with hairnets and pins with ruby tips.

  Not understanding, I looked at both women. “Why?”

  “So that no one feels threatened by you,” Gallia said simply. She lit a fire in the brazier and plunged a metal rod into the burning charcoal.

  “Do you wish to wear your diadem tonight?” she asked.

  I touched the thin band of pearls in my hair, remembering the time my mother had given it to me. “Yes.”

  “And your pearl necklace?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then they will stay. But the rest must go.”

  I stood and slowly removed my chiton and loincloth. I was not yet so developed as to need a breastband. Then Gallia pointed me to the steaming bath.

  “Inside. Do not wet your hair. It will never dry in time to curl it.”

  “But I already have curls.”

  “These will be smaller.”

  I stepped into the bath as I was told, and let Gallia rub lavender oil into my back.

  “Look at this, Domina!” Gallia turned to Octavia. “You can see the bones. What do they feed her in Alexandria?”

  “She has been on a ship for weeks,” Octavia reminded her, “and has lost nearly every member of her family.”

  “Domina will feed you well here,” she promised, motioning for me to stand. Then she started drying me with a long white linen cloth.

  I didn’t reply, knowing that if I did I would only cry. From her basket, Gallia produced a silk tunic of the deepest green. I lifted my arms obediently. She slipped the tunic over my head and fastened it at the shoulders with golden pins. When Octavia passed her a belt of light olive, Gallia held it in front of her and frowned.

  “Under the breasts, at the hips, or at the waist?” she considered.