The Egyptian Royals Collection

by Michelle Moran

  “It was all right.”

  I glowered at him. “I’ll bet it was better than sitting here with the Gorgon.”

  “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “I won’t go next time—”

  “That’s not what I want,” I said petulantly.

  He looked at Livia. “She really is a monster, isn’t she?”

  “Can you imagine if we were living with her?”

  My brother shivered. “Come.” He held out his hand. “Gallia’s taking us to the Circus Maximus.”

  “And will I have to stand outside and watch through the arches?”

  My brother chuckled. “Marcellus says anyone can go.”

  “I guess women’s money is just as good as men’s.”

  Julia watched us, trying to follow our conversation, and when my brother went inside the stables to change, she asked me, “How many languages can you speak?”

  “Four. Plus a little Hebrew.”

  “But how did you learn them?”

  “I was raised with them. Like you were raised with Latin.”

  “And did you study them in school?”

  “Six days a week.”

  Julia was thoughtful. Then she said quietly, “Sometimes, I wonder how it would be if your father’s ships had won at Actium.”

  “He probably would have had you killed,” I said honestly.

  “Or perhaps I would have come to Alexandria and studied in the Museion with you.”

  When the men returned from the changing rooms, Octavia instructed Gallia to bring us home well before the sun set. “I want them in the villa in time to have a rest and take a bath. And don’t let Marcellus spend every last denarius, even if he’s being charitable to his guards.”

  “Are you coming?” Marcellus asked Tiberius.

  “To the Circus? No, thank you.”

  “What?” Marcellus laughed. “You have something better to do?”

  “Drusus and I are studying with Agrippa.”

  “More Sallust?” I questioned.

  “We finished Sallust two years ago. We’re studying Rome’s greatest generals now. My brother knows the entire history of Catiline from his career with Pompey to his revolt against the Republic.”

  “So why doesn’t he study with us in the ludus?” I asked.

  “He’s only nine. But even he knows that watching horses run around in a circle is a waste of time.”

  As we started to walk, Julia demanded, “Why do you invite him when he’s so nasty?”

  “I feel sorry for him,” Marcellus admitted.

  “Well, you shouldn’t,” she said. “He’s just like his mother.”

  “Only because she bullies him.”

  “So what?” she exclaimed as Gallia led the way. “He allows it!”

  “And what other choice does he have?”

  “He can be silent.”

  Marcellus made a face. “Tiberius will never be silent. His dying breath will be a complaint.”

  “But why does Livia stand for it?” my brother asked. “She doesn’t stand for anything else.”

  Julia and Marcellus exchanged meaningful looks.

  “Because he’s her greatest hope,” Marcellus said. “She wants to see Tiberius as ruler of Rome. Even though he’d rather join the army and go off fighting the Gauls.”

  “But you’re Octavian’s heir!” Alexander exclaimed. “Not Tiberius!”

  “For now. But what if something should happen to me? What if I’m wounded in battle, or I fall from my horse—”

  “Marcellus!” Julia cried.

  “What?”

  “From your lips to Juno’s ear,” she reminded him. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “Why?” He laughed dismissively. “Do you think the gods really care what we say?”

  “My father says so.”

  “Because that’s what he wants the plebs to think. A religious people is a people with purpose. So if the grain fails, or the aqueducts turn muddy, it can be Jupiter’s fault, not his.”

  Julia hesitated. “I could believe it. Everything with my father is a show. And that’s why he’ll make you his heir, and not Tiberius. You’re willing to act.”

  “You mean I’m willing to be his puppet.” When he saw that Julia was going to protest, he smiled. “I don’t mind. But it’s Alexander and Selene who need to be careful.”

  We followed the Tiber past the Forum Boarium, a cattle market whose stench must have reached up to Elysium itself. Julia took a small wooden ball from her bag, pressing it to her nose and inhaling. “Here,” she said to me.

  I inhaled. “What is this?”

  “An amber ball. All the women use them.”

  I inhaled deeply, then held my breath so that the earthy scent from inside the ball would stay with me for as long as possible. But eventually, when I had to breathe again, I coughed.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” Marcellus asked. “If I were Caesar, I’d move the Forum Boarium to the other side of the Tiber.”

  “Is it always this crowded?” Alexander complained.

  We passed a bull with pads of hay tied on its horns, and Marcellus jumped back to avoid being trampled. “Always. Even on days when there isn’t a Triumph.”

  When we reached the Circus Maximus, Marcellus and Gallia paused, allowing us to look up at the concrete megalith adorned with arches and marble statuary. I had seen the Circus from the Palatine, where Octavian had built a long wooden platform on which he could overlook the games from the privacy of his villa, but I hadn’t understood just how truly great an accomplishment it was until we stood beneath the steps.

  “This is one for your book of sketches,” Alexander said.

  I could hear the wild excitement of the crowds inside, cheering as the chariots made their laps. Gallia fought against the heavy tide of people until we stood in front of the western gates. A man in a toga waved us through, shouting a greeting that we couldn’t make out, and we climbed a flight of narrow stairs toward Caesar’s box.

  “Be careful,” Gallia warned us loudly. “There are men who crack their necks here every day.”

  “Usually because they’re drunk,” Julia added.

  “Or racing into the arms of one of their lupae.” Marcellus laughed, but I noticed that this time Gallia didn’t smile.

  “Was that what those cubicles were for?” my brother asked. “Beneath the arches?”

  Julia giggled. “The fornices. And they’re always crowded, night or day.”

  When we reached the top of the stairs, the Circus Maximus slumbered beneath us like a giant in the sun. The track extended from the slopes of the Aventine to the Palatine, and all around it the seats rose in three tiers.

  As soon as we reached Caesar’s box, a portly man appeared below us asking for bets.

  “Over here!” Marcellus shouted, waving the bet-maker toward us.

  The man puffed his way up the stairs, and I wondered how he could have such a stomach when his job demanded so much rigorous activity.

  “I have seventy-five denarii,” Marcellus said.

  Gallia sucked in her breath. “Domine!”

  “What? It’s for Alexander and Selene as well. And Julia, if she doesn’t have any.”

  But Julia tipped a handful of coins from her bag onto her palm. “I want twenty denarii on the Whites,” she said, handing them over.

  “It won’t be until the next race,” the bet-maker warned.

  She made a small gesture of indifference with her hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “And for you?” The man looked at Marcellus.

  “What will it be?” Marcellus turned to us. “Each team has three chariots in every race, and there’s four different teams. The Reds, the Whites, the Blues, and the Greens.”

  “Which are your favorite?” Alexander asked carefully, his eyes on the horses.

  “The Whites.”

  “Are they better?”

  Marcellus frowned. “Who knows? I always bet on the Whites.”

  “But shouldn’t
you bet on which drivers are most capable? Or which horses have won in previous races?”

  “Who thinks of those things?” Marcellus exclaimed.

  “You should, if you want to win! Look at the rider in red,” my brother said. “He’s the only one left on his team because he’s light. His horses don’t have to pull such a heavy burden, so the chariot goes faster.”

  Marcellus and Julia both stared at him. “So you favor the Reds?” Marcellus asked hesitantly.

  “I don’t know. I’d have to watch the races for several days to see.”

  “Well, you don’t have several days,” the bet-maker said sourly. “I have other customers, so place your bets.”

  “The Reds, then,” Alexander said firmly.

  When Marcellus turned to me, I said, “My brother wouldn’t waste his time drawing a portico, and I won’t waste my time pretending I know horses. Whatever he says.”

  “ Twenty-five on the Whites, and fifty on the Reds.” Marcellus handed a bag full of coins to the man, and I saw Gallia flinch at the sum. It was probably a hefty percentage of what she would need to purchase her freedom, if Octavia allowed it, and half of what Magister Verrius made in a year as a teacher at the ludus. But she didn’t say anything, and Marcellus went on. “I come here every day,” he said cheerfully, “and Gallia is good enough to put up with it.” She gave a weary smile, and even when she looked hot and bored, she was beautiful. “We will have to ask my mother to go to the Temple of Saturn and withdraw several bags of denarii for you both.”

  “Then we will go shopping,” Julia promised me. “I’ll take you to the markets and we’ll pick out something we can wear to the theater. When my father’s here, we go once a month.” The sound of trumpets echoed in the Circus, and Julia became distracted. “The Reds are out in front, just as Alexander said!” She stood up, and while she and Marcellus shouted for the Whites to hurry, I took out my book of sketches. She looked back at me. “You’re not going to draw right now?” she exclaimed.

  “Why not? There is nothing like this in Alexandria.”

  “No stadia?” she shouted over the jubilation of the crowds. The charioteers were on their final lap.

  “Certainly, but nothing this large.”

  When the Reds won, Marcellus sat down and clapped Alexander on the back. “You know your horses, don’t you? But you think they’ll really win a second time?”

  “If the Reds have the same kind of riders, I don’t see why not.” Below, the track was being cleared, and the body of a charioteer who’d fallen under the hooves of an opponent’s horses was being dragged away. A troupe of musicians appeared to entertain the crowds while the track was being smoothed, and slaves clambered toward us to pull an awning over the western section of the Circus, where the wealthy had their seats.

  Julia watched as I began my sketch by drawing the long spina in the center of the track. Unlike the stadium in Alexandria, where the spina had been a plain stone barrier, the Circus had two rectangular basins filled with water. In each basin were seven bronze dolphins spouting water from their mouths, and with every completed lap, an official turned a dolphin in the opposite direction. And for those whose eyes weren’t good enough to see whether the dolphins were facing north or south, there were seven bronze eggs and a second official to take one down for every lap.

  “Those were built by Agrippa,” Julia explained.

  “How much has he constructed?” I asked. “It seems to be half of Rome.”

  She laughed. “That’s because he’s my father’s greatest builder.”

  “So he does it himself?”

  “He just comes up with the ideas and the denarii. I suppose the architect Vitruvius does the drawing. Have you seen him?” she asked. “You know, he’s Octavia’s lover.”

  “I saw him in the villa. How long have they been living together?”

  “Since your father announced he was going to divorce her. She’d already been alone for several years.”

  “Do you think she loved him?”

  Julia looked at me askance. “Your father? Of course! Why do you think she raised all those legions for his eastern campaigns?”

  My response was cut off by the sudden clamor of people below us. Thousands of spectators were on their feet, looking in our direction and pointing above us. “The Red Eagle!” someone next to us cried, and when I looked up, I saw that the vast gold awning that the slaves had fastened above the western end of the Circus had been painted with a bird. Its wings were spread and from its outstretched talons a pair of children were struggling to be free. I didn’t have to see the Egyptian wigs or the white diadems to know who they were supposed to be.

  “That’s you,” Julia whispered, aghast.

  Immediately, Gallia rose to her feet. “Go!” she shouted, and then we were moving.

  “What about our bets?” Marcellus cried.

  Gallia spun around. “Caesar is watching these races right now, and what do you think he’s seeing from the Palatine?”

  “But how did he do it?” Marcellus marveled. He looked up at the red eagle. It was beautifully painted and had been completely hidden from view until the awning was opened.

  Alexander shook his head. “He must have come during the night.”

  Julia held on to my arm as we descended into the chaos. Men and women with the best seats in the Circus were rushing toward the gates before they could be accused of bearing witness to treachery. But slaves were taking up the chant of “Red Eagle,” which could be heard over the water horns of the musicians, and those who wanted the races to go on began throwing their food at the canopy.

  “Hurry!” Gallia exclaimed. “Before there’s a riot and we can’t get out!” She pressed forward in the madness, and we shoved our way down the stairs onto the street. As we reached the gates, I felt someone’s hand on the bag at my side, and when I turned, the young boy who was going to steal from me held up his hands in innocent protest.

  “Do it again and I’ll knife you,” I swore. He leered, and I wondered if he knew that I was bluffing.

  In the streets, we could finally breathe again, but Gallia didn’t stop. Although it would have been undignified to run, that is nearly what we did all the way to the Palatine.

  “Look!” Marcellus pointed. A crowd was gathering around the doors to the Temple of Jupiter, and the people stepped back when they recognized Marcellus.

  “Another actum from the Red Eagle!” Julia pushed forward, despite Gallia’s objections, and read the actum aloud to us. “He’s complaining about the Triumphs,” she said, quickly reading the papyrus. “And look at this! He’s freed a hundred and fifty slaves coming from Greece.” Three sheets with the same content had been posted, and the crowd regarded them silently. “He’s also purchased the freedom of twenty children and returned them to their parents in Gaul.”

  She read a short list of names, and I wondered whether it was possible that he might help me and Alexander next. He had risked his life to paint our image above the Circus, and his message had been clear. Our fate was to be the same as that of any slave who could be killed on his master’s whim. If he knew that Octavian planned to kill us, surely he would help us escape from Rome. But that would be costly. “He must be wealthy,” I observed.

  “He must be brave.” Julia sighed.

  A priest emerged from the temple to see what was happening and shouted angrily, “Get out of here or Caesar will hear of this!” He tore the three sheets of papyrus from his temple doors and flung them to the ground.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ONLY A small party gathered in Octavian’s triclinium for the evening meal. Juba and Agrippa were both in attendance, and Maecenas was there with his attractive wife, Terentilla, but no one was in a particularly merry mood. Although we were at a separate table, Marcellus and Julia spoke softly, afraid their voices might arouse Octavian’s wrath.

  “I don’t know why everyone’s whispering,” Tiberius said suddenly. “It’s not like this rebel hasn’t pulled pranks like this be
fore. So he painted an awning.”

  “On a day of Triumph,” Marcellus whispered. “And with another to go.”

  “So what?” Tiberius asked arrogantly. “Tomorrow, Octavian will toss coins in the Circus, and the people will fight one another for them like animals and it will all be forgotten.”

  We looked at Octavian, who was scribbling furiously on a scroll. The boiled capons in front of him had gone neglected, and he seemed to be eating a simple salad of rosemary flowers.

  “What do you think he’s writing?” I asked nervously.

  “His memoirs.”

  I thought Tiberius was being sarcastic, but Marcellus nodded. “He records everything.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He thinks his heir will read his musings someday and become a better leader.”

  Tiberius sniffed dismissively. “If he only knew.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Marcellus demanded.

  Tiberius smiled. “I think you know.”

  Marcellus rose from his couch, and I was certain there were going to be blows, when a young boy rushed into the triclinium and everyone turned. With trembling hands, he held up a scroll, and Livia demanded, “What is it?”

  The slave held out the missive. “Some builders found this while working on the Temple of Apollo, Domina. It’s addressed to Caesar, and has the stamp—”

  Livia grabbed the scroll before the boy could finish. “Another one!” she shrieked. “Another actum!” She passed it to Octavian, and as he read, the color heightened in his cheeks. He looked at the slave, who was shaking in his sandals.

  “So tell me,” he began with frightening calm, “were there witnesses to this deed?”

  “No,” the boy squeaked. “When the workers arrived this afternoon, it was already nailed to the temple door.”

  Octavian put down his reed pen, and the room fell silent. “Go,” he said, and the boy ran from the room as fast as his feet could carry him.

  Octavian turned to Agrippa. “This man has access to the Palatine, and is someone who must not have aroused suspicion when he approached the Temple of Apollo.” He stood slowly. “So what shall we do about this, Agrippa?”

  He handed the scroll to his general, who skimmed the contents. “He wants every slave in Rome to be freed.”